the cute emo boy from your college is completely enamored with you and your pretty outfits, so when he hears you and your shitty boyfriend finally broke up, he wastes no time in planning how to make you his.
pairing ˎˊ˗ emo! choso x girly! reader
BEFORE PROCEEDING this fic will include fem! reader, MDNI 18+, this will be a bit angsty, yuki is ooc here, cheating, miscommunication, friends to lovers, inappropriate use of drumsticks ( as in the instrumental tool ) , blowjobs, pussy eating, hair pulling, subby choso, he has a prince albert, yes he will whimper, fluff, tba… art by @/vah_arina
Club rush could count as Choso's favorite holiday. If it was a holiday.
What better way to kick off the school year other than joining the one and only music club that he's been leading for the past 2 years, right? Incoming freshmen or returning students could bond over instruments and emo culture.
"Yo, pass me that vinyl." Suguru pointed to the protected record. The table had been set up with music ranging from "Brand New Eyes" to "Pretty. Odd."
Choso handed it over to his friend carefully, watching as he sat it carefully up. Other students were putting up their booths as well. Some were under canopy tents to protect them from the summer sun.
"I'm fucking sweating like a pig." Choso rasped out, pinning his neck length hair up in two buns. "Told ya we should've bought a canopy."
"With what money, dude." Suguru took a step back, admiring their set up. "Where's Sukuna? He was supposed to print out the flyers an hour ago."
Just on cue, the pink haired boy reached the other two, papers in hand. "Got 'em." He held the papers up.
"How many did you print out?" Choso grabbed them from Sukuna's hand, seeing how the design came out.
"Couple dozen. When does this shit start? I got to pick up my brother from school today."
"Ain't he in high school? He can go on the bus." Suguru snatched a flyer from Choso's hand. "You didn't get them in color?!"
Sukuna frowned, slipping his box of cigarettes in his back pocket. "Hell nah. It was like a dollar extra."
"It's whatever," Choso interrupted. The last he needed was his two bandmates getting into an argument. "People are starting to come." Soon enough, a crowd began to form around the quad, students visiting the booths of interest.
You walked around with you low heels clicking on the ground. Definitely not the best choice of attire but it was you. A vintage Von Dutch purse was sat right on your shoulder, swinging with every step.
"Whatever happened to the fashion club?" You asked between chewing your bubble gum. Shoko lifted her head from her phone, confused at your question. "Girl, you made them disband. Remember?"
You let out an 'ohhh' as if you found out mind blowing news.
"Not my fault they were so poorly uneducated on Vivienne Westwood. Did they seriously have the audacity to ignore the fact that she was punk? What the hell were they on about saying that the brand was for clean girlies? Ummm hellooooo?" You raised a brow that was recently threaded.
"Right.. anyways." Shoko looked around, eyes setting on the medical club. "I'll be right back, I have to go sign up."
You nodded, blowing a goodbye kiss.
There weren't any new organizations this year that you know of other than the one your ex boyfriend was apart of. The sight of him just made you want to role your eyes.
The asshole had broken up with you over text and is going around saying you were the one who broke up with him.
Like, who the hell even does that?
You pushed yourself deeper into the crowd, making your way towards the heart of the quad.
"Music club is over here guys!" Choso yelled out as he handed people flyers. "We will be meeting on the second Monday of every month. Feel free to recommend us to your friends!"
Usually, you'd ignore anything that has to do with music. Not your forte.
But the washed out print on his shirt caught your eye.
A Fever You Can't Sweat Out.
That's the album you listened to non stop in your high school years. Your iPod was full with every version of it. The original, the demos, and even Live in Denver.
You listened to it so ofter that it burned onto the screen.
"Cool shirt." The words slipped from your mouth, surprising both you and Choso.
Because no way was a girl like you complimenting a boy like him. And over his shirt out of all things. "Uh, thanks." He stuttered, a crooked smile creeping on his lips.
He darted down to the papers in his hands, offering one to you.
You hesitated before accepting it. "Music club?"
Choso nodded. "Yeah, we mostly focus on emo music to be honest but we're always open to do other genres." God was he sweating? It felt like he was. Have you noticed? "You a Panic fan?"
You hummed, skimming through the small summary of the club. "Not really, just of that album. Well not anymore but high school me."
"No way. I mean, um, you have a favorite song?"
"I guess I liked Camisado."
"Oh shit, I love that one." Choso's eyes brightened. "You know the story behind it?"
You snorted. "Duh."
The way you spoke was soft and pretty to him, it made his heart beat like a teenagers.
"I'm Choso.." He mumbled.
"Hi Choso." You smiled up at him, exchanging your name as well. "I'll try and come."
He nodded, gulping. "We'll see you then.." His eyes stayed on your frame as you disappeared almost in a trance at the sway of your hips. "Suguru." He hit his friends' chest. "Fuck did you see that?"
"See what?"
"The goddess that just came up to me."
"Is the heat getting to you man?" Suguru pressed his hand on Choso's forehead, feeling the thin layer of sweat before hurling away in disgust.
"Surprised you didn't scare her away."
Choso smacked his shoulder playfully, returning back to distributing the flyers like the local newspaper. That dorky smile still evident on his face.
That was yesterday though.
And Choso hasn't shut up about you since.
"Do you think she'll actually show up to the meetings?" He ran the brush through his hair, undoing any knots made while sleeping. His broad chest was bare, showcasing all his tattoos. And not to mention the nipple piercings.
Sukuna groaned along with Suguru. "Bro, let it go already. Just cause she spoke to you for less than a minute-"
"It was over a minute, actually." Choso corrected.
"It doesn't matter. No offense man, but you're not her type. She dated Toji and they recently broke up. Doubt that she's already trying to get into another relationship."
Suguru yawned, standing up to grab another beer from the mini fridge.
"But ay, maybe you can change her."
A sigh fell from Choso's lips, feeling all of a sudden unmotivated. "She's so pretty."
"What would you even do if she did end up showing up? Woo her with your guitar skills?"
Choso paused.
"I mean.. yeah?"
Another collective groan escaped from the other two.
A/N: emotionally mature teenager girl vs emotionally incompetent grown man (who will win)
NOT PROOFREAD
<<Prev // Next>>
SERIES MASTERLIST
You never noticed before, but there’s a crack by your door, thin, typically covered when the door is open. It sprawls above the baseboards, stretching towards your bed.
Almost like it’s reaching for you.
You track it over and over, following the jagged lines across the wall, anything to distract from the conversation happening outside your room.
After Jason woke up to find the entire family staring at him, he was rightfully freaked out.
He grabbed you, shoving his knife against your neck as everyone watched frantically.
You just rolled your eyes at his display. He wouldn’t actually hurt you, and if he did, you’d be able to escape before anything happened.
“Let me go.” He’d spoken slowly, scanning the crowd in front of him.
“You’re not the one with a knife to your throat, Jay.” The nickname slipped out, unfamiliar to your mind but it felt right to say.
“I’ll kill her.” He threatened, lying through his teeth.
“Would you relax? I just thought everyone could talk.”
“Talk?! He’s been trying to kill us for months!” Stephanie cut in, glowering at the man behind you.
“I haven’t been trying to kill any of you! Except maybe Batman, but I haven’t completely decided on anything yet.” He argued.
“Not helping.” You muttered. His grip on the knife adjusted so it wasn’t pressing into you. You grabbed the hand with the knife in it, pulling it away from your throat and snatching the blade from his grip. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He stared at you, surprised that you managed to disarm him as he flexed his hand.
Oops, maybe too much super strength went into that.
“Dad.” You grabbed Jason’s shoulder, pushing him towards the door. “Come on, we need to talk. Dick, you can come too, I guess.”
The following conversation consisted of Dick and Bruce practically interrogating the poor guy about how he’s back, why he’s back, and how he knows you.
You decided not to mention the stalking, as it probably wasn’t the best time.
Unfortunately, that’s the very moment Alfred decided to ask you about the dead robin in the fridge.
Jason’s laugh gave it away before you could cover his mouth and swear him to silence.
After that, you were sent to your room and have been stuck here ever since.
There’s a knock, followed by a softer voice than the ones you’ve heard today.
“Can I come in?” Tim speaks from outside. You say something in return, too dazed to hear it, but it must’ve been a yes, seeing as the door opens and he shuffles inside moments later.
He stares at you staring at the crack. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“Well, I didn’t know the guy before he died. Just in passing.”
“How’s he doing?” You avoid the question.
“He hasn’t shot anyone.”
You smile at that. “I took his guns.”
“I figured. He tried to stab Cass.”
“I left the knife, figured he’d be scared without it.”
“He’s a grown man.” Tim mutters, shaking his head in disbelief as he sits beside you on the bed. You move over to give him more space. He follows.
“He’s a grown man that’s used to having a gun.”
He bites his tongue before nodding. “That’s…fair, I guess.”
It’s quiet for a minute, only the sound of your breathing and the occasional smacking of his lips as he opens his mouth to say something and then inevitably closes them as no words feel enough for the situation.
“Why aren’t we friends?” He asks, finally settling on something to say.
“You’re kind of weird, Tim.” You speak before you can stop yourself, before you can say something less callous.
He frowns, staring at you without blinking. You motion at him.
“This is what I mean! I feel like you’re trying to see into my soul.”
“I’m just trying to understand you.”
“Do you?” You pause, meeting his gaze.
“Understand you? No.” He scoffs, smiling slightly. “You’re a mystery.”
You can’t decide whether to be happy you’re unreadable or sad that nobody actually seems to understand, even one of the only people who might be able to.
“If it helps, I’m kind of used to you now. You’re not that weird anymore.”
“That doesn’t help at all.”
“Sorry.”
He shrugs, staring at the crack in the wall. “I’d like to be.”
“What?”
“Friends.” He hums. “You’ve known Jason for five minutes and you already like him more than me.”
“He’s my brother.” You argue.
“So am I.”
“It’s not the same.” You struggle for the words. You already called him weird, you can’t hurt his feelings too much more, right? “Jason and I were close before he died, before I died. And when that happened, we went through it together. That’s not just a bond you can replicate with some guy you’ve talked to like twice.”
“Over the past five years, we’ve had thirty seven conversations. If you’re only counting the ones that lasted more than a minute.”
“Okay, now we’re back to the weird thing.” You groan, grabbing your pillow to smack him with it.
He shoves you away, snatching the pillow to throw at you as soon as you hit the floor.
“Okay, alright! I secede, don’t hit me.” You laugh, standing again. He stands too, reaching out a hand.
“Friends?”
You smack his hand away, pulling him into a hug. “You’re my brother, Tim. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me.”
—
Tim left ten minutes ago, abandoning you to the silence of your room and cacophony of your thoughts.
You’re not alone long, before the door slams open and then shut again, your father’s angered expression greeting you.
You don’t even get the chance to speak before he starts his interrogation.
“What were you thinking? That man is dangerous!”
You’re almost annoyed that he’s still going on about this. “That man is your son! My brother.”
He paces across the room, muttering angrily under his breath. “He’s still dangerous.”
“He’s alone and afraid.”
“He’s spent months taking over the crime syndicate in Gotham. We’ve been after him for months. He’s hurt people.”
“Bad people.” You argue, despite your own reservations about his actions.
“Now you sound like him.”
“I can overlook him killing murderers and rapists, but I cannot overlook the fact that he’s my brother and I care about him.”
“You don’t even know him.” He spits.
You reel back, breath shuddering at his words. He’s not wrong, but it’s doesn’t hurt any less.
Jason Todd is your brother, regardless of blood or memory. And nobody, not even your father, will take that from you.
He seems to have realized his words went too far when he steps back, putting physical distance between you, as well as the emotional one already there.
“You don’t get to decide how I feel about this. You don’t get to decide how he feels about it either. He was murdered, and to him, it looks like you don’t care.”
He opens his mouth but you don’t let him speak. “Your son, who came back from the dead, is out there and you will not ruin this. You will tell him how much you’ve missed him and try to come to some sort of agreement on how to deal with crime in this awful city.”
“You’re fifteen, you don’t understand—”
You cut off whatever excuse he came up with to not take the blame for this. “I’ll leave. And I won’t come back.”
He stares at you, eyes flickering through a range of mixed emotions before they settle on your bag by the closet door. He turns back to you, looking every bit as defeated as he should, before stepping out of the room without another word.
You let out a tense sigh, flopping back on the bed with a glance at the clock that reads 12:32.
Merry Christmas to you.
—
It’s times like these when you really miss Aunt May.
She answered when you called earlier, immediately spilling everything about Jason and the rest of the family. She sat in stunned silence before asking if you needed anything or wanted to be picked up.
Of course you said no. You need to be here to make sure all the emotionally incompetent men in your family don't screw everything up.
But even though you told her no, Alfred showed up right after the call with a plate of cookies and you couldn’t help but wonder if she’d asked him to.
Your room is quieter now, your thoughts easing into a bearable constant. No more spiraling, at least in the forefront of your mind.
You’re able to focus on just the warm chocolate chip cookie in your hand.
The door swings open before you can even take a bite.
“You’re dating Harry Osborn?” Dick gasps, pacing towards you without even shutting the door.
“Dated. Past tense. And don’t remind me.” You groan, faceplanting into your bed, cookie now discarded back onto the plate on your nightstand.
“You never told me you had a boyfriend!” He accuses, pushing you so he can sit at the foot of your bed.
You scowl, pushing him off. “I’ve been busy.” And you’ve been ignoring me. You don’t add the last part.
“I’m scheduling a phone call for five o’clock every Friday, okay? That way I never miss more than a weeks worth of news.” He snatches your phone, attempting to unlock it. “What’s your password?”
He grimaces as he looks at the device, “Is this StarkTech?”
You nod happily, snatching it back. “It was free with my internship.”
“Your what?!”
Oh boy.
—
The next time someone comes to your room, it’s Jason. The door was left open by Dick, who had to leave against his will when Alfred told him it was dinner time.
You didn’t feel up to leaving yet, not wanting to face your father.
“Hey.” Jason towers in the doorframe, almost too large to fit through it.
You smile softly, patting the bed beside you for him to sit. “Hi.”
“Thanks.” He mumbles, accepting the seat and a cookie when you shove the plate towards him.
“So…” You trail off, glancing at the doorway. Shooting a web, you pull it shut for privacy. “How’re you feeling?”
“About being kidnapped and forced to speak to Batman again? Great.”
“Oh, wow. You know, I also felt really great about opening a box with a dead bird. And how could I possibly forget the pictures of all my friends?”
“I was going through a phase.”
“As a supervillain?”
“It happens.” He shrugs, staring at the crack in your wall. “Do you remember that?”
You follow his gaze before shaking your head. “No.”
He huffs out a laugh, “You insisted on all of us having a tea party. You even got Bruce to take time off work.”
“When?”
He thinks about it, “You were probably six at the time. Your parents dropped you off at the manor for the weekend, they used to do that a lot. Anyways, you made me help set up the whole thing. As retribution, just as you were about to sit down, I pulled the chair out from under you and you fell.”
You grimace at the thought, not unfamiliar to the situation. Flash Thompson loved to do that in middle school.
Jason continues, “You thought it was hilarious, for some reason, and decided to do it to Dick. Except when he fell, he cracked his head against the wall.” He snickers, “We made Dick drive us to the store, with a concussion, just to get the stuff to patch the wall before Bruce noticed.”
You watch him as he tells the story, looking happy for the first time since you dragged him back to the manor. Maybe this will actually work out.
He’s quiet for a couple minutes, lost in thought as he stares at the wall.
“How’d it go with Dad?” You ask, glancing at him warily. If you push too much, he’ll leave.
He sighs loudly, shaking his head. “I don’t trust him. Not with you.”
You frown at that, not quite sure what he means, but he continues before you can ask.
“I’m not staying. But I won’t be far either.” He mumbles, shoving a folded piece of paper towards you. “That’s my apartment. And my number. Call me if you need anything.”
“You’re leaving? But it’s Christmas.”
“I can’t stay here. I need time, space.”
Space. A concept you’re growing increasingly more familiar with.
“I’ve heard that before.” You mutter before glancing at him. “May would be happy to have you visit.”
“Your aunt?” He furrows his eyebrows.
“She’s a sucker for a charity case.” You grin.
He scoffs at you, smacking your shoulder as he turns towards the door. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Your heart pounds, watching him go. You rush towards him, slamming into his side as you wrap your arms around his waist.
He hugs you back, “I’ll see you around, kid.”
—
Bruce Wayne is about as elusive as the common cold. Maybe it’s easier for him to disappear when it comes to other people, but with your senses and memorization of his schedule, he’s pretty easy to find.
“Are you avoiding me?” You press, leaning in the doorway of his office at Wayne Enterprises. You had to climb up the walls outside after being turned away at the front desk for lying about being Bruce Wayne’s kid, so you will be getting answers whether he wants to give them or not.
“No.”
“Are you lying to me?”
There’s a pause before he mumbles, “Maybe.”
You scoff, swinging the door shut as you enter, sliding into the chair across from him.
“How’d it go with Jason?”
“Are you hungry? We can get lunch.”
“I’m always hungry, but I don’t want lunch. I want answers.”
He stares at you for a minute before relenting. “He’s mad.”
“Understatement.”
He scowls as you snatch a paper off his desk, scanning the page, before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trash.
“I needed that.”
“It’s right there.” You point towards the garbage bin.
He blinks. “You are…”
“Wonderful and pleasant to be around?”
A smile tugs at his lips but he tries to hide it as he nods. “That is exactly what I was going to say.”
You grin, shooting a web at the paper in the trash. “The numbers are wrong.”
“They’re not.”
“Then the place the money is going to is wrong.” You argue, leaning forward to point at them. “The money being transferred is being sent to a fake company.”
“That’s not possible, I vetted all of these myself.”
“Then you vetted wrong.” You stand with a sigh, gazing out the large window behind him. “It’s Jason’s company. He’s stealing money from you.”
“What?!” He pulls the paper forward, scanning it like he’s waiting for something new to pop up on it.
You sigh again, pushing his papers into a pile so you can sit on his desk.
“Since you’ve been ignoring me the past few days, I’ve had some time to dig.”
“I haven’t been ignoring you.”
“Avoiding.” You amend. He grunts. “Anyways, he’s using the money to help some of the kids in the Narrows.”
Your father leans back in his chair, eyeing you skeptically. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You would’ve found out it’s not a real company eventually, and then you would’ve stopped paying. Plus, I’m trying to show you that he’s not all bad. He still cares about the same thing as you—helping Gotham. He’s just doing it differently.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to. But he’s still your son.”
He looks away, spinning his chair so he’s looking out the window. You’re not sure if he’s actually thinking or if he just doesn’t want to look at you.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Just show up. That’s what fixed things between us.”
“Because that’s going so well, isn’t it?” He scoffs, shaking his head.
“It’s going fine. I’m here, aren’t I? That being said, I’m a lot more open to having you around. With Jay you’ll have to be less overbearing.”
He spins around, face aghast. “I am not overbearing.”
“Meh.” You hop of the desk, poking at the window.
“I’m not.”
“Meh.” You repeat, ignoring his annoyed expression. “How does this thing open?”
He crosses his arms. “It doesn’t. Too many thieves.” There’s a slight joking tone to his words that have you thinking he’s talking about someone in particular, you’re just not sure who.
But it’s not really any of your business, you're also familiar with all sorts of unsavory people. Theives included.
He stands, throwing an arm around your shoulder as he leads you towards the door. “Let’s get lunch.”
“Oh good, I was totally bluffing earlier. If you’d asked if I was hungry again I totally would’ve said yes.”
omg commissions open!! how about an E2L angsty fic? maybe with jungkook, where he hates the reader at first but is drawn to her and finds her fascinating?
yessirrr, you're speaking my language 😛 the moment i read this, a scenario instantly built in my mind!! thank you for messaging :D
killah (jjk) [1]
pairing: managing partner/lawyer!jungkook x spoiled brat!reader
genre: enemies to 😛 idk bec you irk him, angst, smut, like slight fluff, infidelity au (jungkook has a girlfriend)
wc: 1.4k
warnings: hinted emotional cheating, jungkook is a taken man but 🫵 you kinda want him and he sorta kinda wants you too??? but he's fighting it bec he's got a girl already, bratty behaviour from reader (that's all for thjs part, yes there will be a follow-up)
You were standing a few feet away from the hostess' table, scrolling through Pinterest, barely blinking while your brother whisper-bickered with the staff about a table.
You had been waiting at this reservation-only restaurant for almost thirty minutes now. If you don't get seated in the next ten minutes, you're going to start tearing up.
Logan would glare at you every other minute.
It was your fault, you had forgotten to reserve a table. But in your defence, you need to be told things at least thrice for it to stick. Logan knew that. So really, he's just as to blame.
He's trying to put some sense of responsibility in you but you're... persistent. Resistent.
Because why must you work when you don't absolutely have to?
You roll your eyes, trying to drown Logan out and switch apps to complete your daily NYT Wordle.
That’s when someone spotted you.
"_____?" The figure squealed, a little too loud for the atmosphere, “I didn’t know you’d be here!”
You glanced up and smiled automatically--- wide, sweet, a little rehearsed.
Who the hell is that? You can't seem to recognise her.
The girl leans in for a small hug, but you remain frozen, politely blocking her attempt to engulf you entirely.
She backs off immediately, probably embarrassed? You can't tell.
Clearing her throat, she reintroduces herself, "It's Hyewon!"
Oh! Now it clicks. And it shows on your face.
Hyewon smiles in victory. You remembered her.
"Heyy, I could not recognise you with the new hair!" You could've sworn she was a redhead the last time you saw her.
You had first interacted with her at a mutual friend's house party.
You were seated on a faux-velvet couch, barefoot and yelling about how every colour had a personality.
"Blue is the friend who bails you out of jail," you smiled deviously at each of your friends as if you were attributing the colours to them.
"Yellow is the one who put you in there. Green is the innocent one that people suspect. And pink..." you pause to think, "Pink is who you did it for."
Everyone around you looked so engrossed.
Hyewon had never heard anyone talk like that. She had come across occasional shit-posts on Tumblr but never thought people actually had serious discussions about this stuff out loud.
She didn’t even like you at first. You were too loud. Too much.
But she couldn’t look away.
After introducing herself to you, later that night, Hyewon requests to follow you on Instagram. You accept instantly but don't follow back.
What kind of weird power play was she being subjected to?
Then you two met coincidentally a few more times, still you hadn't followed her back.
Tonight was the first time you came into contact with each other without any buffers around you.
She bit her lip in a shy smile, "Thanks." She seemed to have taken it as a compliment.
So you comment on her hair anyway, "I really like it, it frames your face well."
Your eyes fall on another figure behind her.
The first instinct you had was to stare. Because this was the sexiest man you'd ever seen. And you've seen a lot of those.
Cautiously, you look back at Hyewon, who seemed enthralled by the man too.
The man approaches you two and wraps his tattooed hand around hers.
Ah.
Whatever.
"_____, This is my boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. Babe, this is _____ _____!"
You glance at him. “Oh. Hi.”
It’s barely a greeting. You’re more interested in your reflection in the glass.
Jungkook nods at you before looking back at his girlfriend, whispering to her about their table.
That only riles you up.
They have a table and you still don't. You feel a slight rush of entitlement taking over you.
Hyewon nods but then paused, "Oh, uh, are you leaving, _____?"
You shake your head, "Logan's trying to get us a table."
Hyewon sees this as an opportunity to get closer to you.
Just when she was about to extend an invitation to you and your brother, said brother calls out to you.
Finally. You weren't in the mood for any more small talk.
When Logan looks over at you, and in the same breath, his gaze lands on Jeon Jungkook, "Huh. Jeon, right?"
Jungkook, who had been sizing you up quietly with polite disinterest, raises a brow, "Yeah."
Then it clicks. Jungkook nods, resemblance flickering in his eyes. "Right. I’ve seen you in the elevators."
"Hard to miss a face like mine," Logan says dryly.
You roll your eyes at that.
Hyewon laughs. "I had no idea you two knew each other."
You swing your bag to your shoulder, ready to leave, when something fluffy drops to the floor. It's your bag charm.
You don't move, just stare at it.
Hyewon, without missing a beat, crouches and retrieves it for you.
"Aw, thank you," you say casually, this time sporting a genuine smile.
But Jungkook observes something else. He notices how you don't pick up after yourself. You didn’t even pretend to go for it. You just expected Hyewon to move for you.
He watched you struggle to clip it back on. You then pass it off to your brother, who successfully attaches the charm back on.
Jungkook's jaw ticks a little. As if he was holding back on telling you off.
Brat.
The hostess returns then, apologizing profusely as she attempts to guide you and your brother ahead of two other waiting couples.
No one says anything because you’re used to this kind of priority.
"I'm hungry, we're going to go in now," you announced, later adding, "See you around, Wony!"
You entangle your fingers in Hyewons, slightly swinging it as to bid goodbye, smiling cutely.
"Have fun, you guys," Hyewon says sweetly.
Logan awkwardly smiles and escorts you in.
Jungkook silently follows Hyewon to the hostess table.
Once they’re past the threshold and walking through the foyer, Hyewon peeks up at him, finding him usually quiet. "You okay?"
He shakes his head once. “Your friend’s kind of a brat.”
Hyewon snorted, "Okay."
She didn't think much of it.
For some reason, he kept replaying the moment he met you over and over again. It angered him.
ʚ𖹭ɞ
Later that night, at Jungkook's apartment. He had just stepped out of the shower.
"She’s a little ridiculous," Jungkook suddenly mutters, annoyed. "Your friend."
Hyewon lifts a brow, "_____?"
"She didn’t even reach for her own bag charm."
Hyewon raises a brow, "You’re still thinking about that?" Why the fuck was he thinking about you in the shower?
"She just stood there. Expected you to do it." He continued.
"That's just how she is. I don't know, I don't think it's that big of a deal..." Hyewon treads lightly.
"It doesn't bother you to be treated like that by your friend?" Jungkook scrunched his brows.
He seemed very intrigued.
She considers for a second. It's not like you're friends. She doesn't think you're even acquaintances. "It... doesn't, I think it almost makes her a little charming. Like she's not faking anything."
Although, Jungkook does have Hyewon rethinking her perception of you in her mind.
She tries to rationalize it, "She doesn't try to be something she's not..."
Jungkook pulls a shirt over his head, "_____ doesn't try at all."
Hyewon smiles, "But that's what makes her fun. You just don't get it."
"No, I do get it," he argues, "She's rich and a spoilt brat because nobody's ever told her no. So now she treats everyone like they're made to serve her."
Hyewon patiently watches him for a second. He looked so riled up over you.
"Well, you're rich too," she weakly adds.
"I am now, but I wasn't always... It's not the same, it's... Whatever."
"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought." Hyewon frowns.
Jungkook doesn't answer right away, choosing to deflect and instead just calls for her to return to bed after her bath quickly.
Hyewon doesn't want to think too much of it. But then her phone dings.
Back at your shared penthouse with Logan, you conduct slight research of your own.
You had followed her back.
"Who is Jeon Jungkook?" You barge into your brother's room.
Logan stills for a second. "Why?"
You shrug, "It's just a question."
Logan squints, unconvinced, but answers anyway, "He's the managing partner at Jeon, Kim & Kim."
Ohhhh. Of course, he is. You've heard of him. He really does live up to his name. You'd heard he was almost unapproachable. How in the world did Hyewon end up with someone like him?
You nod slowly. Okay.
After returning to your floor, you waste no time and look up Hyewon's Instagram. To your surprise, she had already been following you.
Oops.
You click on the follow button and toss your phone away for the night.
next: killah (jjk) [2]
note: i was listening to killah by lady gaga hence the name, now, i know the song is super groovy and the vibes do not match but!! throw me a bone here, i think the song describes the situation fairly well. and as ush, please tell me what you think of this :) is it worth following up on or is it just predictable and whatever? thanks for reading :)
synopsis : you moved in for cheap rent, not to get passed around. but with four insanely hot men under same roof, it didn’t take long before things got messy. now you’re cockwarming nanami at midnight, riding gojo in the shower, bent over for geto before dinner, and getting your throat fucked by toji. college? peace? who needs it when you’re getting dicked down for good?
content warning : suggestive language, sexual innuendo, age gap (19+ reader), inappropriate comments, possessive and flirtatious behavior, mild coercion, power imbalance, light alcohol use, mdni.
a/n : this fic is very smut-heavy and most chapters contain multiple smut scenes. if that’s not something you’re comfortable reading, please feel free to skip this one *.✧ art by @ thatsallitchief ✧*。
next chapter | chapter index
Chapter 1
The apartment smelled like something warm—cinnamon maybe, or toasted sugar.
It didn’t match the sight in front of you: a door propped open with a sneaker, a white sock hanging off the doorknob, and voices filtering through the narrow hallway. You hesitated at the threshold with your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, trying not to fidget with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. Your friend, Aki, swore this was a good idea.
“They’re chill,” she’d said. “Little weird, but harmless.” You were starting to think “little” had been a generous understatement.
A head peeked around the corner. Messy white hair. Sunglasses indoors.
“Hey. You must be the new girl.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. “Yeah, I’m Y/n.”
He grinned wide, all teeth. “Cute. I’m Gojo. I call dibs on teaching you how to use the shower if you don’t know how.”
“…I do know how.”
He winked. “That’s what they all say.”
Behind him, another man walked into view, holding a mug and wearing a loose black tee that hung off one shoulder. His hair was dark, tied up lazily, and his gaze was unreadable as he sipped.
“Don’t harass her at the door, Satoru.”
“Harass? I was welcoming her,” Gojo gasped, offended.
“Sure,” he said. Then, to you: “I’m Geto. Ignore him. Mostly.”
Geto looked calmer, quieter, but you already felt how his eyes lingered too long—just a second more than appropriate. You swallowed and nodded politely. Gojo turned back to you, gesturing wildly.
“Rules are simple. No bringing partners over, no stealing my snacks, and everyone’s required to attend Friday Movie Night. Also, if you’re gonna scream at night, do it in your pillow. Sound carries.”
“Scream ?” you blinked.
He beamed again. “You’ll understand eventually.”
They showed you to the empty room. Technically Toji’s old room, but he’d moved everything out two days before to Nanami's as for welcoming you. It was small, but it had a bed, desk, and bathroom of your own. More than you expected, honestly.
You didn’t meet Nanami until that night. He knocked on your door at 9:12 sharp.
“I wanted to introduce myself properly,” he said, standing stiffly at the doorway like he was afraid of invading your space. “I’m Kento Nanami. If any of them bother you, let me know. I’ll handle it.”
You nodded, voice small. “Thank you.”
His eyes flicked over you quickly, then away, as if embarrassed he’d even looked. “And welcome. Please don’t feel uncomfortable. You’re safe here.”
There was something… reassuring about him. Stoic, maybe, but polite. You felt your shoulders relax.
Until the next day.
You woke up to the sound of low voices, distant music, and the thud of something heavy—weights? A punching bag? You padded out of your room and followed the sounds to the kitchen, only to stop short when you caught sight of the last one. He had a towel slung over his shoulders, sweat gleaming across his chest. Tattoos peeked from the waistband of his shorts and his broad back flexed as he cracked open a water bottle. His gaze flicked to yours. Unblinking. Cold green eyes. The stare of a man who didn’t say “hello,” just sized you up.
Toji.
“You’re the new girl,” he said. Voice rough, like gravel. “Didn’t expect you to look like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
“Soft. Lost.” He let his eyes drag over your body, bare legs, oversized shirt, sleep-flattened hair. “Easy.”
You stepped back, flustered. “I—excuse me?”
He shrugged, then grinned—sharp, quick. “Don’t get all squeaky on me. I say what I think.”
You turned and nearly ran into Nanami, who appeared out of nowhere like a silent guardian. He placed a mug in front of you.
“Don’t take anything Toji says seriously,” he said, almost gently. “And please wear slippers. The floor isn’t always clean.”
Toji snorted. “Keep babying her, Nanami. Let’s see how long that works.”
“Don’t call her that.”
You felt like you had walked into a play already halfway through, like everyone already had roles, histories, fights, flirtations. And now you were here, the only one out of place. But they welcomed you. They let you eat with them. They let you be with them.
**********
You hadn’t even finished your dinner when Toji spoke again.
“So,” he drawled, slumping lazily into a chair across the kitchen table, “you’re in my old room.”
You paused mid-bite. “…Sorry? I guess?”
“Don’t be,” he smirked, cracking open a second water bottle. “Didn’t say I minded. Was just curious how it feels sleeping in a room that still probably smells like me.”
Your face heated instantly. “I—uh—what—?”
Nanami set his mug down with a sharp clink. “Toji.”
“What? I’m just being friendly.”
You could barely look at either of them, the spoon trembling slightly in your grip. Toji leaned forward on his elbows, jaw flexing, muscles rolling under the skin on his forearm as he continued, voice slow and intentional.
“Should’ve asked me before giving up the room, though. Could’ve made a deal, doll. Maybe shared it with you instead of Nanami.”
Your breath caught.
Nanami stood up straight. “Toji. Enough.”
Toji tilted his head, annoyed. “Relax. She’s not a kid.”
“She’s nineteen.”
“She’s legal.”
"Barely."
"Still legal."
“Toji.”
You could hear the edge in Nanami’s voice—firm, low, a thread of warning barely held back. Toji scoffed and sat back in his chair, tapping the bottle cap against the table.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Was joking.”
“Don’t joke like that.”
Toji rolled his eyes. “You know, this is why I didn’t want to share a room with you. You kill the vibe.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Nanami shot back, calm but cold.
Toji smirked again, looking at you. “Still think I should’ve shared a room with her.”
Your spoon hit the plate with a soft clatter as you stood, too flustered to stay seated. Nanami’s voice softened only slightly as he turned to you.
“Ignore him. He’s like this with everyone.”
“I’m not,” Toji said, without missing a beat. “Just with the ones I like.”
You practically ran to rinse your plate and retreat to your room, mumbling something about needing to finish unpacking. Nanami’s eyes followed you until you disappeared, then turned sharply to Toji.
“She’s uncomfortable.”
“She’ll get used to it.”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
“Spare me the lecture.”
Before Nanami could retort, the front door burst open with a dramatic thud, followed by an enthusiastic, drawn-out, “We’re hooome!”
Gojo’s voice, unmistakable. He strolled in like a celebrity on a red carpet, sunglasses still on despite the dim lighting of the apartment hallway, arms loaded with takeout bags and a six-pack of beer. Geto followed behind, phone in one hand, hair tied up tighter now, holding the speaker end of the Bluetooth playing obnoxiously loud house music.
“Don’t worry, I brought enough food to bribe your forgiveness,” Gojo said, dropping the bags onto the kitchen counter. “And beer to blur your memories.”
Toji was already halfway through his first can before they even settled. Geto gave a soft chuckle when he saw him. “Didn’t even wait for us?”
Toji shrugged. “Why would I?”
Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You said you were picking up groceries, not takeout and alcohol.”
Gojo waved a hand. “Tomato, tomahto. Let loose, Kento. It’s Friday.”
“I’m going to my room,” Nanami said flatly, already walking away.
“Again?” Gojo called. “Come on, don’t be lame. You’re gonna make her think this house is boring.”
Nanami stopped at his door and turned to you, his eyes softening slightly. “If you want peace,” he said, “I’d suggest you do the same.”
You nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll—”
But you didn’t even finish the sentence before Gojo zipped past Nanami with a devilish grin and took a sharp turn toward you. You blinked, confused, until—
“Wait—! What are you—?!”
Too late. Gojo was back in the living room with you in his arms, bridal style, grinning like a maniac while you squeaked and clung to him.
“She said she was gonna hide,” he said to Geto, who leaned lazily against the wall, enjoying the show. “Can you believe that?”
“I can,” Geto said. “But I support your kidnapping. It’s fun.”
“Put me down!” you yelped.
“Nope. House rule number five—‘All Friday nights must be celebrated with excessive noise and minor abductions.’ Look it up.”
“There is no such rule!”
“There is now.”
He dumped you unceremoniously onto the couch, and you bounced with a soft “oof” as Geto plopped beside you and handed you a can of soda. He opened one for himself—beer, obviously—and stretched one arm across the back of the couch behind you.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, voice low, mouth too close to your ear. “This place isn’t so bad once you lower your standards.”
Toji dropped down into the armchair next to the couch, now on his second beer. His eyes dragged across your legs, your face, the curve of your back as you tried to sit properly, anything but notice the way his gaze lingered.
“Don’t act so scared,” he muttered. “No one here bites.” Then a pause. “…Unless you ask nicely.”
You swore you heard Geto chuckle behind you. Gojo walked past, ruffling your hair playfully, before collapsing onto the rug in front of the TV and pointing the remote like a weapon.
“Now,” he declared. “Movie night begins. But first—shots?”
“Absolutely not,” Nanami’s voice called from his room.
Gojo grinned. “See? He’s always listening.”
And you, sitting on the couch between Geto’s lazy smile and Toji’s dark stare, started to realize something. You weren’t going to live in this house. You were going to survive in it.
**********
You’d tried to stay quiet—really. Sitting tucked on the couch, legs pressed together, soda can hugged to your chest while the boys sprawled around like they owned the entire apartment complex, not just the living room. But that never worked for long in this place. Especially not with them.
“Look how tense she is,” Gojo grinned, poking at your shoulder as he lay on the rug, head tilted back to peek at you upside down. “C’mon, sweetheart, you’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”
“She’s probably just overwhelmed,” Geto added smoothly, resting his chin in his palm as he leaned on the couch’s armrest. “New house, new people. Four grown men. Living with us must feel like walking into a lion’s den.”
Gojo pouted. “Hey! I’m a kitten.”
Toji scoffed. “A loud one with rabies.”
Nanami’s voice floated from his room. “All of you have rabies.”
Laughter echoed around you, but your face was already heating.
“I’m fine,” you mumbled. “Just tired.”
“Sure you are,” Toji muttered, sipping his beer and eyeing you from the chair across the room. His legs were spread wide, arms resting loose on the sides, posture lazy—but his eyes were sharp, tracking every twitch you made. “You always this jumpy around guys?”
“What?—no, I—”
“Uh-huh.”
You turned away quickly, but that only made things worse.
Geto leaned closer, his arm brushing yours. “You’ve never lived with boys before, huh?”
You shook your head, hoping they’d drop it. They didn’t.
“Never even had a boyfriend?” Gojo teased, propping his chin on his fists, grinning wide. “You’re giving… pure vibes.”
“That's—,” you hissed, your ears turning hot.
“Ohhh, no way—” he gasped.
“Are you—wait, wait—are you seriously untouched? Like, untouched-untouched?”
You choked on your drink.
“God,” Toji muttered, dragging a hand down his face and grinning like he knew something dirty. “You guys are vultures.”
“But she’s so cute!” Geto said, laughing now. “Look at that—she’s about to melt.”
You were. Your face was burning, your heart pounding too fast, and the room suddenly felt stifling.
“I’m just gonna get some air,” you mumbled, slipping off the couch and weaving past the mess of limbs and bottles and pillows scattered across the floor.
“Need help breathing, princess?” Toji called after you.
You didn’t answer. You went to your room and pulled a light cardigan over your shoulders to ward off the chill and wandered straight out to the balcony.
The balcony was small but quiet. The city lights glittered in the distance, noise a soft hum beneath the apartment’s height. You inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the tension—but the air wasn’t clean.
It was thick with smoke. You turned and froze. Toji was already out there, leaning against the railing with a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced sideways at you, one brow arching.
“Well, well.”
You blinked. “I—I didn’t know you were here—”
“Door’s open. I’m always here.”
Your stomach fluttered. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl through the air before flicking the ash over the edge. You hovered near the doorway, hesitant to step fully into his space.
“You coming in, or just planning to stand there breathing my secondhand smoke?”
You swallowed. “I can come back later—”
But before you could even step back, he moved—reaching past you, gripping the balcony door, and swinging it shut behind you with a soft click. Your heart jumped. He didn’t touch you—but he didn’t have to. The proximity alone made your nerves spark.
“…What are you doing?” you asked, voice quieter now.
Toji turned to face you, only a foot or two away now, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with his boot.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” He paused, then grinned. “You make it a habit to run when guys talk to you?”
“I wasn’t running.”
He gave you a look.
“…Okay, maybe a little,” you muttered.
He chuckled—low and rough. “Thought so.” Silence stretched for a second, uncomfortable. Then, softly: “So what’s your deal?”
You blinked. “My deal…?”
“Yeah. What’s your story, sweetheart?” He stepped closer, arms crossing over his chest. “You some rich daddy’s girl cut off for bad grades? Or did you just lose a bet and wind up here with four assholes?”
You fumbled, laughing awkwardly. “No, nothing like that. I just… needed a cheaper place. Couldn’t afford dorm rent anymore. A friend of Gojo’s mentioned the room.”
“Friend of Gojo’s,” he echoed, smirking. “That explains a lot.”
You fidgeted under his stare.
“What are you studying?” he asked next, voice quieter.
“Finance.”
“Big dreams?”
“Sort of. I mean, I want something… stable.”
He gave a noncommittal grunt. “You’ll hate it.”
“I—huh?”
“Trust me. People who want stability are always the ones who end up miserable.” He tilted his head. “How old did you say you were?”
“Nineteen.”
He smiled again. Not kindly. “Barely legal.”
You flinched. “I—um—can I go to sleep now?”
Toji stepped in again, this time close enough that you could smell the mix of smoke and aftershave clinging to him.
“What’s the rush?” he said, voice low, teasing. “Talk to me a little more. I’m curious about our new roommate. You’re a shy little thing—but I bet there’s more under the surface.”
“There’s—nothing, I swear—”
“You always this bad at lying?” he grinned. “Cute.”
You felt heat crawl down your spine. Then—
“Yo! Where’d you go, princess?” Gojo’s voice. Loud. Coming closer.
“Damn,” Toji muttered under his breath.
Before you could even turn, the balcony door swung open again, and Gojo poked his head out, eyes lighting up when he saw you cornered.
“Aha! I knew he was hogging you.”
“He wasn’t—” you started, but Gojo didn’t wait. He swooped in and tossed you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Wha—HEY—!”
“Sorry, Toji,” Gojo chirped, grinning. “I'm taking her. Find your own cuddle buddy.”
Toji’s jaw flexed, brow twitching. “Put her down, idiot.”
“Later,” Gojo called as he carried you back inside, music still blaring, Geto laughing from the couch. He plopped you down again, passed you a fresh can.
“Cheers,” he said, grinning into your eyes. “To surviving your first night in hell.”
You lifted the drink, heartbeat still racing, and took a sip. But even as you sat between the chaos, you felt a burning gaze linger behind you, from the balcony where Toji still stood, jaw clenched around another cigarette.
Watching. Waiting.
**********
“Cheers to our new roomie!”
Gojo announced loudly, raising a shot glass high above his head, standing in front of the music-blaring TV like it was a goddamn stage. You were curled up at the end of the couch, flustered beyond reason after being manhandled from the balcony by Gojo’s impossibly strong arms, your whole body still pulsing from that bizarre Toji encounter.
“I'm—I really don’t drink much,” you said, palms up, shrinking into the cushion as Gojo pressed a full shot into your hand.
Geto plopped down next to you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, dangerously close to your shoulder. “C’mon, one won’t kill you.”
“You’ll sleep better,” Gojo grinned, clinking his glass with yours before knocking his shot back like it was candy. “Besides, you already signed the roommate contract. This is part of the hazing.”
You gave him a look. “There’s a contract?”
“Verbal,” Geto added smoothly, fingers brushing your sleeve as he grabbed his beer from the table. “Binding by presence.”
“Peer pressure is a crime, you know,” you muttered, trying to hand the shot glass back.
But Gojo was already pouring another. “And yet… you’re still here. Kinda sus.”
You blinked. “Sus?”
“Suspicious,” Geto murmured, eyes fixed on you with that unreadable half-lidded stare, his smile low and lazy. “You sure you didn’t want us to get you drunk?”
Your jaw dropped. “No?!”
“Relax,” Gojo laughed, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, silver hair falling over his eyes. “We’re just messing with you.”
Your cheeks burned.
“But seriously,” Geto cut in, voice lower now, smoother, “a drink or two helps. Loosens the nerves. And you’ve looked like a deer in headlights since you stepped in here.”
You sighed. Then drank. It burned. You coughed immediately, blinking fast, your whole chest heating.
“Attagirl,” Gojo grinned, already filling another. “You didn’t make a face. I’m proud.”
“Cute one,” Geto said, sipping his beer.
You turned redder.
The next shot came quickly. Then a third. You weren’t sure when you stopped protesting. The music thumped in the background. Toji was sitting on the armchair across from you, one hand wrapped around a beer bottle, dark eyes flicking up every now and then to watch silently. He hadn’t said anything since Gojo carried you in. But his presence was heavy. Quiet and coiled.
“You know,” Gojo said, stretching beside you on the couch, legs wide and easy, “you’re a lot more relaxed now.”
“That’s ‘cause I’m dying,” you muttered, blinking slowly.
He teased you, finger poking your cheek. “All sleepy and droopy and look at this little pout.”
You pouted harder, turning your head away. “Stop touching me.”
“Why?” Geto said smoothly from your other side. “You’re not exactly pushing us away.”
You tried to say something—anything—but Geto's hand had rested low behind you now, fingers barely brushing the fabric of your shirt.
Toji’s bottle clicked against the table as he stood abruptly. “Tch.”
You flinched. He didn’t speak. Just walked past the couch and disappeared into Gojo and Geto’s bedroom, the door swinging shut behind him.
“…Did I do something?” you asked blearily.
Gojo waved a hand. “That’s just Toji. He gets pissy if he doesn’t get his alone time.”
“Or when someone else touches what he wants,” Geto muttered under his breath.
Gojo glanced at him. “Dude.”
“What?”
You blinked. “He doesn’t—I mean, he’s not even nice to me?”
Geto smirked. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
You tried to process that but the shots were hitting hard now. Your limbs felt loose, your head a little floaty, like someone had cut the strings tethering you to gravity. You yawned without meaning to.
Gojo leaned in. “Aw. Getting sleepy?”
“I think I need water,” you mumbled.
“Or another drink,” Geto said.
You shook your head. “No more—”
“Last one,” Gojo promised. “Swear. Just to celebrate.”
You gave in. The last thing you remembered clearly was the two of them laughing as your body slumped against Gojo’s side, and Geto whispering something in your ear that made your cheeks burn even in your haze. Everything after that blurred into warmth, pressure, a spinning ceiling—and then, black.
**********
Your head felt like a brick had been dropped on it.
No—several bricks. Sharp, heavy ones. Maybe even a few rusty nails thrown in. The first thing you noticed was the blaring pain behind your eyes. The second—was that you couldn’t move. Because something heavy was draped across your torso.
Correction: someone.
“…What the—?” you mumbled, blinking through the haze of a hangover.
You were on the living room floor. Blanket crumpled under your legs. A pillow from the couch shoved behind your head. But it wasn’t the setting that made your heart leap into your throat. It was the man curled up on top of you.
Gojo Satoru.
Sprawled across your body like a human octopus, arms wrapped tightly around your middle, head tucked low against your chest, his cheek was literally resting right between your breasts. And even worse, he was nuzzling. In his sleep. Your breath caught in your throat. He let out a soft groan, rubbing his face further into the soft space beneath your collarbones. “Mmh… warm…”
You tensed. "Gojo—"
He didn’t wake. Just tightened his hold like you were his personal teddy bear. You peeked to the side. Geto was passed out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, mouth slightly open. A beer bottle rolled next to his fingers.
Toji was nowhere in sight.
The memories came back in pieces. The music. The teasing. The drinks. Gojo handing you one. Then another. Geto laughing as you squinted at the bitter liquid. You hadn’t wanted to drink, but they kept pushing, and you’d just wanted to blend in, to seem cool, to not be that girl. You groaned softly. Your limbs were heavy, sore. Body still buzzing uncomfortably from the leftover alcohol. And Gojo’s arm was locked across your waist like a steel bar.
You wriggled. “Gojo—wake up—”
He grumbled again, barely lifting his head, blue eyes squinting open sleepily, then immediately closing again as he pressed closer to your chest.
“…soft…” he murmured.
You yelped under your breath. “Gojo—!”
That’s when you heard the soft click of a door opening. Your head snapped up. Nanami walked out of his room, hair messy but still somehow composed, dressed in a plain t-shirt and sleep pants, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one hand. He stopped mid-step. Staring. At you. On the floor. With Gojo’s face stuffed in your cleavage. You froze. Wide-eyed.
“I—it’s not what you—! I mean—I was just—!”
Nanami blinked once. Then again. A pause. Then—
“I see,” he said simply. No judgment. No panic. No disgust. Just… neutral.
You scrambled to sit up, only for Gojo to tighten his hold again with a sleepy whine. “Don’t go…”
“I wasn’t—he—he’s the one who—I fell asleep—!”
Nanami raised a hand gently. “It’s alright.” You wanted to melt into the floor.
“I don’t usually drink,” you added quickly, heart racing. “They just kept giving me shots and I didn’t want to be rude and I—”
Nanami actually smiled. Small. Gentle. The corner of his mouth twitching upward like he found you mildly amusing. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve seen worse. Especially from him.”
You exhaled in relief, cheeks still burning.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.
You nodded furiously. “Yes, please.”
He stepped closer. “Let me help.”
With quiet, careful hands, he crouched next to you, gently prying Gojo’s arm off your waist with the precision of someone who’d done this before. Gojo whined again, reaching out blindly.
Nanami caught his hand mid-air. “Let. Her. Go.”
Gojo grunted, rolling onto his side with a groggy pout, arm flopping over a cushion instead. You scrambled to your feet, wobbling slightly. Nanami reached out instinctively to steady you, one hand on your elbow.
“You’re pale,” he murmured. “Drink water first.”
You nodded again, grateful, and followed him toward the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet now. Only the soft hum of the fridge and the faint city buzz beyond the windows. The calm after last night’s storm. Nanami moved through the kitchen like it was a sanctuary. Precise, measured, clean. He opened the cabinets, poured water into a glass, and handed it to you. You drank it all in one go.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little,” you said, voice small.
He nodded. “Coffee?”
You watched him fill the pot, grind the beans, start the machine. He was calm. Soothing. A sharp contrast to Gojo’s chaos and Geto’s teasing touches.
“…Thank you,” you said quietly.
He glanced over. “For the coffee?”
“For… this. Not making it weird.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “You’re young. And they’re… overwhelming. You don’t need to match their energy to be accepted here.”
You blinked. “But if I don’t… won’t they think I’m boring?”
He gave a soft scoff. “You are boring. But in a good way.”
Your eyes widened. He smirked. Just a little. “Stability is rare in a house like this. Don’t lose it.”
You stared at him, the thrum of your pulse still loud in your ears—but slower now. More grounded. The coffee finished brewing, and Nanami poured two mugs. One he placed in front of you. The other he took for himself. Outside, Gojo was snoring. Geto hadn’t moved.
The sun was starting to rise.
Nanami stood across from you, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed like he hadn’t yet fully settled into the day. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded as he watched you with that gentle intensity of his.
“So,” he said, his voice smooth but low, “how are you feeling?”
You blinked, holding the mug tighter. “Honestly? My head is trying to kill me.”
“Hangover,” he said. “Expected.”
“I didn’t plan on drinking that much,” you muttered.
“I know,” he nodded. “I saw them push you.”
“…You did?”
“I was watching from the hallway for a while,” he admitted. “I wanted to see how they’d treat you.”
You looked up, surprised.
Nanami’s expression was unreadable, but kind. “I don’t enjoy chaos. Especially when it involves people who deserve peace.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“I didn’t even want to come here, honestly,” you confessed softly. “But I had nowhere else affordable. Everything’s so… much.”
He walked over slowly and placed his mug down beside yours. “If anything ever gets overwhelming—whether it’s Gojo, Geto, or Toji—call me. Even if I’m in my room. You knock. You call. I’ll help.”
You stared at him, warmth pooling in your chest for a different reason now. “You barely know me.”
“I’ll get to know you,” he said simply. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Sharing space. Respect. I believe in that.”
Your throat tightened slightly.
He pulled a chair out beside you and sat, more relaxed now. “So tell me. What do you like?”
“Um… in what way?”
Nanami gave a small chuckle. “Start anywhere.”
You took a breath. “I like quiet mornings. Reading… fantasy books. I don’t get much time for it lately. And I like dancing. But not in public.”
He nodded. “That tracks. You’re… a bit reserved.”
“That’s putting it nicely,” you said with a laugh.
He looked at you seriously. “That’s not an insult.”
Before you could answer, the kitchen door creaked open and Geto shuffled in, shirt rumpled, eyes half-lidded with sleep.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, yawning hard and scratching his neck. “Damn, it’s bright in here.”
Nanami’s face hardened immediately. “Don’t start.”
“Huh?”
Nanami raised a brow. “Don’t play dumb, Geto. You and Gojo didn’t exactly make her feel safe last night.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Geto said, hands up in mock surrender. “It was all Gojo. I’m innocent.”
Nanami stared him down. “You sat next to her. Let him pour drink after drink. Watched her pass out.”
Geto smirked. “I was enjoying the company.”
“She’s not here to be entertainment.”
“I know,” Geto said softly, then glanced at you. “Sorry, by the way. If I crossed a line.”
Your mouth opened, surprised by the apology.
“It's fine,” you said quietly.
Nanami exhaled through his nose. “Just don’t make things harder.”
“I won’t,” Geto said. “Unless you ask nicely.”
Nanami glared.
“Okay, okay,” Geto grinned, grabbing a banana from the counter and peeling it dramatically. “Peace offering.”
Just then, the door to the living room swung open and Gojo’s head popped in, bright and mischievous.
“Morning, my favorite people!”
Nanami groaned softly. “No.”
Gojo ignored him entirely. “Guess what day it is?”
You blinked. “Saturday?”
“Getting to Know the New Roommate Day!” Gojo beamed. “It’s tradition. I just made it up.”
“No,” Nanami said.
“Yes,” Gojo said, already grabbing your wrist and tugging you up from the stool.
“C’mon, sunshine. Time for interrogation”
You half-laughed, half-panicked as he led you to the living room. Everyone was there now—Toji slouched on one side of the couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Geto followed behind with a fresh coffee in hand. Nanami was reluctantly taking a seat at the edge, clearly against this whole setup.
“Okay,” Gojo clapped, sitting in front of you, legs crossed like a kid at story time.
“Ground rules: you answer honestly, we each take turns. No skipping.”
“This feels illegal,” you said.
“Only mildly,” Geto smirked.
Nanami sighed. “Let’s get it over with.”
Gojo grinned. “I’ll start. What’s your biggest fear?”
You blinked. “That’s the first question?”
“Toji said I couldn’t ask if you were a dom or sub, so yeah,” Gojo shrugged.
Your jaw dropped. “What?!”
Toji snorted under his breath.
“Okay, okay,” Geto cut in. “Let’s ease her into it. What’s your major?”
You glanced at him, grateful. “Finance.”
“Hot,” he said immediately.
Nanami groaned again. Toji’s turn came, and he didn’t even pretend to think.
“Are you a virgin?”
Silence. You went beet red. “Excuse me?!”
Nanami sat up straight. “Toji.”
“What?” Toji said lazily. “Just wondering. She looks like it.”
“Don’t speak about her like that,” Nanami said coldly.
Toji smirked, amused. “It’s a question. She doesn’t have to answer.”
You opened and closed your mouth, utterly flustered.
Gojo leaned in again, smile wide. “Don’t worry, we’re just teasing. Though if you are, I can offer classes.”
“Gojo,” Nanami snapped.
Geto laughed. “Do not let him teach. He has a PowerPoint presentation and everything.”
“I’m gonna go hide somewhere,” you muttered, hiding behind a throw pillow.
“Wait, wait!” Gojo grinned. “One more—what do you think about us? Like, first impressions.”
You peeked out. “Honestly?”
All four leaned in.
You pointed. “Gojo—annoying but fun. Geto—too smooth, too dangerous. Nanami—terrifying but secretly sweet.”
“And me?” Toji asked, eyes sharp.
You paused. “You scare me.”
A long silence followed.
Toji leaned back slowly, lips twitching. “Good.”
Gojo clapped his hands again, eyes sparkling. “Okay, round two! This time we’re diving deeper.”
You squirmed slightly on the couch, still feeling the heat of Toji’s question from before burning your cheeks. Nanami sat stiffly beside you on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, jaw set like he was doing everything in his power not to explode.
Gojo pointed at you like a game show host. “If you had to marry one of us, who would it be?”
Your eyes widened. “What?!”
“C’mon, c’mon,” Gojo leaned in. “It’s a harmless game!”
“Harmless?” Nanami scoffed under his breath.
You looked around helplessly. Toji looked smug, Geto had a glint in his eye, and Gojo was practically vibrating.
“I don’t know you guys!” you stammered.
“Just on vibes,” Geto said smoothly, sipping his coffee.
“Don’t pressure her,” Nanami warned, voice low and firm.
“It’s a fun game,” Gojo said, hands up in mock surrender. “Besides, I’m clearly the best option.”
“Debatable,” Geto muttered.
Toji leaned forward suddenly, resting his arms on his knees, staring straight at you. “You looked the most scared of me. But scared can be good.”
You blinked. “W-what?”
He smirked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Sometimes fear keeps you alert. Keeps you obedient.”
“Enough,” Nanami cut in sharply, standing.
Toji didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Nanami turned to you, his tone gentle now. “You don’t need to sit through this.”
You looked up at him, torn, but also not wanting to make it awkward. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“See, she’s fine,” Gojo chirped, draping himself across the arm of the couch. “Let’s keep going! Okay, next one—if you were stuck in a closet with one of us for seven minutes—”
Nanami exhaled hard. “I’m done.”
You flinched a little as he walked toward his room.
“Wait, Nanami,” you started, standing halfway.
“I’ll be in my room,” he said without looking back. And with that, his door shut with a soft but firm click.
You stood awkwardly, heart thudding.
“Buzzkill,” Gojo sighed dramatically. “But not unexpected.”
You gave a weak laugh, shifting uncomfortably under their attention. Gojo grinned at you.
“Okay, serious one, how old were you when you learned what sex was?”
Your mouth opened in horror. “What—?!”
“Or,” Toji said, low and casual, “have you ever touched yourself?”
“Stop!” you said quickly, cheeks flaming.
Geto chuckled. “They’re monsters, I won’t lie.”
“This is too much,” you said, voice cracking slightly.
⤷ ALMOST SAID : TRUTH BLEEDS , JASON TODD . | PART IV.
summary 𓂃 oliver asks you out. Finally, you say yes. Dick tells Jason over coffee at the Clocktower. Jason shrugs. Says he doesn't care but he’s lying. On the date, Oliver talks about how Gotham's losing its grip. Pulls out his phone. Shows you a grainy photo—the Red Hood, caught mid-deal. You recognize the helmet. You excuse yourself. Take a cab home. Confront Jason in his living room with the screen still glowing in your hand. The cat's out of the bag. The lies have piled too high. And Jason realizes—too late—that he's spent months pushing you away, and now he doesn't know how to ask you to stay.
tags 𓂃 part four of childhood bsf!jason todd x fem!reader. heavy angst , emotional hurt/comfort , childhood best friends to lovers , slow burn , mutual pining , canon lore , Jason’s backstory , morally grey!jason todd , post-red hood: the lost days , Jason’s pov , university au , jealous!jason todd , reader finds out , confrontation , the distance between them grows.
wc 𓂃 4k words
PREVIOUS : read parts one , two , and three .
The Clocktower smelled like coffee and old paper and the faint metallic tang of Barbara's servers humming in the walls. Jason had been standing in front of her main display for twenty minutes, not looking at anything in particular, while she worked through something on her end that required exactly zero input from him.
He was here because Dick had asked him to be. Something about a case. Something about needing his "expertise."
He should have known it was bullshit.
"She's going out with Oliver," Dick said, not looking up from whatever he was pretending to read on Barbara's tablet.
Jason didn't react. Didn't turn around. Just kept his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him—a map of the Bowery, red dots marking recent gang activity, none of which he cared about.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. She can go out with whoever she wants."
Dick set the tablet down. The sound was deliberate. A performance. "That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant."
"Then say something."
Jason turned. Leaned against the console. Crossed his arms. His jacket creaked—the leather one, the one you always stole because it "smelled like him." He'd worn it today without thinking. Or maybe he had thought about it. He wasn't quite sure anymore.
"What do you want me to say, Dick? That I'm thrilled? I'm not thrilled. He's pretentious. He uses words like 'heretofore' in casual conversation. He probably owns a boat."
"He is not the point."
"He's exactly the point." Jason pushed off the console. Walked toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still low and gray, pressing down on the city like a bruise. "She deserves someone who isn't—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone who shows up."
"And you don't?"
"I show up covered in blood and leave before she wakes up. That's not showing up. That’s being an asshole."
Dick was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know why she said yes to him, right?"
Jason didn't answer.
"Because you're not giving her a reason to say no."
Jason's jaw tightened. His hand curled around the edge of the window frame. The words hit somewhere he didn't want to feel—somewhere that still remembered being twelve years old and watching Bruce turn away from him after a mission gone wrong. You can do better, Jason. You have to be better.
He'd never been better. Not then. Not now.
‘Better’ isn’t in the books for him.
"I've got patrol," he said.
"It's four in the afternoon."
"Don’t recall crime havin’ a schedule."
He was at the door when Dick's voice stopped him.
"Jason."
He paused. Didn't turn around.
"She's not going out with him because she wants to. She's going out with him because she's tired of waiting."
Jason's hand tightened on the doorframe.
"Maybe you should give her something to wait for."
He walked out without answering.
——
His apartment was empty when he got home.
Not physically empty—the furniture was still there, the books still on the shelves, the copy of Wuthering Heights still on the coffee table with your annotations in the margins. Colorful highlighters and sparkly pens. He used to think it was ridiculous, but now he just misses it. You weren't there. You'd been staying at your own place the last few nights. Your window was fixed. You didn't have an excuse anymore.
He should have been relieved. Space was good. Space meant he could think. Space meant he could figure out how to tell you the truth without destroying everything.
Instead, he just felt cold. Like when you walked out of his door you took the warmth with you. But Jason knows his apartment’s never been warm—not without you being the source, at least.
He pulled a beer from the fridge. Sat down on the couch. The cushions still smelled like your shampoo—the stupid floral one he pretended to hate. He'd washed the blanket twice and it was still there, woven into the fabric like you'd marked him without meaning to. He fucking hated it.
The TV was on. Muted. Some news report about the uptick in gang violence. He wasn't watching it. Not really.
Then the screen changed.
A photo. Grainy. Taken from across the street, probably by someone's phone. The Red Hood standing over a table covered in cash and baggies. Tables of cash. Bags of powder. The helmet glinting under the fluorescent lights of a warehouse he recognized.
He stared at it.
His own face—not his face, the helmet, the mask, the thing he put on when he wanted to be someone else—stared back at him.
The crawl at the bottom of the screen read: RED HOOD IDENTIFIED IN MULTIPLE DRUG TRAFFICKING OPERATIONS. GCPD ISSUES WANTED NOTICE.
He watched the photo cycle through a few more times. The voice stirred in his chest. It made him want to find whoever took that photo and make sure they never picked up a camera again.
He thought about the first time. Not the warehouse in Ethiopia—before that. Years before. A stairwell in the Bowery, a dealer whose name he never bothered learning, the one who sold his mother the pills that killed her. Jason had been eleven years old, small for his age, skinny and angry and already dead inside in ways he didn't have words for.
The stairs. He'd pushed him. Watched him fall. Watched his body crumple at the bottom.
That was when it started, he thought. That was when I became this.
He'd never told anyone. Not Bruce. Not you. Not even Dick, during those early days at the manor when he'd pretended he didn't have nightmares.
That's the difference between us, Bruce. I was a killer before I ever put on the cape.
He picked up the remote and turned the TV off.
The silence was louder.
He thought about you. About what you'd say if you saw those photos. About how you'd look at him—not with fear, you never looked at him with fear—but with something worse. Disappointment. Betrayal.
He finished the beer. Got another one.
The rain started again. Soft. Tapping against the window.
He didn't move.
Thought about you. Your date. Oliver. How he was probably making dumbass jokes you were forcing laughs at. How he was probably finding every excuse to touch you.
Jealousy reared its big ugly head at the thought. The feeling, so gross, made his stomach churn.
——
The key turned in the lock at eleven-thirty. Even though he wasn’t expecting anyone.
He knew it was eleven-thirty because he'd been watching the clock on the microwave for the past hour, counting the minutes, telling himself he didn't care what time your date ended or what time you went home.
The door opened. You stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was how different you looked. Your clothes were different. Your hair was different—you'd done something to it, curled it maybe, or pinned it back. You'd dressed up for him. For Oliver.
For Oliver.
He wanted to gag.
You shut the door behind you. Didn't take off your coat. Just stood there, holding your purse in front of you like a shield, and looked at him.
He was still on the couch. Still in the same clothes. The second beer was half-empty, sweating onto the coffee table, leaving a ring on the wood he'd have to clean later.
"You're home early," he said.
You didn't answer. Just looked at him. Your face was strange—not sad, not angry, not anything he could name. Just... blank. Like you'd turned something off inside yourself. That fucking terrified him.
"Did Oliver do something?" he asked. The words came out sharper than he meant. "Because if he tried something—"
"This isn't about Oliver."
Your voice was flat. Cold. Not the voice you used when you were tired or frustrated or sad. This was something else. Something he hadn't heard before.
"Then what's it about?"
You walked past him into the living room. Set your purse on the same coffee table his beer’s staining. Your hands were shaking—he could see it, the way your fingers trembled as you unzipped your coat.
"I left early," you said.
"Why?"
You didn't answer. Just pulled out your phone. Unlocked it. Turned the screen toward him.
The news article. The photos. The Red Hood standing over tables of cash and bags of powder.
"When were you going to tell me?"
The words hit him like a crowbar to the chest.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the screen—at his own reflection in the dark glass, at the way your hand was shaking.
"I don't—"
"Don't." Your voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. "Don't fucking sit there and lie to me. Not tonight."
He looked up at you. Your eyes were bright, but you weren't crying. You were holding it together by a thread, and he could see it fraying. Strand by strand.
"Oliver showed me these," you said. "During dinner. He was talking about the news. About how dangerous the city's gotten. About how the Red Hood is 'officially wanted' now." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And I just sat there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending I didn't recognize the helmet."
Jason stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. His hands were cold.
You should have told her, the voice in his head said. It sounded like Bruce. It always sounded like Bruce. You should have trusted her.
But Bruce had never trusted anyone with the full truth, had he? Not Dick. Not Barbara. Not the son he'd buried and replaced within a year.
"How long, Jason?"
He could lie. He could say it was recent. He could say he'd just started, that it wasn't a big deal, that he was planning to stop.
"Months," he said.
Your face didn't change. "Months."
"I was going to tell you."
"When?"
He didn't have an answer.
You tossed the phone onto the couch. Turned away from him. Your shoulders were tight, your fingers ran through your hair so roughly he thought you might pull it out.
"I waited for you," you said. Your voice was quieter now. Not yelling. Just just. "I waited for months. I slept on your couch. I cleaned your blood off my hands. I stayed when everyone else would have left. And you were out there—" You gestured at the dark TV. At the ghost of the photos. "You were selling drugs."
"I’m—"
"The same drugs that killed Catherine."
His jaw tightened. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't say it out loud? Don't make you feel bad about the poor choices you made?"
"You don't understand."
"Then make me understand." You turned to face him. Your arms were crossed now, your chin lifted, your eyes blazing. "Explain it to me. Explain why you've been lying to my face for months. Explain why you thought I didn't deserve to know."
Jason ran a hand through his hair. The memory flickered—Bruce's voice, cold and disappointed, standing over him after he'd beaten a suspect too hard. "This isn't who I trained you to be, Jason. You're better than this."
But I'm not, he'd thought. I was never better. You just didn't want to see it.
"I was trying to protect you."
The words came out before he could stop them.
You stared at him.
"From me," he should have said. "From what I am. From what I've done to myself."
"Protect me from what?" Your voice rose. "From the truth? From the fact that you've been running the same poison that killed your mother? How does that protect me, Jason?"
"Because if something happens to you—"
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
"You don't fucking know that, [name].”
"I know more than you think I do." You stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell your perfume—something soft, something floral, something that didn't belong in the same room as this conversation. "I've been in danger before. I've had bricks thrown through my window. I've had men threaten to kill me. And you know what? I survived. Because I'm not weak and I'm not fragile and I'm not something you need to shield from the world."
"I never said you were."
"You didn't have to." Your voice cracked again. "You showed me. Every time you pushed me away. Every time you lied. Every time you chose silence over trust."
He thought about the warehouse. About the crowbar. About the way Bruce had looked at him in the coffin—not the real Bruce, the one in his nightmares, the one who'd replaced him with a better model before his body was even cold.
"Tim Drake," the dream-Bruce always said. "He's what you should have been. What you could have been.”
"I don't know how to do this," Jason said.
"Do what?"
"This." He gestured between the two of you. "Us. Whatever this is. I don't know how to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know how to be what you need."
"Then stop trying to be what I need and just be here."
"I am here."
"You're not." Your voice broke completely this time. A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away angrily. "You're not here, Jason. You're in warehouses. You're in safehouses. You're in the middle of deals that could get you killed. But you're not here. You haven't been here for months."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell you that you were wrong, that he'd been here, that he'd been thinking about you every second of every day.
But you weren't wrong.
He hadn't been here. He'd been running. The same way he'd been running since he clawed his way out of that grave—running from Bruce, from Dick, from the ghost of the boy he used to be.
"The drugs," you said. "Why?"
He could lie. He could give you a noble answer—I did it to protect the kids on the street or I did it to control the supply or I did it because someone has to.
He thought about Bruce's voice again. "You can't stop crime, Jason. That's not how this works."
"You can't stop crime. That's what you never understood. I'm controlling it. You want to rule them by fear, but what do you do with the ones who aren't afraid? I'm doing what you won't. I'm taking them out."
You can't stop crime, Bruce had said.
Watch me, Jason had answered.
But Bruce had been right, hadn't he? He wasn't stopping anything. He was just becoming another part of the problem.
"Because I can." His voice was flat. Borrowed. Not his own. "Because someone has to control this city, and Bruce—Batman won't. Because I'm already damned, so what's a little more blood?"
You stared at him. "That's not a reason."
"It's the only one I have."
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
You turned away from him again. Walked to the other side of the living room. Leaned against the wall. Your arms were still crossed, your shoulders still tight.
"I don't understand you," you said.
"I know."
"You could have told me. You could have trusted me. And you didn't."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop saying what?"
"'I know.' It doesn't fix anything."
He didn't have an answer for that.
You were quiet for a long moment. The rain tapped against the window. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere in the building, a neighbor's TV was playing static.
"Oliver asked me why I kept checking my phone," you said finally. "During dinner. He thought I was waiting for an emergency. I didn't tell him I was waiting for you."
Jason's chest tightened.
"I kept thinking—" You stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking you'd text. Or call. Or show up. Something. Anything. To prove that you cared."
"I do care."
"Do you?" You looked at him. Your eyes were red, but the tears had stopped before they even started. "Because I've been here for months, Jason. I've been here through all of it—the blood, the nightmares, the distance. And you've given me nothing. No explanation. No honesty. No—" You shook your head. "No sign that any of this matters to you."
"It matters."
"Then act like it."
He stepped toward you. Stopped. Stepped again. He was close enough to touch you now, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into every line of your face.
"I don't know how," he said.
"Then figure it out."
"That's not fair—"
"I'm not going to do the work for you." Your voice was firm now. Steady. "I've been doing the work for months. I've been the one reaching out, the one staying, the one waiting. And I'm tired, Jason. I'm so tired."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Then tell me what you want me to say."
You stared at him. Your jaw was set. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.
"I want you to tell me the truth," you said. "All of it. Not the version you think I can handle. The real version."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
The truth.
He'd been running from the truth for so long he wasn't sure he remembered what it looked like.
"I started because I was angry," he said. The words came out slowly, like he was pulling teeth. "At Bruce. At the Joker.”
“That’s no excuse, Jason,” you scoff.
“I never said it was. You wanted the truth—will you listen?”
“Go on.”
"I wanted control. I wanted to prove that I could do what Batman wouldn't. That I could clean up the streets in a way he never could." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Instead, I became exactly what I used to hate."
"And now?"
“I can’t stop.” He paused. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone has to do it. Bruce won't. The cops won't. If I walk away, someone worse takes over. Someone who won't draw the line at kids."
You were quiet for a long moment.
"That's the lie you tell yourself," you said finally. "So you can sleep at night."
Jason flinched.
"I'm not judging you," you continued. "I'm not saying I understand. I'm just saying—that's not the truth. That's the story you tell yourself so you don't have to face the real one."
"And what's the real one, huh?” He scoffs back.
You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest almost touched his. He could feel the heat of you, the warmth of your breath on his chin.
"The real one is that you're terrified," you said. "Not of me. Not of what I'll say. You're terrified of being left behind again."
The words hit something deep—something that had been festering since the day he woke up in that Lazarus Pit and realized the world had moved on without him. Bruce had a new Robin. Dick had a new brother. You had... what? A ghost? A memory? A boy who'd died and come back wrong?
"You think if you push hard enough, if you make enough noise, if you become something nobody can ignore—you won't disappear again."
He didn't say anything.
"But I remember, Jason." Your voice softened. "I remember who you were before all of this. I remember the boy who was my best friend."
"That boy is dead."
"No, he's not." You reached up and touched his face. Your palm was warm against his cheek. "He's still in there. You've just buried him so deep you can't hear him anymore."
He thought about the stairwell again. About the dealer’s body at the bottom. About the way he'd felt—empty, satisfied, nothing—and how that nothing had scared him more than any nightmare ever could.
Jason closed his eyes.
He wanted to lean into your touch. Wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold on and never let go. Wanted to tell you that you were right, that he was scared, that he was terrified of losing you, that he'd been pushing you away because he didn't know how to ask you to stay.
"I don't know how to be that person anymore," he said.
"Then let me help you find him."
He opened his eyes.
You were looking at him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, that had always seen too much. And for once, he didn't look away.
"The drugs," you said. "Are you going to stop?"
He wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise you that he would walk away, that he'd find another way, that he'd be the person you deserved.
You can't stop crime, Bruce's voice echoed. That's what you never understood.
But maybe he didn't need to stop crime. Maybe he just needed to stop being the thing that made it worse. But he’s knee deep into this already. What’s the point of backing out?
"I don't know," he said. It’s a lie. He knows—he knows he won’t stop even if you got on two knees and begged him.
You nodded slowly. Your hand dropped from his face.
"I need some time," you said. "I need to think about whether I can do this."
"Do what?"
"Love you. Knowing what you are. Knowing you might not stop."
The word hung in the air between you.
Love.
You said it like it was a burden. Like it was something you were carrying even though it was too heavy.
"You don't have to," he said.
"I know." You picked up your purse from the counter. Sling it over your shoulder. Walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"My apartment. I need space."
"You could stay here."
"I could." You paused with your hand on the doorknob. Didn't turn around. "But I won't. Not tonight."
"Then when?"
"I'll call you."
Jason nodded. He didn't ask how much time. Didn't ask if you'd come back. Didn't ask if there was anything he could do to make this easier.
"Jason?" you said.
"Yeah?"
"You should have told me."
You opened the door and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind you.
He didn't follow you.
He wanted to. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to go after you, to catch you before you reached the elevator, to say something—anything—that would make you stay.
But he didn't.
Because you were right. He should have told you. He should have told you months ago, when the guilt first started eating at him, when the money started piling up, when he realized he was becoming exactly what he used to hate.
He should have trusted you.
Instead, he sat down on the couch. Picked up the remote. Turned the TV back on.
The news was still running the photos. The Red Hood. The cash. The drugs.
He watched himself for a long time.
He thought about what you'd said. "That's the lie you tell yourself so you can sleep at night."
Maybe you were right. Maybe he had been lying to himself. Telling himself he was doing this for the greater good. Telling himself he was protecting people. Telling himself he was different from the men he killed.
The thought sat in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. He didn't know if he was capable of stopping. Didn't know if he deserved to try.
He thought about Bruce again. About the way the old man had looked at him when he'd first come back—not with relief, but with guilt. With fear. With the knowledge that Jason was a living reminder of his greatest failure.
"I'm sorry," Bruce had said.
"Sorry doesn't bring me back," Jason had answered.
A/N: I am quite liking the pacing of this so far because I personally am not the patient kind of reader who can sit through hundreds of filler events LOL, I AM AMAZEDDD BY THE SUPPORT ON THIS SERIES SO FAR😭 I never thought it would get this much attention but I am really happy, this is awesome.
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀ ✶ ⠀ when park jongseong, campus heartthrob, resident rich kid, and future arranged marriage victim, offers you an absurd amount of money to be his fake girlfriend, saying yes should be easy. all you have to do is hold his hand, smile for his parents, survive the rumors, and pretend none of it is real. fake dating was never supposed to be difficult — so why does following the one rule feel impossible? don’t fall in love. simple enough, right?
𝟑𝟏𝟐𝟏𝟕 🗯️ ✽ ─── ⏾ 𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 park jongseong⠀x ⠀ 𝓯 ! rea ´ ꒳ ` 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : fake dating ˒ university au ˒ slow burn ˒ mutual pining ˒ class differences ˒ friends-to-lovers ˒ emotional hurt and comfort ˒ a dash of angst somewhere ˒
𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit sexual content ⋮ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ✿ strong language ˒ emotional distress ˒ classism ˒ family conflict ˒ socioeconomic inequality ˒ mentions of financial struggles ˒ unprotected p in v ˒ first time sex ˒ dry humping ˒ fingering ˒ dirty talk ˒ creampie ˒
𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀ ✶ ⠀ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭
🗝️ 。 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 one of my favorite event works so far !!! yes, i do pour my heart out whenever it comes to a jay fic <//3 a month later and here we are ˙𐃷˙ clearly got lazy in a bunch of parts so oops, let’s ignore that
"Me? You? Us? Date? What the fuck are you on about?!"
Your voice rang out through the private library study space, bouncing off the cream-colored walls and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined them.
The sound was sharp enough to make Jay flinch, just barely, a subtle jerk of his shoulders, but he didn't step back. He stood right where he was, planted across from you on the other side of the narrow study table, both his palms pressed flat against the polished wood surface, fingers splayed wide like he was bracing himself. Beside his right hand, just brushing against his pinky, sat a brown envelope, ordinary, unremarkable, the kind you'd use to mail documents or store receipts. Except it wasn't ordinary at all, and you both knew it.
You had already opened it. A few moments ago, when Jay had first slid it across the table toward you with a quiet, "Just look inside first," you'd given him a skeptical look, the same look you gave people who tried to cut the line at the campus café, and undone the metal clasp with one finger. The moment you peeled back the flap, your brain short-circuited. The envelope was filled with money. Not a few folded bills, not some chump-change twenties — filled, stuffed to the point where the paper bulged outward like it was struggling to contain what was inside. Bill after bill after bill, crisp and pressed together so tightly you could barely pry them apart with your fingertips. Your mouth had gone dry. You couldn't even count it properly mentally, not when your eyes were still trying to process the sheer volume of it. Four hundred dollars? Nine hundred? Maybe even a thousand? Every time you tried to land on a rough estimate, the number climbed higher, your mind fumbling with digits the way your hands fumbled with the bills. It was the first time in your life you'd seen so much money in one sitting, let alone held it, let alone had it sitting in front of you on a scratched-up library table like it was nothing.
"Please, Y/N—I swear it'll just be a quick one-time thing. You have to help me out," Jay said, and the desperation in his tone was so raw, so unguarded, that it almost caught you off guard. His voice dropped on the last sentence, going low and almost brittle, like the words themselves were fragile and he was afraid of crushing them. His eyes, dark brown, normally so composed and easy, were wide and searching, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air between you feel heavier.
You already knew it was absolute bullshit. The whole setup, the way he'd walked over to your usual study spot in the library's east wing where you always sat, third floor, back corner, the table beside the window that overlooked the quad, and hovered awkwardly by the empty chair across from you until you looked up from your notes. The way he'd said he had an important question to ask about a subject both of you shared, some elective you'd both wound up in because it fit your schedules. You'd told him to just ask right then and there, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed because something about the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot told you this wasn't about academics at all. He insisted on taking you to one of the private study rooms, the kind that required cash to book, the kind with a door you could lock and walls thick enough that sound didn't travel. You said no. Flat out, no, you had studying to do, you didn't have time for whatever cryptic thing he needed to say. He insisted again, his voice dropping lower, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that restless way people do when they're wound tight. You said no a second time. He insisted a third, and by then a few passersby had slowed their pace, eyes sliding over to the two of you with that particular brand of campus curiosity, the kind that would be a rumor by dinner. You noticed the girl with the ponytail lingering near the shelf a few feet away, pretending to browse a book she was holding upside down. You noticed the guy at the next table suddenly very interested in his phone, which was facedown on the desk. You exhaled through your nose, muttered a curse under your breath, grabbed your bag, and followed Jay down the hall because the last thing you needed was an audience.
Yup, Jay — as in the Park Jongseong. People referred to him as Jay, and you never really knew the full reason as to why, but apparently it was his English name, one he'd had since childhood, and he preferred to be called that around university. He'd introduced himself that way on the first day of freshman orientation, and obviously, the student body didn't hesitate to comply. Jay was and still is the sheer epitome of the typical picture-perfect guy, the kind that seemed like he was drafted in a lab by someone trying to engineer the ideal male specimen. He was intelligent, effortlessly so, the kind of smart that didn't need to announce itself because it showed in the way he spoke, the way he could break down a complex concept in class without breaking a sweat, the way professors seemed to light up whenever he raised his hand. He came from an incredibly wealthy background — old money, the kind that didn't need to be flashy because it simply was, the kind that came with family estates and business empires and the quiet assurance that you'd never have to worry about a single thing in your life. He was the president of the music club, the lead guitarist of the university's band, and as if all of that wasn't enough, the campus heartthrob, a title he hadn't asked for but couldn't seem to shake off.
Every single girl was head over heels for him. That wasn't an exaggeration, it was a documented, observable, almost scientific phenomenon. You could swear you'd overheard your block mate laugh about how during one Valentine's Day, he was hiding in the music room for a whole day because people wouldn't stop chasing after him, shoving gifts and confessions and handwritten letters through the door crack until the floor looked like a paper avalanche. Another girl in your dorm had a Pinterest board dedicated to him, screenshots from his Instagram, candid photos people had taken during his performances, even a blurry shot of him eating at the cafeteria that she treated like some kind of holy relic. It was unhinged. It was also, admittedly, understandable.
Which is why it came to you as a surprise — no, not a surprise, a shock, a full-body, brain-stalling, what-the-fuck-is-happening shock — that he'd dragged your ass to a secluded, cash-only private study room on one breezy Tuesday afternoon with an envelope filled to the brim with cash, set it on the table between you, and asked if you could fake-date him.
You? Jay? Date? It had never crossed your mind. Not once. Not even in some passing, idle thought, the kind your brain produces at two in the morning when you're half-asleep and thinking about nothing in particular. Sure, he's attractive, anyone with functioning eyes could see that, the sharp jawline, the dark hair that always looked effortlessly styled even when he'd just woken up, the way his whole face seemed to carry this natural, easy confidence like he'd never had to second-guess a single thing about himself. But he was way out of your league, and more than that, you both never really batted an eye at each other. You existed in the same spaces, the same lecture halls, the same campus walkways, the same cafeteria, but you moved in entirely different orbits. Just so happened that both of you had taken up the same course, and even then, your interactions had been limited to the occasional "can I borrow a pen" or "did you catch what the professor said about the deadline." Nothing more. Nothing less. Two people who happened to share a lecture room and nothing else.
"Come on, cut me some slack. The girl your parents are arranging for you to marry can't be that bad," you had said, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to sound casual even though your heart was still doing something strange and irregular from the sheer absurdity of this conversation.
"She is!"
"Show me a picture."
Jay let out an exhale, long, heavy, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of several sleepless nights, before fishing his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He unlocked it, his thumb moving quickly across the screen, scrolling through what looked like his mom's messages, then his DMs, his brow furrowed in concentration as he searched for a specific photo. You watched his face as he scrolled, the tightness in his jaw, the slight downward pull of his lips, and for a moment, the campus heartthrob facade fell away entirely, and he just looked like a guy who was stressed out of his mind. Then he found it, turned the phone toward you, and held it there.
You looked. You leaned in. Your eyes traveled across the screen, the girl in the photo was striking, genuinely stunning, the kind of beautiful that made you do a double-take. She had this effortless elegance about her, dressed in something that probably cost more than your entire semester's textbook budget, standing in what appeared to be the foyer of a home that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. Flawless. Immaculate. The type of person who looked like she'd never had a bad day in her life.
"Ooooh, she's bad as hell," you smiled — and you meant it, because damn, she really was, and you weren't about to pretend otherwise just to make Jay feel better about his predicament.
A beat. Jay looked at you dead in the eyes, his expression utterly flat, a picture of pure, unamused disbelief. And you just smiled back at him, wide, toothy, completely genuine, the kind of smile that said I know this isn't helping but I'm being honest here.
"Alright, that's enough! That's not the point, my point is I don't want to get married—"
"Then just tell your parents you're not yet ready, as simple as that." You cut him off, waving your hand like you were swatting away a fly. "Sit them down, look them in the eye, say 'hey, I'm twenty-something, I'm not doing this right now,' and call it a day."
"Fuck, I've tried and tried and tried, but they won't budge on their decision." Jay's voice cracked on the last word, just barely, a hairline fracture in his composure that he quickly sealed shut by pressing his lips together and looking away for a second. When he looked back, his eyes were harder, more urgent. "I'm way too young to be marrying at this age. Sure, some people our age are married, but I'm not them and they're not me! I have things I want to do, things I actually want, and being tied down to someone I didn't even choose isn't one of them." His hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles going pale. "Please, Y/N, just—this one big favor. This and nothing more, I'm begging."
He was begging. Park Jongseong, the guy who had the entire campus at his feet, was standing across from you in a dimly lit study room practically pleading with you like his life depended on it. And the worst part, the part that made your chest tighten slightly, the part that made your arms uncross and fall to your sides, was that it was real. You could see it in every line of his body, hear it in every syllable he pushed out. He wasn't being dramatic. He wasn't putting on a show. He was genuinely, desperately, sincerely asking you for help, and the vulnerability of it was staggering.
You had to admit, with his level of desperation, you were starting to feel real bad. You'd never seen someone be this desperate — not around you, not in your presence, not directed at you. Even your ex hadn't been this desperate for you, and they'd had actual reasons to be. This was the campus heartthrob, a guy who could snap his fingers and have a line of volunteers stretching from the library to the campus gates, and here he was, choosing you, asking you, practically on his knees in front of you. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.
"I'm sorry you have to go through this, but no is no. That's final on my end." You said it as firmly as you could, chin lifted, voice steady. You meant it, or at least, you wanted to mean it, you were trying to mean it, because the logical part of your brain was screaming at you that this was insane, that fake-dating Jay was a terrible idea, that nothing good could come from entangling yourself in the mess of someone else's life, no matter how much money was in that envelope.
"Oh my god, please, I'll do anything, I'll even add more money to the—"
Money? Money.
Yup, as in the brown envelope filled with money. The envelope that was still sitting on the table between you, its mouth open, its contents spilling slightly outward, bills catching the overhead light. The first time you'd seen it, when Jay had first pushed it toward you, you thought he was going to bribe his way through you to get a yes, just straight-up purchase your agreement like you were a transaction, like your consent was a commodity he could afford. The thought had made your stomach turn. But then he'd clarified, hastily, almost tripping over his own words in his rush to explain, he'd just taken some money out of his card, he said, and to see it as a thank-you if ever. A gesture. No strings. No pressure. Just — here, this is what I can offer, if you're willing.
What an arrogant bitch, using daddy's money to get what he wanted. The thought surfaced sharp and bitter, and you let it sit there for a second, let yourself feel the sting of it, the unfairness, the casual way he could just produce this kind of cash like it was pocket change, like it was nothing, like it was the equivalent of buying someone a coffee. Though, you knew, and this was the part that made the thought dissolve as quickly as it had come — you knew you couldn't resist that much money. You couldn't. You were physically, financially, realistically incapable of turning away from what that envelope represented.
Truth is, in this prestigious university filled with students who spent their weekends drinking on yachts and flying home for holidays like commuting was a personality trait, you're the elephant in the room. The odd one out. The one who didn't belong, not because you weren't smart enough, not because you hadn't earned your place, but because you existed in a world that operated on an entirely different currency than the one everyone else was spending. You came from a less fortunate background compared to everyone here, and that was putting it gently. Your hometown was the kind of place people drove through without stopping, the kind of place where the biggest employer was the gas station on the highway and the most exciting thing that happened all year was the county fair. For your whole life, all you could do was study. That was it. That was the one lane you had, the one road available to you, and you ran it like your life depended on it — because it did. Get amazing marks, get recognized enough to be able to get somewhere nice in life, somewhere better, somewhere that didn't feel like a dead end with a nice view of nothing. All that effort paid off in the end, because here you were — admitted to this prestigious university, the kind with the manicured lawns, the stone buildings, and the reputation that opened doors before you even knocked, far from home, with a full 100% scholarship. Every penny covered. Tuition, housing, the works.
You didn't even know this was possible. When the acceptance letter came, when you'd read the words “full scholarship” and felt the ground tilt beneath you, you'd sat on the floor of your bedroom for ten minutes just breathing, because your brain couldn't process anything beyond the fact that something had finally, finally gone right. You were beyond thankful. You still were. Every single day you woke up in that dorm room, you felt it, the gratitude, the disbelief, the quiet, stubborn resolve to not waste a single second of this opportunity.
But gratitude didn't pay for groceries. And a full scholarship didn't cover the things that fell through the cracks, the meals you skipped because the dining hall was closed and the nearest affordable option was a twenty-minute walk off campus, the school supplies that weren't included in the textbook package, the toiletries and the laundry detergent and the occasional cup of coffee that kept you awake during exam week. So now, with Jay offering you an insane amount of money, more than your parents could scrape up for months of careful, pinching saving, more than you'd earn in an entire semester of your part-time job, just to be his fake girlfriend? You couldn't possibly resist. You were already somewhat struggling to keep up, the kind of struggling that was invisible to everyone around you because you'd gotten so good at making it look effortless. You worked part-time as a lab instructor in another department of the university — setting up equipment, walking students through procedures, cleaning up after sessions — and while the pay was something, it wasn't enough to breathe easy. You saved up quite frequently, hoarding every extra cent like a dragon guarding its treasure, to the point where you'd forget to eat at times because the cafeteria line was long and the off-campus options cost money and you'd already convinced yourself that skipping one meal wasn't that big of a deal. You were literally living in the damn trenches, grinding yourself down to the bone in an environment where the person sitting next to you in lecture was complaining about their dad's yacht needing repairs.
He was still yapping about whatever, something about how his parents were persistent, how the arrangement had been in the works for months, how he'd tried every angle he could think of and this was the only option left, when you'd finally snapped back to reality, the sound of his voice dissolving into white noise as your brain latched onto the single, crystalline truth sitting in front of you: that envelope, that money, that lifeline.
"Deal." You said it with your face blank. No smile, no hesitation, no dramatic pause. Just the word, clean and final, dropped onto the table between you like a card laid face-up.
You saw Jay's face change instantly — like a switch had been flipped, like sunlight breaking through clouds. His eyes went wide, his mouth fell open, and then the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on another human being spread across his face, so bright and so unguarded that it almost looked out of place on someone you'd only ever seen looking composed and cool and collected.
"Oh my god really? Thank you, thank you so much, oh my god—" The words tumbled out of him in a rush, his voice climbing higher with each one, his hands coming off the table to gesture wildly in the air like he didn't know what to do with them. He looked, for a moment, like a kid who'd just been told he could have dessert before dinner, pure, unfiltered relief flooding every feature, softening every sharp edge you'd ever associated with him.
"Yeah, yeah, calm down before I change my mind." You retorted, but you were clearly amused at his enthusiasm, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best effort to keep your expression neutral. There was something almost endearing about watching Jay, the campus heartthrob, the cool guy, the one everyone wanted, practically vibrate with gratitude right in front of you. It was humanizing in a way you hadn't expected.
"Yes, ma'am." He said it with a nod, still grinning, and there was something in the way he said it, the slight dip of his head, the warmth in his voice, that made your chest do that strange, irregular thing again.
So then there you and Jay were, officially "boyfriend and girlfriend." Just like that, in a dimly lit private study room that smelled like old paper and lemon-scented wood cleaner, with a brown envelope full of cash sitting between you and the campus heartthrob beaming at you like you'd just handed him the world. You never knew up until when the act would last, though — just be convincing for as long as possible, up to the point when Jay says it's over, he's free, and both of you could just go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else, the way it was always meant to be.
At least, that was the plan.
The first week of "dating" was surprisingly easy.
Though, at that point of the week, nothing significant had happened yet. You guys were still somewhat awkward about the whole ordeal, like two people who'd signed a contract to perform in a play but hadn't yet rehearsed their scenes. No crazy public interactions, no dramatic cafeteria entrances, no hand-holding across the courtyard for all to see. You guys never even texted, not really, not in the way actual couples texted, with that constant low hum of conversation that never really stopped. Maybe you'd send Jay a horrendous reel about some funny skit, the kind that made you snort quietly to yourself in your dorm room at midnight, and caption it with something like "this is how i saw you in that study space" and he'd either just react with a haha emoji or reply with a laugh or be sassy in return, firing back with a reel of his own that somehow managed to be even more unhinged than yours. Sometimes he'd message you about an assignment assigned to a shared class, dry, practical stuff, "did prof say apa or mla" or "is the thing due friday or saturday,” the kind of texts that could've been sent to anyone, that carried no weight, that left no residue once they were answered. Just that, nothing more. Simple day-to-day interactions, the bare minimum of communication required to maintain the illusion that two people were in any kind of relationship at all. Honestly, you guys only interacted when you'd remember, perhaps like once every two days, maybe even less, the rhythm of it irregular and loose, like a heartbeat that kept skipping. Ya'll didn't even acknowledge each other in public. Not a wave, not a nod, not so much as a glance across a lecture hall. You'd walk past each other between classes with the same neutral, unseeing expression you'd give a stranger on the sidewalk, and it was fine, it was easier that way, simpler, less to explain, less to perform. The fake in fake-dating had never felt so appropriate.
The second week was when things had gotten a bit strange.
It was a regular Thursday afternoon, the kind of Thursday that felt like it had been stretching on for about six business days already, the kind where the week's exhaustion had settled into your bones like damp cold and you could practically feel your brain running on fumes. You were in the lab, packing up your things because your shift had finally finished — the last student had left twenty minutes ago, the equipment was wiped down and stored, the logbook was updated, and the only thing left to do was zip your bag and drag yourself back to the dorm for whatever sad dinner awaited. You were slipping your charger into the front pocket of your bag when your phone lit up on the counter, the screen glowing with a message notification.
Jongseong [6:13 PM]: hi! :) are you free right now?
Yeah, your contact name for him was Jongseong. Not Jay. Not "bf 💕" or whatever the hell a real girlfriend would save her boyfriend's name as. Jongseong. His Korean name, the one he didn't go by, the one most people on campus didn't even know. He didn't know you'd saved him that way, and he definitely didn't need to know. It just served as a little reminder, a quiet, private, almost superstitious reminder, that this whole thing was meant to be some stupid thing, some arrangement, some transaction dressed up in the costume of a relationship. You didn't know how exactly it'd help, calling him by a name he didn't use, keeping that tiny sliver of distance preserved in your phone's contacts list, but that's what you told yourself, and that was enough.
You stared at the message for a bit, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the hell could he possibly want now? You thought, your brow furrowing slightly. It had been days since your last actual exchange, a reel about a cat falling off a counter, three days ago, to which he'd responded with a skull emoji. And now, out of nowhere, on a random Thursday evening, a cheerful "hi! :)" and a question about your availability like you were being summoned for a meeting. You typed back a while later, after you'd zipped your bag and slung it onto your shoulder.
You [6:15 PM]: why? i'm at the lab rn
He saw the text almost immediately, the read receipt appeared within seconds, which told you he'd been staring at his phone waiting for your reply, which was somehow both endearing and mildly concerning.
Jongseong [6:15 PM]: oooh okay
Jongseong [6:15 PM]: do you wanna head out to this
Jongseong [6:15 PM]: new retro themed diner that opened up? 😅 it's a bit far from the university though, but i can drive you back and forth
Diner? Eat out? Goodness, you couldn't even afford to buy dinner on some days, and he was asking you to go to some trendy new spot that probably charged eighteen dollars for a milkshake and had a waitlist longer than the financial aid office. The thought alone made your wallet ache in sympathy.
I mean, you did have money, the one Jay had given you in that envelope, the one that was currently tucked inside the zippered pocket of your bag, still as full as the day he'd handed it to you. But you couldn't bring yourself to spend it yet. Not even for something this small, not even for a meal that your growling stomach was practically begging for. You had more priorities, bigger ones, heavier ones, the kind that didn't go away just because you were hungry. Sending some money back to your parents, for one, you'd already calculated how much you could afford to send without destabilizing your own fragile ecosystem, and the number was pitifully small but it was something, it was the least you could do when your mom and dad were back home stretching every paycheck until it tore. Your needs, too, the things that kept you functional, the toothpaste and the laundry soap and the replacement headphones because your current pair was held together with electrical tape and prayer. All the works. Every dollar in that envelope was already earmarked for something, already spoken for in the mental ledger you maintained with the obsessive precision of an accountant during tax season.
You [6:16 PM]: dude
You [6:16 PM]: i'd love to but i have no money
Jongseong [6:16 PM]: the envelope?
You [6:17 PM]: can't bring myself to spend it yet jay 🥲 i have lots of things i need to prioritize rather than some dinner
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i understand
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: dinner's on me ☺️ i'll pick you up from the lab in a bit
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: just gonna grab my keys
Oh my god, this guy. You stared at your phone screen, your mouth slightly open, that familiar mixture of disbelief and reluctant warmth spreading through your chest. He'd just — announced it. Like it was obvious, like it was already decided, like your financial situation was a minor obstacle he could simply breeze past with the casual ease of someone who'd never had to think about the price of anything in his entire life. And the smiley face. The little ☺️ at the end of the message, so completely without guile, like he genuinely didn't see the big deal about paying for your dinner. You didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed, so you settled for a weird combination of both that manifested as you pressing your palm against your forehead and exhaling slowly.
You [6:17 PM]: wait wait ok but what are we even gonna do at the diner
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: eat?
You [6:17 PM]: yeah what else 🫠 no way you're just doing this without some explanation
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i'm just being a nice boyfriend, no?
Jongseong [6:17 PM]: but yes lol i have something i want to talk to you about
Something he wanted to talk about. That was vaguely ominous, or maybe it wasn't, maybe it was exactly what he said it was, a conversation, a discussion, something practical and straightforward. But the phrase "something I want to talk to you about" had a certain weight to it, the way phrases that start with "we need to talk" or "can I tell you something" always carried more gravity than their individual words suggested.
You [6:17 PM]: can't we just… do this over the phone?
He didn't answer. You stood there for a minute, your phone held loosely in your hand, waiting for the three dots to appear, waiting for the typing indicator, waiting for anything. None. The screen stayed still, the conversation hanging on your last message like an unanswered question mark. So you just continued on with your business, packing the rest of your things, double-checking that nothing was still plugged into the electrical sockets, a habit you'd developed after nearly starting a small fire during your first week on the job, closing the lights off in some areas. Then your phone vibrated in your hand, a sharp little pulse against your palm.
Jongseong [6:23 PM]: look at the door
You did. And there he was.
The lab doors were those awkward ones, the ones with a rectangular window set into the middle of the door, like a porthole, the glass slightly frosted but not enough to obscure whoever was standing on the other side. And Jay was right there, visible through that window, his face backlit by the hallway's amber light. He was tapping on the glass with his knuckles, waving at you with his other hand, and wearing this boyish smile, this wide, slightly crooked, utterly disarming smile, that made him look about five years younger and infinitely less like the campus heartthrob and more like some eager puppy that had shown up at your door expecting a walk.
You let out an exhausted exhale, the one that came from deep in your lungs and carried with it every ounce of resistance you'd been trying to maintain. And you flipped him off, just raised your middle finger casually, without heat, the way you'd flip off a friend who was being annoying but not annoying enough to actually be mad at. He just smiled wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly unfazed, then reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and walked in.
"Still busy?" he asked, his voice easy, light, like he hadn't just driven across campus to show up unannounced at your workplace like some kind of determined golden retriever.
"No, I'm done with everything already. Just—checking up on some things." You said, gesturing vaguely around the lab, your tone carrying that tired-but-not-unfriendly edge that had become your default around him.
"I'll help you," he muttered, already moving past you into the lab, his eyes scanning the room with a quick efficiency that surprised you. "It's getting dark already. We should get going before some ghost clings onto my girlfriend."
The word "girlfriend" hit you like a small, unexpected electric shock, a quick jolt that started in your stomach and radiated outward, making your fingers tingle and your breath catch for just a fraction of a second. A knot twisted in your stomach, tight and warm and deeply confusing, the kind of physical reaction you had zero authority over and absolutely no interest in analyzing. It was the first time he'd said it out loud, at least to your face, in a context that wasn't part of some rehearsed pitch, just dropped it into conversation like it was natural. You didn't even have the time to argue with him, to protest, to say don't call me that, it's weird, because he'd already started venturing through the lab, checking the sinks, unplugging a device you'd missed, verifying that the gas valves were shut off, his movements quick and competent and entirely too helpful for someone who'd probably never set foot in a science lab before today. You had just watched him, watched the way he moved through the space with an easy confidence, the way his sleeves were pushed up to his forearms revealing the subtle curve of muscle and the glint of a watch that probably cost more than your entire semester's living expenses, the way he double-checked things without being asked, the way he just helped, simply and without fanfare. When he was finally done, he walked back over to you, reached out, and pulled you gently by your wrist — not grabbing, not yanking, just a warm, steady pressure around your wrist that guided you forward, his fingers fitting loosely around the bone like a bracelet. With his other hand, he scooped your shoulder bag off the table where it had been sitting, slinging it over his own shoulder without a word, and then he looked at you.
"Ready? Didn't leave anything?" he asked gently, and the softness in his voice. the genuine, unhurried concern in it, made something in your chest shift, a tiny tectonic movement, barely perceptible but undeniable.
You looked at the table, then around you at the dim lab, then at him — at his face, at the way the hallway light caught the slope of his nose and the dark of his eyes, at the way he was standing there with your bag on his shoulder. "Nope, didn't leave anything." You said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended.
A smile tugged at his lips, small, warm, barely there but unmistakable, before he walked you out of the lab, his hand dropping from your wrist but the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin like a fading warmth you couldn't quite shake.
The diner was incredibly cute, wait, cute wouldn't even be able to do it justice. It was charming in the way that places only existed in movies or in the carefully curated feeds of lifestyle influencers, the kind of spot that seemed almost aggressively aesthetic, like it had been designed in a boardroom by someone with a Pinterest board titled "i miss being a kid" and an unlimited budget. Red vinyl booths with chrome trim, black-and-white checkered floors, vintage neon signs spelling out words like "EATS" and "SHAKES" in glowing pink cursive along the walls, a jukebox in the corner that actually played real records, its arm moving mechanically from song to song while a warm, crackling version of some fifties doo-wop track drifted through the speakers. There were framed posters of old films, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Rebel Without a Cause, Grease, and the air smelled like frying batter, vanilla, and that particular, indescribable scent of a place that took its desserts seriously. It looked exactly like how those influencers would post about, all warm lighting and curated messiness, exactly like how the social media pages would market it, except somehow better.
He chose to sit beside you. Which was — okay, crazy, genuinely unhinged behavior, because you guys were seated at a dining booth. The classic kind, the one with two seats facing each other, a table in the middle, the configuration designed so that two people could sit across from each other and have a face-to-face conversation like normal human beings. But no. Jay wanted to sit beside you. On the same side of the booth. Like an actual couple. Like people who wanted to share the same view, the same space, the same pocket of air. You didn't argue, you couldn't, actually, because by the time your brain had processed the audacity of his choice, he'd already slid into the seat next to yours, settling in with an easy sigh and draping one arm along the back of the booth behind you, not quite touching your shoulders but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his arm like a space heater you hadn't asked for. The proximity was ridiculous. Your knees were inches from his. You could smell his cologne, something clean and faintly expensive, the kind of scent that probably had a French name and a price tag with too many zeros. You stared straight ahead at the empty seat across from you, hyperaware of every inch of space between your body and his, which wasn't very many inches at all.
He had told you, repeatedly on the drive over, in between navigating the streets and fiddling with the radio and making small talk about the weird billboard they'd passed, that he'd be the one paying, so don't hesitate to order anything you wanted to eat. He'd said it casually, like he was reminding you about the weather, like dropping forty or fifty or a hundred dollars on dinner was the equivalent of swiping a metro card. But that was hard on its own, wasn't it? You were used to the idea that whenever someone chipped in some of their money to buy you stuff, a meal, a drink, a ticket, you'd purposely pick one of the cheapest options so it wouldn't break a hole in their wallet. It was instinct, deeply ingrained, the kind of reflex you'd developed over years of being the person who couldn't afford to be treated and didn't want to be a burden. You'd scan the menu from the bottom up, looking for the lowest number, and you'd convince yourself that the cheapest thing was the thing you wanted anyway. But Jay wasn't having it. He insisted you get something that you actually wanted to try and eat, anything, desserts and drinks too, and he clearly wasn't in the mood to tolerate your bullshit.
"Jay, wait, I'm deadass. This one is pretty okay for me already—" You pointed at one of the cheaper items on the menu, a simple chicken sandwich that was reasonably priced and wouldn't make you feel like you were eating someone's weekly grocery budget.
"Pretty okay? Not the one that's 'I'd love this?' Come on, don't worry about the money please, don't worry about my money, just pick something you want to eat—" His voice was earnest, almost pleading, and he leaned slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours, the contact light and brief but enough to make your breath hiccup.
"That is okay!"
"Okay doesn't necessarily mean that's what you want!" He shot back, and there was a frustrated edge to his tone — not anger, not even close, but something softer, something that sounded like he genuinely cared about whether you were settling for something instead of choosing something, as if the distinction between okay and I want this mattered to him more than the money it cost.
You both had spent about five minutes going back and forth over the menu, a delicate, ridiculous tug-of-war that probably looked insane from the outside. The waiter sitting by the table even seemed amused, their pen hovering over their notepad, watching the two of you bicker like an old married couple over whether you were allowed to order the thing you actually wanted. You eventually just gave up, the exhaustion of arguing with someone who had infinite money and infinite stubbornness was too much for your tired, post-shift brain, and settled for this incredibly gigantic cheeseburger with wedges on the side and a vanilla milkshake because Jay had insisted, pointing at it on the menu and telling the waiter before you could protest one last time. You couldn't even catch wind of what he'd ordered for himself, he'd rattled it off so quickly and smoothly that by the time you registered he'd stopped talking, the waiter was already walking away with a knowing smile.
When all you guys had to do was wait for your order, you leaned back in the booth, as much as the vinyl seat would allow, which wasn't much, not when Jay's arm was still draped along the back of it behind you, and started to speak.
"So, what thing did you want to talk to me about?" You said, turning your head toward him, and the motion brought your face closer to his than you'd anticipated, close enough that you could see the faint freckle below his left eye, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you were the kind of person who counted things like that, which you absolutely were not.
"Oh my god, right. So, I kind of—I wanted to talk about the boundaries we should establish for this whole fake relationship thing." He said, and his tone shifted, still casual, still easy, but there was a note of seriousness underneath it.
Boundaries? For this fake relationship? You thought it was pretty self-explanatory already — the basic don't-fall-in-love type shit, the obvious don't-catch-feelings clause that went without saying, the unspoken agreement that this was a transaction and not a romance. But he wanted more depth, more clarity, more than the envelope and the unspoken assumptions that had carried you through the first week.
You both then spent a long time talking about the do's and don'ts. Even after your food had arrived, the cheeseburger towering on the plate like a small architectural marvel, the wedges golden and steaming, the milkshake thick and cold in its metal cup with the extra in the mixing tin beside it, both of you were still at it, the conversation flowing around bites and sips and the occasional pause to chew.
"No weird couple shit." You insisted, pointing a wedge at him for emphasis, a golden spear of potato that served as your gavel.
"What do you mean no weird couple shit? It has to be convincing!" He argued, leaning forward, his eyebrows raised in that way that said he thought you were being ridiculous, and the motion brought his shoulder pressing lightly against yours again, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of your jacket.
"Yeah—but there are certain things we can do to make it convincing that doesn't involve doing weird stuff!" You shot back, and you could hear how unconvincing your own argument sounded, the vagueness of "weird stuff" hanging in the air between you like a question mark.
He raised his brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in that particular way that meant he was about to challenge you and he was already enjoying it. "Define weird for me then."
You did. No matching anything, no matching outfits, no matching phone cases, no matching profile pictures like those couples who treated their social media accounts as a joint enterprise. No pet names — absolutely no "babe" or "baby" or "honey" or any of those saccharine, tooth-rotting terms of endearment that real couples used like breathing. No holding hands unnecessarily, no leaning into each other for photos, no excessive physical contact beyond what was strictly required to sell the illusion. The works. You laid it all out like a lawyer presenting terms, and that only earned you another argument from Jay, who countered every single point with the kind of rhetorical precision that made you suspect he'd been on the debate team in high school. No matching? Then how would people know we're together? No pet names? What do you want me to call you in public, "my esteemed colleague"? No hand-holding? Then what do we do when someone's watching, stand six feet apart like we're at a COVID checkpoint?
You must admit, arguing with Jay was funny. Not frustrating-funny, not the kind of funny that makes you want to throw something. Actually, genuinely funny, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt from trying not to smile. He simply wouldn't back down on his argument, even if you'd already found five different loopholes in his logic, he'd manage to find another loophole to swing past through, pivoting and redirecting with the nimbleness of someone who was used to getting his way but was having too much fun trying to get it to just give up. His eyes would light up when he thought he'd cornered you, and then they'd narrow playfully when you'd slip out of his trap, and the whole thing felt less like a negotiation and more like a game, a game where nobody was keeping score and the point wasn't winning but just the pleasure of playing. You don't even remember where the debate had ended, it just started with you taking a potato wedge, he took a bite from his eggs and bacon, and eventually you both just started eating, the arguments dissolving into the rhythm of the meal, forks and voices rising and falling in alternating turns until the conversation had drifted so far from its original shore that you couldn't even see the starting point anymore. It strayed off somewhere, from favorite childhood memories (his involved a summer in his grandparents' countryside home, catching dragonflies by the creek; yours involved the single year your town had a carnival and you'd won a goldfish that lived for three miraculous days) to a professor Jay absolutely despised (a man whose grading system seemed to operate on spite and a coin flip) to a weird urban legend that had been circulating in the university since its foundation (something about a ghost in the old humanities building who only appeared during finals week, which, honestly, made sense because who wouldn't be haunted by the ghost of failed exams). And through all of it, you were aware, vaguely, persistently, like a low hum in the background, of how close he was. The heat of his arm behind you. The way his knee would occasionally brush against yours under the table and neither of you moved away. The way he'd turn toward you when he laughed and his shoulder would press into yours and it felt like something you didn't have a name for, something you weren't supposed to be cataloguing.
You thought you were done. Both of you were done, your plates were empty, the milkshake was nothing but residue and melting ice, the conversation had reached that natural lull that signaled it was time to go, time to head back to the dorms, time to put this strange, unexpectedly pleasant evening to bed. You were reaching for your bag when an unusually large banana split arrived at the table, a towering monument of ice cream and fruit and whipped cream and chocolate sauce, served in one of those long, boat-shaped glass dishes that seemed designed to be shared. It came with two spoons, placed neatly on either side, a quiet invitation. Jay took one spoon for himself, offered the other one to you, handle-first, and told you to eat.
You opened your mouth to talk more, to say you were full, to say you couldn't possibly, to deploy any of the dozen polite refusals you kept on standby for moments like this. He said he couldn't finish it alone, which was probably true, the thing was obscene, a three-scoop sundae with enough toppings to feed a small party, and you argued you were full, which was also true, your stomach was at capacity and your cheeseburger was sitting like a contented stone in your abdomen. And he just — shut you up. Reached over, took the spoon right out of your hand, your fingers stuttering on the cold metal as he plucked it away, took a scoop of the vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles, and shoved it in your mouth. Just like that. No warning, no ceremony, just the cold press of metal against your lips and then the sweetness flooding your tongue, vanilla and chocolate and the crunch of sprinkles, so sudden and so unexpected that you made a small sound of surprise, something between a yelp and a laugh, and your eyes went wide and Jay was grinning at you, grinning like he'd just won a prize, grinning like this was the most fun he'd had all week, and you couldn't be mad, you couldn't even pretend to be mad, because the ice cream was good and his smile was ridiculous and somehow, impossibly, this was your life now.
You both bickered even more after that, but this time, laughing and giggling, the kind of laughing that's hard to do with a mouth full of ice cream, the kind that makes you snort and almost choke and reach for a napkin while the other person just laughs harder at your suffering. The banana split was a mess within minutes, the neat architecture of scoops and toppings collapsing into a delicious, chaotic swirl as you both dug in from opposite ends, occasionally fighting over the same cherry, occasionally stealing the best bite from the other's side of the dish with zero remorse. The head chef, all the way from the kitchen, poked his head through the service window and was smiling at you both, this warm, knowing smile, the kind that said he'd seen a thousand couples share a banana split and knew exactly what he was looking at, even if you didn't.
Yet.
By the sixth week, that's when things got absolutely insane.
For the third week, you'd walk with Jay from one class to the other, not deliberately, not in some rehearsed couple-y way, just naturally, the way two people do when their schedules happen to overlap and the route to the next building is the same. Except it wasn't just the same route, because you'd find yourself slightly altering your path to match his, and he'd slow his pace without mentioning it, and somewhere between the science building and the humanities wing, your strides had synchronized without either of you acknowledging it. Totally not disappearing from your friends and the next time they'd see you was with Jay, walking beside him, your shoulder almost level with his, laughing at something he'd said about the professor's tie, while your friends stared from across the courtyard like you'd grown a second head.
Of course, some people caught wind of it and you'd heard some allegations being thrown at the both of you, whispers in the hallways, the kind that traveled fast and loose through a campus where everyone's business was everyone's entertainment. But since walking with someone from the opposite gender is completely normal, a lot of people brushed it off as the two of you being friends. Study buddies. Classmates who happened to share the same route. Nothing to write home about.
For the fourth week, a group of guys from the basketball team saw you and Jay studying together in the library. Of course, Jay wanted to get to know you more — more to the point he'd at least have something to say about you if someone asked, something beyond "she's in my class" or "we share a course," something that sounded like what a real boyfriend would know. Your favorite coffee order. The class you hated most. The way you tapped your pen against your notebook when you were thinking. He'd ask questions casually, sprinkled between textbook chapters, and you'd answer just as casually, and somewhere in the middle of explaining why you couldn't stand the smell of peppermint, you'd realize you'd been talking for an hour and neither of you had turned a page. You let him in, gradually, and he let you in too, small facts at first, then bigger ones, the kind of disclosures that built a portrait of a person stroke by stroke. Occasionally, he'd drag you back into the secluded study spaces if you mentioned, in passing, that the library was too noisy, "come on, I know a spot," he'd say, and you'd follow him down the familiar hallway to the same cash-only rooms where this whole thing started, except now the door stayed unlocked, the envelope nowhere in sight, and it just felt like two people who wanted to hear each other without the static of the world layered on top. The basketball guys obviously didn't care — one of them nodded at Jay on the way out, that was the extent of it. But the people at the tables nearby did, their heads turning as you disappeared behind a closed door. Both of you didn't really care.
For the fifth week, a professor that absolutely adored you both for being incredibly attentive in her class, she'd called you two her "favorite students" more than once, half-joking and half-completely serious, passed by the both of you when she was going to another professor's office to leave something, and both of you were heading back to the main space. As always, Jay picked you up from the lab, he was carrying your bag slung over one shoulder and a couple binders you'd also brought to the lab because you didn't have the time to run back to the dorms and leave them since your class from before had ended a little bit later. So you'd shown up to the lab with your bag, your binders, and your slightly breathless "I'm here, sorry," and Jay had shown up at 6:15 like clockwork and taken all of it from you without asking, the bag and the binders tucked against him like they weighed nothing, leaving you empty-handed and oddly weightless as you walked beside him through the corridor.
She saw you both, both of you saw her, both of you joyfully greeted her, a warm, simultaneous "hi, Professor!" that came out so in unison it was almost comedic, and she greeted you both back, her eyes flicking from you to Jay to your bag on his shoulder to the easy, close way you were walking, and she plastered a knowing smile on her lips, deliberate and impossibly smug, and said "both of you look good together" then walked off, her heels clicking down the hallway like a punctuation mark.
You laughed afterwards, short and bright and slightly too quick, because what else could you do? The knot in your stomach had pulled tighter and you didn't know what to do with that either.
By the sixth week, you were just eating lunch with your friends at the cafeteria. Yes, the public cafeteria filled with a bunch of people from different courses and different years, all mushed into one sprawling, echoing space — the kind of scene that felt like it belonged in a movie's wide shot, hundreds of bodies and trays and conversations layered into a wall of ambient noise. It wasn't cramped, it was huge even, but it was awkward with the amount of people present in the room, every table occupied, every seat filled, the kind of crowded that made you feel visible whether you wanted to be or not.
You were eating with your friends, mid-bite into your rice, explaining to them for the ninth time the step-by-step procedure for this one assignment, "no, you add the reagent after, not before, I swear I've said this eight times already,” when a hand just lightly tapped your shoulder. Just a tap, brief and warm, the kind of touch that was gentle enough to be a question rather than a demand.
You looked back, and oh my god, it was Jay. He was standing behind you with a bouquet of flowers, your favorite flowers rather — yellow and white lilies, the ones you'd mentioned once, just once, in passing, during one of those library study sessions weeks ago, a throwaway line about how your grandmother used to grow them in her garden and you'd always thought they were the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And he'd actually remembered, because here they were — yellow and white lilies, absolutely gorgeous, wrapped in craft paper and tied with a simple twine bow, the petals soft and slightly open. The whole function stopped what they were doing. You heard a fork drop in the distance, the clatter of metal on tile sharp and cartoonish. You heard a camera click from somewhere to your left. You heard the hushed murmurs of those nearby, a wave of whispers rippling outward from your table like the surface of a pond after a stone.
"What the hell is this?" you asked, but your voice came out steadier than your heart, which was doing backflips, literal backflips, acrobatics you didn't know it was capable of. This was the first time you'd ever received a bouquet of flowers from anyone, not from your ex, not from a friend, not from no one, let alone from the campus heartthrob himself, standing behind you in a crowded cafeteria on a regular weekday like this was something people just did.
"Who else would it be for aside from my absolutely lovely and gorgeous girlfriend?" he said, smiling, not smirking, not performing, just smiling, warm and bright and so unreasonably genuine that it made something behind your ribs stutter.
Fuck, even about a month later and the word "girlfriend" still made a knot in your stomach tighten, still sent that same small electric pulse through your system, still made you feel like the ground had shifted a fraction of an inch under your feet. He said it loud enough for everybody to hear it, loud enough for the tables nearby, for the camera that had clicked, for every pair of ears in this room that had been waiting for confirmation of whatever rumor they'd been spinning for weeks.
You accepted the bouquet, your fingers closing around the craft paper, the stems cool and slightly damp against your palm, and said thank you, and your voice was softer than you meant it to be, softer than the moment called for, because the lilies smelled like your grandmother's garden and you weren't prepared for that particular wave of nostalgia to crash into you in the middle of the cafeteria. He crouched down to meet you at eye-level, his face close to yours, close enough that you could see the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, and he whispered something to you, "you're doing great, by the way,” so quiet that only you could hear it, his breath warm against your ear, and then he pressed a feather-light kiss to your cheek. Just a brush, just a ghost of contact, his lips landing somewhere below your cheekbone and above your jaw, barely a second of touch, but it burned, a warm bloom spreading from the point of contact across your face, down your neck, and into your chest like a drop of red food coloring in a glass of water. You could feel yourself getting red, could feel the heat climbing your skin. After the whole ordeal, he just simply walked away — straightened up, gave you one last look, that same easy smile, and walked back toward the exit like he hadn't just detonated a small bomb in the middle of the lunch rush. You turned back to your friends like it was nothing, setting the bouquet down beside you on the bench, the lilies resting against your thigh.
Your friends were in absolute disbelief.
"Girl, what the fuck?! You have to fill us in! How did you pull the Park Jongseong?!" a friend asked, leaning across the table, her eyes wide, her voice climbing into a register that was part shriek and part interrogation.
"Even better, how did he pull you," another squealed in excitement, grabbing your arm, bouncing in her seat, the kind of giddy that was infectious even when you were trying very hard to be stoic.
None of them knew you were getting paid to do this though.
That same evening, in your dorm, the lights off except for the small lamp on your desk, you snapped a photo of the flowers, you'd found a cup large enough to hold them, filled it with water from the hallway fountain, and set them on your desk like a tiny, temporary garden. The photo came out warm, the lamplight catching the curve of the white petals, the yellow centers glowing like small suns. You sent it to Jay.
You [10:04 PM]: one image attached
You [10:04 PM]: thank you so much for the flowers wtf 🥹 i've never received a bouquet from anyone before
You [10:04 PM]: lilies are my absolute favorite oh my goodness
He replied almost instantly — the read receipt and the response arriving so close together it was like he'd been waiting.
Jongseong [10:04 PM]: you're always welcome ☺️
Jongseong [10:04 PM]: no thank you for the kiss?
Right, the kiss. The feather-light, cheek-grazing, face-reddening, cafeteria-witnessed kiss. The most physical you'd both agreed to was holding hands, or at least around that point, the boundary lines drawn during that diner conversation, the ones you'd insisted on, the ones he'd argued about, the ones you'd both silently been adjusting week by week without ever formally revising the contract. The kiss was uncalled for. The kiss was not part of the agreement.
You [10:04 PM]: dude hell no, we did not agree to that point 😹
Three dots. Appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was typing and deleting and typing and deleting, wrestling with the response like it was a decision that mattered.
Jongseong [10:05 PM]: mmmm
Jongseong [10:05 PM]: sure, but it did make us look convincing, right?
It definitely did. The whispers after he left, the stares, the camera click — convincing didn't even begin to cover it. The whole cafeteria had swallowed it whole, no questions asked.
Damn you, Park Jongseong.
The cafeteria occurrence didn't need a whole day for the entire university to figure it out.
By that evening, it was everywhere, the campus confessions page, the group chats, the study group threads, the comment sections of Jay's Instagram posts from three months ago that had nothing to do with you but suddenly had people tagging your handle underneath them. Literally everybody figured it out, and a lot of people were enthusiastic about the whole thing, the kind of enthusiastic that manifested as heart emojis in your DMs, strangers smiling at you in the hallway, and your lab students suddenly treating you with a reverence that had nothing to do with your teaching ability and everything to do with who you were allegedly sleeping with.
But of course, there were some who were incredibly salty about it. A few bad words directed to you here and there, muttered under breaths as you passed, the kind of venom that was just quiet enough to be deniable if you confronted it. Salty social media notes that were so painfully directed to you that it was almost comedic, the kind of anonymous posts that said things like "some people will do anything for attention" and "weird how the most popular guy on campus suddenly has a girlfriend nobody's ever heard of,” vague enough to maintain plausible deniability, specific enough that you could feel the crosshairs on your back. The whole package. But you couldn't care less. Imagine going crazy over a man who's "taken" but he's technically single? The irony wasn't lost on you. You were being paid to hold his hand, and people were tearing themselves apart over it. The absurdity of it was almost enough to make you laugh out loud in the middle of the hallway, but you didn't, because you had a reputation to maintain — however fabricated it was.
The word spread like wildfire, until it eventually reached Jay's parents. Yeah, he told you that personally, called you on a Wednesday night, his voice tense but not panicked, more like someone bracing for impact rather than already in the crash. Jay's parents were powerful people, powerful as in they had every single kind of connection to the school — administrators, board members, donors whose names were etched into the marble plaques on the walls of the newest buildings. The kind of people who could make a phone call and change a curriculum, who could lean on a dean's decision with nothing more than a raised eyebrow at a dinner function.
His mom had heard through the wife of a trustee, who'd heard through her daughter, who'd heard through the campus grapevine, which meant the news had traveled from students to parents in less than forty-eight hours. Jay had told them it was true, that he was seeing someone, that it was you, that it was serious. And they'd wanted to meet you. He'd managed to delay it somehow, told you not to worry about it yet, that he'd figure out the timing. You'd nodded, said okay, and pushed it to the back of your mind where it sat like a box you didn't want to open.
Those seconds turned into minutes, then minutes into days, then days to weeks, then weeks into months.
Then somewhere in the blur of all that time, somewhere between the walking, the studying, the cafeteria lunches, the quiet drives, and the late-night texts, you fell in love with him. Shit, you didn't even notice it happening. That was the thing. It wasn't a moment, wasn't a lightning strike, wasn't a cinematic realization set to swelling strings. It was slow, quiet, and insidious, the way morning light creeps across a room until you suddenly realize you can see everything clearly. It happened in the margins. In the spaces between the fake and the real, in the moments that weren't part of the performance, in the details that no contract could account for. By the time you recognized it for what it was, by the time you could put a name to the warmth that had taken up permanent residence in your chest, it was already too late, and you'd been living with it for so long that it felt less like a revelation and more like an admission of something you'd always known.
It was in the polaroid. The one in Jay's car. You'd noticed it one evening when he was driving you back from the diner, the second time you'd gone, or maybe the third, the visits had started blurring together into a single, warm continuum. The car had stopped at a red light, and you'd glanced at the dashboard, and there it was, tucked into the corner of the visor, held in place by the clip, a small polaroid photo of the two of you. You and Jay. In the photo, you were laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled, mid-sentence or mid-laugh, caught in that unguarded space between expressions where you looked the most like yourself. And Jay was looking at you. Not at the camera, not smiling for the lens — looking at you, his head slightly tilted, a soft, almost wondering expression on his face, the kind of look that made your breath catch even through the distortion of polaroid film and faded light. When the hell did he even take this? No, when has someone taken this? You didn't remember a camera, didn't remember posing, didn't remember anything except the warmth of whatever moment it had captured.
"Is that us?" you'd asked, reaching for it.
Jay's hand had come up quickly, not roughly, but quickly, and gently guided your hand away, his fingers wrapping loosely around your wrist for just a second. "Don't touch, the lighting's perfect right there."
"You have a photo of us in your car," you said, and you were teasing but your voice came out strange, softer than you intended, with a wobble you couldn't quite control.
"Of course I do. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't?" He'd said it lightly, easily, his eyes on the road, eventually the light turned green, and he drove off, the polaroid stayed where it was, and you spent the rest of the ride staring at it from the corner of your eye, this small, square proof that somewhere along the way, a moment between you had been important enough to preserve.
It was in the condominium. The first time Jay had suggested you study at his place instead of the library, you'd hesitated. His place, as in the off-campus condominium his parents had bought for him, the one you'd heard about in passing from people who talked about Jay's lifestyle the way people talked about celebrity real estate. But the dorms were unbearable that week — to your right, the person in the next room wouldn't stop watching anime at full volume, the theme songs bleeding through the wall in an endless, tinny loop of Japanese pop that drilled into your skull every time you tried to focus on a paragraph. To your left, someone was constantly jamming — guitar riffs, the same four chords over and over, the kind of repetitive, enthusiastic mediocrity that made you want to open your window and throw your textbook into the quad. You'd mentioned it to Jay offhandedly, just venting, the way you'd mention bad weather, "I can't focus, my neighbors are insane,” and he'd said, simply, "Come to mine. It's quiet." You'd said no, that's too much, and he'd said, "It's literally just a place to study, Y/N, I'm not inviting you to a masquerade ball," you'd laughed despite yourself, and an hour later you were standing in the lobby of his condominium complex, looking around like you'd walked into the wrong building.
Because it looked and felt exactly like a hotel. The lobby had high ceilings and polished marble floors and a front desk with someone who actually greeted you by name. The elevator had more buttons than your dorm had floors, and the hallway to his unit was lined with expensive wood paneling and soft ambient lighting and the kind of silence that felt like a luxury. His unit itself was definitely something. It was everything you weren't used to. Hardwood floors that gleamed. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city skyline. A kitchen with marble countertops and appliances that looked like they'd never been touched. Bookshelves made of dark, rich wood, actual wood, the kind that smelled like forests and money, stocked with novels, vinyl records, and a small collection of framed photos you didn't let yourself look at too closely. It was warm though, not sterile, not showroom-perfect, but lived-in in a way that surprised you. A throw blanket draped over the couch. A mug left on the counter from that morning's coffee. Sheet music scattered across the dining table, handwritten, his handwriting, notes and chords in pencil and pen. It smelled exactly like him, that same woody, clean cologne from the diner, but also coffee, detergent, and something underneath that was just so him, a scent you'd started associating with safety without realizing when.
You studied at his dining table. He studied on the couch. For the first hour, you worked in comfortable silence, the only sound was the scratch of your pen and the soft turn of his pages. Then he'd get up to refill his water, pause by your chair, lean down to read over your shoulder, and make some comment about your handwriting, "is that an 'a' or a tiny drawing of a fish?" and you'd swat at him and he'd dodge, grinning, and retreat back to the couch. This became the routine. You'd show up with your bag and your binders, he'd already have a drink waiting for you on the table, iced tea, the way you liked it, no sugar, extra ice, a detail he'd clocked without being told, and you'd study, and you'd bicker, and sometimes you'd order food and eat cross-legged on his living room floor with the TV on low, and sometimes he'd play something on his guitar. You'd listen from the table with your chin in your hand, your pen still, and your heart doing that thing it did whenever music came out of his hands, like the sound was traveling directly from the strings to your chest without bothering to go through your ears first.
It was in the jacket. During Jay's shows with his band, the university events, the seasonal showcases, the occasional gig at a bar off-campus that served overpriced drinks and undercooked nachos, you started showing up. Not every time, not at first, but enough that the people in the crowd began to recognize you as that girl, the one standing near the side of the stage with her hands in her pockets, watching the lead guitarist with an expression she couldn't quite control. And you wore his jacket. It started because the venue was cold, that was the practical reason, the one you told yourself, the bar had aggressive air conditioning and you'd worn a thin shirt and Jay had shrugged off his jacket without asking and draped it over your shoulders mid-conversation, the leather still warm from his body, the lining soft against the back of your neck. But then you kept wearing it. To every show. It was oversized on you, the sleeves falling past your wrists, the collar swallowing your shoulders, and it smelled like him. When you wrapped yourself in it, standing in the crowd with the bass vibrating through your ribs and the stage lights washing everything in amber and blue, you felt like you were wearing an embrace. Every single time he'd find you in the crowd mid-song, his eyes scanning the faces until they landed on yours, and he'd smile. Not the performance smile, not the heartthrob smile, not the smile he used for the audience. A different one, just for you.
It was in the food. Jay showing up to your dorm with takeout bags in his hands became so regular that your roommate stopped asking questions and started just setting an extra place at the desk. He'd knock, two quick taps, your rhythm, and you'd open the door, and he'd hold up the bag like a trophy and say something like "you skipped lunch again, didn't you" or "don't argue, I already bought it" or, once, memorably, "I got the spicy one because you lied last time about being able to handle mild." He'd sit on your bed, your narrow, creaky dorm bed that was approximately one-third the size of his king at the condo, and you'd sit cross-legged across from him, and you'd eat and talk and laugh. He'd tell you about band practice or something his mom texted or a song he was trying to learn, and you'd tell him about your shift or a grade you were stressed about or the weird noise the pipes in the hallway were making at 2 AM, then the food would get cold because you'd forget to eat while you were talking, and then he'd notice and say "eat your food" and you'd say "you eat your food" and he'd pick up a piece of whatever and hold it in front of your mouth until you took it, you'd both laugh, then the knot in your stomach would tighten, and you'd think: this isn't fake. This can't be fake. Nothing about this feels fake.
And it was in the words. Those two damn words. Whenever you were in public, walking across campus, leaving a building, saying goodbye at the car, parting ways at the cafeteria, Jay would look at you with that easy, warm expression and say, "Love you." Not "I love you." Just "love you." Two words, dropped casually, breezily, like they weighed nothing. But there was never an "I." Never the subject, never the declaration, never the full sentence that would turn it from a fragment into a statement. Just "love you,” light, effortless, and always accompanied by a smile or a wave or the brush of his hand against yours, and every time he said it, you felt the words land somewhere deep in your chest and settle there — warm, confusing, and impossible to parse. You told yourself it was part of the act. Convincing. Consistent. A boyfriend thing to say. But the absence of the "I" nagged at you, not because you needed it, but because its absence felt deliberate, like he was holding something back. "Love you" was a door he could walk through and close behind him and "I love you" was a door that didn't have a handle on the other side. You didn't ask about it. You were afraid of the answer. You were more afraid that there was no answer at all, that it was just habit, just performance, just two words that meant exactly as much as the envelope of cash they were attached to.
Months. Eleven months. You'd been fake-dating Jay for almost a year, and somewhere along the way, the fake had started flaking off like old paint, and what was underneath was something you didn't have the courage to name, something that felt too big for the arrangement you'd made, something that made you lie awake at night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars your roommate had stuck on the ceiling freshman year and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck in a quiet, desperate loop. Because you knew that this had an expiration date, that one day Jay would sit you down and say it's over, he was free, his parents had backed off, and both of you could go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else. And you'd say yes, of course, sure, sounds good, and you'd smile.
You'd take whatever was left of the envelope money and you'd go back to your life and he'd go back to his. The polaroid would stay in his car, the jacket would go back in his closet, the lilies would wilt on your desk, the word "girlfriend" would stop making your stomach twist, and you'd be fine. You'd be fine. You'd absolutely, definitely, completely be fine.
You were at the convenience store near campus — the one that stayed open past midnight, sold rice balls and instant ramen, and the kind of cheap coffee that tasted a lot like regret but kept you awake during exam week. It was a Thursday, or maybe a Friday, the days had started running together, your brain fuzzy from a long shift at the lab and a longer afternoon of studying and the kind of bone-deep tiredness that made the lights of the store feel both too bright and strangely soothing. You were standing in the snack aisle, holding two different brands of shrimp chips and trying to decide which one was less of a mistake, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You pulled it out. The screen glowed.
Jongseong [11:47 PM]: come home with me next weekend
Jongseong [11:47 PM]: i'll introduce you to my parents :)
You stared at the screen. The shrimp chips hung limp in your other hand. The words on your phone sat there, stark and undeniable, and the knot in your stomach, the one that had been tightening for eleven months, the one you'd been pretending wasn't there, the one that felt exactly like love, pulled so tight you thought it might snap.
Jongseong [11:47 PM]: sound good?
You didn't type back. Not yet.
Shit, you were so, so damn screwed.
The drive was forty-five minutes of your heart attempting to exit your body through your throat. Jay's car hummed along the highway, city lights smearing past the windows, and you sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap and your pulse visible in your wrists.
You'd spent the entire morning getting ready, not for them, you told yourself, for you, because if you were going to walk into the Park family estate, you were going to walk in looking the part. Black kitten heels that clicked when you walked. A black satin maxi skirt that moved like water around your ankles. A white turtleneck top, it was baggy, the sleeves wide and draped, ending just below the elbow, the kind of silhouette that managed to look effortless and intentional at the same time. Gold jewelry, because your grandmother always said gold warmed the skin and you believed her. A gold bangle on your right wrist that caught the light every time you moved. Your favorite necklace, a gold chain with a heart locket, and inside that locket, a photograph of your grandmother, the one who'd gifted it to you when you were fourteen, her smile small, proud, and permanent behind the glass, and beside her photo, an empty space where a second picture could go, a blank rectangle of possibility you'd never filled. Gold teardrop earrings that swayed when you turned your head. Your hair was done out, wavy at the ends, falling over your shoulders the way you'd spent forty minutes and two YouTube tutorials perfecting.
When Jay had arrived at your dorm to pick you up, he'd knocked his usual two taps, and you'd opened the door, and he'd — stopped. His hand was still raised from the knock, his mouth slightly open, his eyes traveling from your hair to your earrings to the locket resting against your collarbone to the drape of the top to the sweep of the skirt to the kitten heels, and then back up again, slowly, the way someone reads a letter they weren't expecting. He didn't say anything. He just looked at you, and the silence stretched, and it wasn't the comfortable kind, it was the kind that had weight, the kind that pressed against your skin and made you acutely, almost painfully aware of every inch of yourself.
"Jay?" you said. "Do I have something on my face? Is my foundation cakey? Did I smudge my—" You touched your cheek, your hand moving instinctively, your confidence deflating by the second under the intensity of his stare.
He blinked. Then he swallowed. Then he said, quietly, almost to himself, "You look—" and stopped again, the word lodged somewhere in his throat, and he exhaled a small breath and ran his hand through his hair and tried again, his voice steadier but still carrying that undercurrent of something stunned and unguarded: "You look really beautiful, Y/N."
The knot in your stomach, yup, the same damn one you'd been ignoring for months, pulled tight enough to hurt.
Now you were here, walking through the front door of the Park family home, and the word home didn't even begin to cover it. The foyer was the size of your entire dorm floor. Dark hardwood, polished to a mirror shine. A double staircase curving upward. A chandelier that probably cost more than your parents' house. Fresh flowers on a console table, lilies, white ones, and you tried not to read into it but your hand drifted to your locket anyway. The house smelled like gardenias, furniture polish, and the kind of quiet that only enormous, expensive spaces could produce.
Dinner was served in a dining room that could have seated twenty and was currently set for four. Candles. Crystal glasses. Plates that probably had a heritage. You sat across from Mrs. Park and beside Jay, and the food was extraordinary and your appetite was nonexistent, but you ate, because that was what you did — you ate what was in front of you and you were grateful for it, because once upon a time there hadn't always been something on the plate.
"So, Y/N," Mr. Park began, his voice deep and measured, carrying the practiced warmth of a man who was accustomed to making people feel comfortable before he decided whether they deserved to stay that way. "Jongseong tells us you're on a full scholarship. That's quite impressive."
"Thank you, sir! It took a lot of work, but I'm grateful every day for the opportunity." You kept your voice steady, your posture straighter than it had ever been, your hands folded in your lap under the table where they wouldn't give you away.
"And what are you studying?"
You told him. He nodded. The conversation moved through the expected checkpoints, your coursework, your lab work, your plans after graduation, and you answered each question cleanly, precisely, the way you answered exam prompts, and Jay beside you was a quiet, steady presence, his hand occasionally brushing your knee under the table in a gesture that was either reassurance or reflex or both.
"She's the top of her class, actually," Jay said, and there was pride in his voice, real pride, not performance, the kind that couldn't be faked, or at least the kind that you chose to believe couldn't be. "She works as a lab instructor on top of her full course load. She's—she's really remarkable."
Mrs. Park smiled. It was a beautiful smile, technically. All the right muscles, all the right timing. But it didn't reach her eyes, which remained cool and assessing, two dark stones set in an otherwise immaculate face. "How lovely," she said. "You must be very dedicated."
"I try to be," you said.
"And your family—where are they based?" Mrs. Park asked, and the question landed softly, the way sharp things do when they're wrapped in silk.
You told her. The small town. The modest background. The distance. You didn't apologize for it, you wouldn't, but you felt the temperature of the room shift, felt it the way you feel a window crack open in winter: a thin, precise draft that changes everything without disturbing a single thing.
"How quaint," Mrs. Park said, and lifted her wine glass to her lips.
The rest of dinner passed in a rhythm that felt like walking across a frozen lake, each step measured, each sound checked for the groan of something giving way beneath you. Mr. Park asked about your interests, your hobbies, your opinions on a recent news story, and you answered, and he nodded. He seemed pleased, genuinely, which was more than you could say for the woman sitting across from you, whose silence had developed its own vocabulary. Every time you spoke, her gaze would drift, just slightly, to the locket at your collarbone, or the modest cut of your top, or the way you held your fork, cataloguing, calculating, placing each observation into a mental file labeled Not Enough.
After dinner, Mr. Park retreated to his study with a cordial "it was wonderful to meet you, Y/N," and Jay went to use the restroom, and Mrs. Park excused herself with a gracious smile and a hand on your shoulder that lingered one beat too long, and you were left standing in the hallway with the echo of crystal and the ghost of gardenias, unsure of what to do with your hands or your body or the evening that still stretched ahead of you.
So you wandered. Not with intention, just with the aimless, curious impulse of someone who'd never been in a house this size and couldn't quite fathom its dimensions. You found the kitchen. Or rather, the kitchen found you, you turned a corner and there it was, vast, gleaming, and staffed by two women in uniform who were clearing the dinner dishes with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
"Can I help?" you asked, and they looked at you the way you'd been looked at all evening, with surprise, though this time it was a different kind.
"Oh, no, miss, we've got it," the older one said, her hands already moving, stacking plates.
"Please, I insist. I'm not a guest who sits around," you said, and you were already reaching for a dish towel, and something in your voice or your hands or the way you said guest, like it was a costume you were wearing rather than a role you inhabited, made them pause, and then relent, and then smile, and before long you were standing beside them at the counter, wiping down plates and making small talk about the weather, the commute, and how long they'd worked here. It was easy, the easiest you'd felt all night, because you knew this rhythm, this work, this language of hands, tasks, and the quiet solidarity of people who kept things running while other people sat at tables and made decisions about their lives.
You helped sweep the kitchen floor, the broom familiar in your hands, the motion automatic — you'd done this before, after all. Not in a house like this, but in houses, other people's houses, back when you were young and your mom would clean for families in the next town over. You'd go with her on weekends because she couldn't afford a sitter, and you'd help because that was what you did, because your hands were small but they could hold a rag, because every extra pair of hands meant finishing earlier and going home sooner, and because the women who employed your mother sometimes slipped you a few bills at the end of the day. You'd hand them over and your mom would kiss your forehead and say “that's my girl.” The money would then disappear into the jar on top of the refrigerator that was saving for something you never quite reached.
"You're very kind," the younger maid said, watching you work. "Most of Mr. and Mrs. Park's guests don't—they don't really notice us."
"I notice you," you said simply, because you did, because you always had, because you'd been on the other side of that not-noticed wall your whole life and you'd promised yourself that if you ever ended up on this side, you wouldn't be the person who walked past.
After a while, you needed paper towels, you'd spilled a bit of water on the counter and the dish towel was already damp. The younger maid pointed you toward the supply closet down the hall, and you walked, your heels quiet on the hardwood, the hallway long and lit by sconces that cast amber pools on the walls, and you were rounding the corner when you heard your name.
Not your first name. Your full name. Spoken by a voice that was smooth, unhurried, and utterly without malice — which made the words it was producing all the more devastating.
"She's a sweet girl," Mrs. Park was saying, and her voice carried through the gap of a door that wasn't fully closed, a sliver of warm light falling across the hallway floor. "She's pretty, she's smart, she's polite. But she's poor, Jongseong, and we do not want that reputation clinging onto our family."
Your hand stopped on the wall. Your heels stopped on the floor. Your lungs stopped in your chest.
"I don't want other people figuring out that my son married a peasant."
Peasant. The word hit you like a slap — not sharp, not sudden, but deep, a bruise that formed instantly and throbbed with a pain that radiated outward into your jaw, your shoulders, your fingertips. Peasant. As if your grandmother's hands that raised you were dirt. As if your mother's back that bent over other people's floors was a stain. As if the scholarship you'd bled for was a charity case instead of a testimony. Peasant. You pressed your back against the hallway wall and the locket was cool against your collarbone, your grandmother's face was pressed against the glass inside it. You wanted to scream but your throat was made of stone.
"Mom, that's—" Jay's voice, strained, tight, a wire pulled to its limit.
"Jongseong, honey." Mrs. Park again, and her tone shifted — still smooth, still gentle, but with an edge underneath, the edge of someone who believed with absolute certainty that they were doing you a favor by telling you the truth. "I know what's best for you, and Y/N isn't what's best for you."
"Isn't it better that she comes from less?" Jay said, and you could hear him struggling, hear the syllables catching and tumbling, hear the way he was reaching for arguments and coming up with handfuls of air. "She's hard-working, she's independent, she's earned everything she has—like, she didn't just inherit it, she built it. Built it. Isn't that—isn't that worth something?"
"Of course it's worth something, dear. Worth something to her," Mrs. Park said, and the distinction was precisely devastating. "Worth something to the life she comes from. But this family has a legacy, and that legacy requires a partner who can stand beside you at a charity gala and talk to the governor's wife about the yacht club without looking out of place. It requires someone who understands the world you're going to inherit."
"I understand the world I'm going to inherit," Jay said, but his voice was smaller now, less certain, and you realized with a slow, sickening clarity what was happening, he wasn't failing to defend you. He was drowning in something else entirely, something that was rising in him at the same time his mother was tearing you apart, and the two forces were colliding inside his chest and neither one was winning and you could hear it, you could hear the exact moment when the boy who'd handed you an envelope full of cash, begged you to save him realized that you'd saved him in a way money couldn't buy, and he couldn't speak because love, real, involuntary, and irreversible love, doesn't come with talking points.
"Your father agrees with me," Mrs. Park continued, and you heard Mr. Park's voice then, low and conciliatory, the voice of a man who'd already made his decision and was now merely softening its edges: "Jongseong, your mother and I only want what's best for you. You're the sole heir to the company. Everything we've built—the business, the reputation, the standing—all of it goes to you. And the person standing beside you determines how the world sees that legacy. It isn't about Y/N as a person, okay? It's about suitability."
Sole heir. The words registered somewhere beneath the devastation, filed away in the part of your brain that was still functioning, but they landed on numb ground. Of course he was. Of course the only son of this house, this dynasty, this gleaming empire of hardwood and chandeliers. Of course he was the one who'd carry it all. And of course they wanted someone suitable. Someone who knew what a yacht club was. Someone who didn't learn which fork to use by watching other people eat. Someone who wasn't you.
"Y/N is suitable," Jay said, and his voice cracked on the word suitable, cracked the way his voice had cracked in that study room ages ago when he'd said I'm begging, except this time the desperation wasn't about freedom from an arrangement. It was about you, specifically you, and the crack in his voice said everything his sentences couldn't: he loved you, that he'd been too late realizing it, that the realization was so big and so sudden and so consuming that it had stolen the language right out of his mouth, and his mother was still talking and he couldn't find the words to stop her because every word he reached for felt too small for what he was trying to say.
"Jongseong." Mrs. Park's voice again, patient, immovable, the voice of a woman who had been winning arguments in this house since before her son was born. "I'm not saying she's a bad person. I'm saying she's not our person. There's a difference, and you know it. You've known it your whole life."
Silence. The worst kind — the kind that isn't absence of sound but absence of response, the kind that means someone has opened their mouth and found nothing there, the kind that means the person you needed to fight for you is fighting something inside themselves instead and losing.
You pressed your palm flat against the hallway wall. The wallpaper was silk, you noticed. Actual silk. You noticed because noticing small, irrelevant things is what the body does when the large, relevant things are too heavy to carry. Your grandmother's face was warm against your collarbone. The empty space in the locket beside her was cold.
"Y/N, dear? The paper towels?" A voice from behind you, gentle, concerned, the younger maid, standing at the end of the hallway with a questioning tilt of her head, her eyes scanning your face and finding something there that made her expression shift from curiosity to caution. "Are you okay?"
You straightened. You smoothed the front of your skirt. You touched the locket once, quick, reflexive, like pressing a hand to a wound, and you smiled. A small smile. A functional one. The kind that holds a person together long enough to get to the bathroom where they can fall apart in private.
"Yup, coming!" you said, and your voice didn't crack, not even once, and that was the bravest thing you'd ever done.
An hour later, you still felt so sick to your stomach that you were genuinely surprised you hadn't thrown up.
The nausea sat low and persistent, a churning, acidic thing that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the word peasant reverberating through your skull on an endless loop, each repetition carving it a little deeper, making it a little more permanent, turning it from something someone had said into something you might always hear. Both of you had left the Park residence about ten minutes ago, you in the passenger seat, Jay behind the wheel, the glow of the dashboard illuminating his jaw, his hands, the side profile you'd memorized without meaning to. And his mother — his mother had the audacity, the sheer, staggering audacity, to pull you into a hug before you left. Right there in the foyer, in front of the gardenias and the chandelier, she'd wrapped her arms around you and pressed her cheek to yours and said, "It was so lovely to meet you, dear," and her perfume was expensive and her embrace was warm and every cell in your body was screaming you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant while your arms hung at your sides and your mouth said, "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Park," and you smiled, and she smiled, and the hug lasted exactly the right number of seconds for a woman who meant absolutely none of it. Absolutely disgusting.
You were upset for the whole ride, and you knew it was visible, you could feel it in the weight of your own silence, in the way your answers came out a half-beat too slow, in the faint, persistent tremor in your hands that you hid by keeping them folded in your lap. You were still talking to Jay, still responding to his questions, still maintaining the basic architecture of a conversation, but there was a layer of sadness underneath everything, thin and translucent but unmistakable, the way frost on a window doesn't block the view but changes the color of everything behind it. He'd asked if you had fun. You said yes. He'd asked if you thought dinner went well. You said it went fine. He'd asked if his mom was nice to you. You said she was very hospitable. Each answer was technically true and emotionally hollow, and the hollowness rang like a bell in the space between you.
Of course, Jay noticed. He noticed within the first three minutes, because Jay noticed everything about you, had been noticing for months, cataloguing your habits and your silences and the specific way your voice changed when you were trying very hard not to feel something, and this voice — this flat, careful, polite voice — was the one you used when you were hurting and refusing to admit it. He tried pushing you to answer why you were upset. Gently at first, "Hey, are you okay? You seem quiet,” and then with more intention, "Seriously, Y/N, talk to me. What's wrong?" and you wouldn't budge. You shook your head, you said nothing, you said you were just tired, you said it'd been a long evening, you said you were fine, and every "I'm fine" was a door you were closing in his face. He kept knocking, you kept closing, and the rhythm of it was making the air in the car thicker, heavier, and harder to breathe.
A few pushes later, rain started pouring. Somewhat heavy rain, the kind that arrived all at once, as if someone had turned a faucet, the sky splitting open and dumping sheets of water across the windshield so thick that the world outside became a blur of headlights, dark asphalt, and the ghostly shapes of trees bending under the weight of it. Predictable, you thought. You'd checked your weather app earlier, back at the dorms when you were still getting ready, and it had said it was going to rain around this hour. You'd even packed a small umbrella in your bag. Funny how the universe couldn't even be original about the timing. Eventually, that was all the conversation in the car was about while it was raining, Jay kept pushing and you just wouldn't give, the back-and-forth wearing down into something jagged and raw, his persistence meeting your silence like water against stone except the stone was starting to crack and the water kept coming and neither of you knew how to stop.
"Y/N, come on, you've been off since we left, just tell me—"
"I'm fine, Jay."
"You're not fine, you haven't been fine all night—"
"I said I'm fine."
"Would you stop saying that? You're clearly not—"
"There's nothing to talk about."
And then, finally the thread snapped. Jay's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenched, and something broke loose in his chest, something that had been building for miles, and the words came out sharp, frustrated, and louder than he meant them to be, loud enough to cut through the rain drumming against the roof of the car, loud enough to make you flinch:
"Fuck, Y/N, you're acting like we're an actual couple!"
The car went quiet. Even the rain seemed to recede for a second, pulling back just enough to let the silence rush in and fill the space where the sound had been. Then your eyes burned. Just like that, without warning, without permission, the heat surged upward from somewhere deep in your chest, hit the backs of your eyes, your vision blurred, and the dashboard lights smeared into streaks of amber and white, and you couldn't even hold it anymore, couldn't keep the door closed, couldn't pretend the frost on the window wasn't there, and the tears came. Not the quiet, dignified kind. The kind that take everything with them. Your mascara and your eyeliner, the eyeliner you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting, the mascara that was supposed to be waterproof but clearly had not been road-tested against the specific devastation of hearing the boy you love tell you that your feelings were out of bounds, streamed down your cheeks in dark, inky rivers, tracing lines along your jaw, dripping off your chin onto the satin skirt you'd chosen so carefully, and you couldn't stop it, you couldn't even slow it down, you could only sit there in the passenger seat and sob silently, your shoulders barely moving, your mouth pressed shut, the only sound the wet, ragged catch of your breath trying to hold itself together and failing.
Jay just thought you'd gone radio silent, another refusal, another door, another round of the same fight. He glanced over once, briefly, saw you facing the window, and returned his eyes to the road, his jaw still tight, his hands still gripping the wheel, the frustration still hot in his veins. Then he glanced at the rearview mirror. And he saw you. Not the back of your head, your face, reflected in the glass, and the reflection showed mascara-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and a mouth trembling with the effort of not making a sound, and you were sobbing, silently, completely, the kind of crying that meant the person had decided long ago that their pain wasn't worth hearing and was holding it underwater with both hands. His heart broke. It broke the way glass breaks, suddenly, completely, into a thousand pieces that couldn't be reassembled, that could only be swept up and carried. He pulled over. No warning, no signal, just the car jerking to the right, the tires splashing through the puddle at the edge of the road, the vehicle settling onto the gravel shoulder of some neighborhood street, the houses dark, the streetlights haloed in rain, the world reduced to the sound of water and the ghost of your breathing.
"Y/N—" he started, and he reached over, his hand extending across the center console toward your shoulder, toward your arm, toward any part of you he could hold, because he couldn't think straight while driving and he couldn't think straight now and the only thing his body knew how to do was reach for you. But the moment his fingertips brushed the fabric of your sleeve, you moved, you unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp click, yanked the door handle, and you were out, the door swinging open and the rain pouring in and you stepping out of the car and into the downpour like it was the only direction left.
You ran. Not far, not fast, your kitten heels slipped on the wet asphalt and you kicked them off without breaking stride, bare feet slapping against the puddles, the rain hitting your shoulders, your hair, your face, mixing with the tears until you couldn't tell which was falling from the sky and which was falling from you. You didn't know where you were going — just away, just forward, just anywhere that wasn't the passenger seat of that car where you'd heard those words.
You're acting like we're an actual couple.
Jay followed. He was out of the car before the door had fully closed behind you, his own door left open, the interior light on, and he was running, actually running, his shoes hitting the pavement, his shirt already soaked through, the rain flattening his hair against his forehead, and he was following you because one time, months ago, when you'd stepped out of your dorm without an umbrella on a cloudy day, your roommate had absentmindedly told him, told Jay, who'd been waiting in the hallway with takeout, that you were prone to sickness. Like, one raindrop and it was absolutely over. One drop and you were congested for a week. One chill and you were bedridden for three days. She'd said it casually, dismissively, the way people mention things that are just facts of life, and Jay had filed it away in the same mental cabinet where he stored your coffee order and your favorite flower and the sound of your laugh, and now you were standing in a downpour in with nothing but your dogs out and he was not about to let you catch your death on some stranger's sidewalk.
"Y/N, stop—please, just stop—"
You didn't stop. You walked faster, arms wrapped around yourself, the rain hammering your back, your skirt heavy with water and clinging to your legs, the gold earrings cold against your neck, the locket pressed to your chest like a shield that wasn't working. He caught up to you anyway, longer legs, less stubbornness, more desperation, and fell into step beside you, and you kept walking, and he kept pace, and the two of you moved down the wet sidewalk like two people who'd lost the map and couldn't agree on which way was home.
"Y/N—"
"I'm fine, Jay."
"You're not fine, you're standing in the rain without shoes—"
"I said I'm fine!"
And then you stopped. Not because you wanted to — because your legs gave out, not from weakness but from the sheer, crushing exhaustion of holding months of love inside a body that wasn't built to contain it. You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, rain streaming down your face, your bare feet in a puddle, your mascara ruined and your hair ruined and your heart absolutely, irreparably ruined, and you turned to face him, and the dam broke.
"I feel so stupid," you said, and your voice cracked on stupid, cracked wide open, the word splitting into fragments that the rain carried away. "I feel so—god, I'm so stupid, Jay, because I—I heard what your mother and father said about me. I heard it. I was looking for paper towels and the door was open and I—I heard everything." A sob tore through your chest and you pressed your hand over your mouth and it did nothing, the sound still came, muffled and wet and broken. "They called me a peasant. Your mother called me a—she said peasant, Jay, and your dad—suitability, he said it's about—about suitability, and I—"
You were breaking down. Visibly, audibly, completely. The stoic, composed girl who'd walked into the Park residence was gone, and what was left was someone younger, someone rawer, someone who'd been holding herself together with thread, spit, and willpower, had finally run out of all three. Your sentences were stuttering, fragmenting, words tumbling over each other like people trying to escape a burning room.
"And I know—I know this is just—I know we're just—I know it's fake, I know that, I was the one who said no, I was the one who—who said no falling in love shit, I was the one who said no weird couple stuff, I drew the lines, I made the rules, and—" Your breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp that bent you slightly forward, and the rain ran down your face, your shoulders shook, you were crying so hard you could barely form words but you kept going because it was all coming out now, all of it, everything you'd swallowed, buried, and denied for months, and it was messy, ugly, and exactly what the truth always sounds like when it finally gets permission to speak. "But fuck you, Jay! Bullshit—I actually love you. I love you so much it hurts, and I—I don't even recall when it started feeling less like some mutual agreement and more like—more like—"
You couldn't finish. The sob swallowed the rest of the sentence and you stood there, drenched and trembling, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your mascara in ruins, your grandmother's locket pressed cold and heavy against your sternum, and you'd said it, you'd finally said it, and the relief and the terror of it were indistinguishable, two rivers merging into the same flood.
Jay stared at you. Through the rain, through the dark, through the curtain of water that blurred the edges of everything, he stared at you, and the expression on his face was something you'd never seen before, not shock, not pity, not the practiced composure of the campus heartthrob, but something stripped and raw, a boy standing in the rain watching the girl he loved say the words he hadn't been able to find in his parents' study, the words that had been sitting in his throat for weeks, months, maybe since that first evening in the diner when she'd smiled at him with ice cream on her lips and he'd thought oh no.
He stepped closer. One step. Two. Three. Close enough that you could see the rain caught in his eyelashes, close enough that you could see his chest rising and falling with breaths that were faster than they should've been, close enough that you could see his hands shaking. He reached out and pulled you into a hug from behind, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, his chest pressing against your back, his chin dropping to the top of your wet, wavy hair, and the embrace was so sudden, so warm, and so tight that it knocked the remaining breath out of your lungs and a fresh sob out of your throat. You could feel his heart through his soaked shirt, hammering against your spine, and it was racing, racing the way yours was, the same tempo, the same desperation, two drums beating in the same storm.
Then he turned you. Gently, his hands on your shoulders, guiding you until you were facing him, and the rain was between you, on you, and everywhere. Your eyes were red, your face was a mess, and he looked at you the way he'd looked at you in that polaroid in his car, not at the camera, not at the performance, at you, just you, and there was nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, nothing fake.
"And even after all that," he said, his voice low and rough and thick with something that sounded like it had been drowning for months and had finally broken the surface, "you still feel like you're the one who broke the agreement?"
And then he kissed you.
Not a feather-light press. Not a convincing-for-the-crowd peck. Not a contractual obligation on a cafeteria cheek. He kissed you in the rain, on a sidewalk in a neighborhood neither of you knew, with your mascara running, his shirt soaked, your bare feet in a puddle, and his hands cupping your face like you were something precious and terrifyingly impossible to let go of. It was long — longer than any kiss you'd imagined, longer than any kiss in any movie, long enough that the rain had time to trace paths down both your faces and pool where your lips met, and the cold became irrelevant because his mouth was warm and his hands were warm and the whole world was cold and wet and none of it mattered, none of it existed. Nothing existed except the pressure of his lips, the steadiness of his grip, and the way your hands found the front of his shirt and held on the way you'd been wanting to hold on for months, fingers twisting into the wet fabric, pulling him closer, closer, because if this was the only real thing then you were going to make it as real as possible, you were going to press every ounce of everything you'd been carrying into the space between your mouths and hope it was enough.
When you broke apart, slowly, reluctantly, the way people separate when the air they share is more necessary than the air around them, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your rain-cold skin, his thumbs brushing the remnants of mascara from your cheeks with a gentleness that made your chest ache in a completely different way than it had been aching all night. Then he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead — a seal, a promise, a full stop on a sentence that had been running for months. Then he took your hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to your palm, the kind of kiss that wasn't about passion but about tenderness, about treating a part of you that had swept floors, held rags, carried groceries, and typed lab reports as though it was worthy of being kissed.
"Let's head back now to the car," he said quietly, his voice still rough, still raw, but steadier now, anchored.
You looked down at yourself, drenched, barefoot, skirt heavy with water, hair plastered to your neck, and then at him, equally soaked, shirt clinging, shoes squelching, the both of you looking like you'd climbed out of a lake, and you let out a small, watery, almost-laugh. "We're both soaking wet, Jay."
He looked at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted, that same easy, warm, real smile, the one that was only yours, and he said, "It's okay. You're acting like I can't handle some wet ass car seat. It's all good."
You laughed. An actual laugh, small, broken, wet, and still trembling with the aftershocks of everything, but real, and he smiled wider, and he kept your hand in his as he walked you back to the car through the rain, and the car seat did get wet, but it didn't matter at all.
Jay drove you back to his condominium unit. He didn't ask, he just told you. The car was still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened on that sidewalk, the rain still hammering the windshield, your bare feet still cold and your skirt still heavy and the taste of him still faint and electric on your lips, when he glanced at you and said, simply, "You're staying at mine tonight." Not a question. Not an offer. A statement, delivered with the same quiet certainty he used when he told you to order what you actually wanted at the diner, the same certainty he used when he picked up your bag without asking, the same certainty that had been steadily, silently eroding every wall you'd built since the day you'd said deal in that study room.
"Jay, I—"
"You're wet. You're barefoot. Your roommate went home for the weekend, right?" He already knew the answer, you'd mentioned it earlier in the week, in passing, one of those small facts that Jay collected and stored and retrieved at exactly the moment they became relevant. "I'm not letting you walk back to an empty dorm soaking wet in the rain. You'll get sick. End of discussion."
You wanted to argue. Some part of you, the stubborn, self-sufficient part that had raised itself on the principle that you didn't need anyone to take care of you, wanted to say I'm fine, I can handle it, I've handled worse. But that part was small and tired and waterlogged, and the part of you that had just said I love you out loud for the first time was larger and louder and didn't have the energy to pretend anymore. So you nodded, a small, quiet nod, and you pulled your knees up onto the seat, looking out the window and you let him drive you home.
His home. The word didn't feel as foreign as it should have.
The journey up to his unit was funny, in the way that things are funny when they're happening to you and you're too exhausted to feel embarrassed about them yet. The lobby of his condominium was quiet at this hour, late enough that the ambient music had been turned down to a whisper and the marble floors reflected only the warm glow of the recessed lighting and the silence had that particular, hushed quality of spaces that were usually full but were currently holding their breath. You walked in behind Jay, your bare feet leaving wet prints on the polished floor, your ruined satin skirt dripping a small trail behind you like a sad, glamorous snail, your mascara still smeared under your eyes in a way that made you look vaguely like a raccoon who'd had a very bad night. Jay was no better, his shirt was plastered to his torso, his hair was flattened against his forehead in dark, wet spikes, and his shoes made a squelching sound with every step that echoed through the lobby like someone repeatedly stepping on a sponge.
The woman behind the front desk, the same one who'd greeted you with "Welcome back, Mr. Park, and guest" all those months ago, looked up as you both passed. Her eyes traveled from Jay's soaked shirt to your bare feet to the dark mascara tracks on your cheeks to the way Jay's hand was resting on the small of your back, and her expression underwent a very specific, very readable journey: first confusion, then assessment, then a slow, knowing crinkle at the corners of her eyes, and finally a smile, warm, private, the kind of smile people reserve for things they find genuinely endearing. She didn't say anything to you, but as you passed the desk, you heard her mutter under her breath, quiet enough that she probably thought you couldn't hear but you could, you absolutely could: "Lovebirds, how cute." And then a small, fond exhale, the way someone sighs at a movie scene that hits a little too close to home.
Jay didn't hear it. He was already guiding you toward the elevator, his hand still warm against your back even through the wet fabric. But you heard it, and something about it, the casual certainty of it, the way this stranger looked at the two of you, dripping, ruined, and walking through a lobby at midnight, and saw love before she saw mess, made your throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
You showered first. Jay handed you a towel and pointed you toward the bathroom and said "take your time, the water pressure's ridiculous" and you stood under the shower for longer than you needed to, letting the hot water undo what the cold rain had done, watching the mascara swirl down the drain in grey and black ribbons, pressing your forehead against the tile and breathing and breathing and breathing. When you turned the water off and reached for the towel, you realized the problem. Your undergarments. Your bra, your underwear, the ones you'd worn under, the ones you'd chosen specifically because they didn't show lines, were wet. Soaking, thoroughly, irreversibly wet, the rain having penetrated every layer you'd been wearing, and you hadn't brought a change of clothes because you'd come to Jay’s house to have dinner with his parents, not to sleep over, not to plan for a rain-soaked confession and a kiss on a stranger's sidewalk and a night that had gone so far off-script that the script was now a distant memory. You wrapped the towel around yourself and cracked the bathroom door open and called out, "Jay?"
He appeared a moment later, still damp, having changed into dry sweats and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up in that way it did when he'd toweled it off without looking in a mirror. "Yeah?"
"I, um. I don't have—my undergarments are wet. Everything's wet. I didn't exactly pack an overnight bag."
He stared at you for a second, then his face did something, a quick flicker of oh followed by that familiar, faint flush that crept along his cheekbones whenever the conversation veered into territory that reminded him you were, in fact, a person with a body, and that that body currently existed on the other side of a towel. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Hold on."
He disappeared and came back with his arms full, an oversized grey hoodie, soft and worn from many washes, the kind of hoodie that had lived in his closet long enough to carry the shape of his shoulders; a pair of red plaid boxers, clean, folded, the fabric soft and slightly faded; a pair of thick socks, the kind meant for hardwood floors in winter; and a pair of slippers he handed you with a slightly sheepish expression. "These are a little big. I never really wear them—they were a gift, my aunt bought them thinking I'd use them around the unit but they don't fit right and I keep forgetting to throw them out. They're clean, though. I promise."
You took the pile from him, and the hoodie was warm from being in a drawer near the heating vent, and it smelled like his laundry detergent, that same clean, woody scent that his whole condominium carried, the scent that meant safe before your brain had consciously decided it meant anything at all. You closed the bathroom door, dropped the towel, and put everything on. The hoodie hung past your hips, the sleeves falling well beyond your wrists, the neckline wide enough that it slipped slightly off one shoulder. The boxers sat loose around your waist, the plaid pattern absurd and comfortable. The socks were thick and warm and the slippers were, as promised, a little big, your feet sliding slightly when you walked, and you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, mascara-free, hair wet, drowning in a grey hoodie and red plaid boxers that belonged to the boy you loved, who loved you back, and you thought: this is the most myself I've ever looked.
When you opened the bathroom door, the steam followed you out into the hallway. Jay was standing right there, waiting, a towel draped over his shoulder and a smaller one in his hand, the hair towel, you realized, when he gestured for you to come closer.
"Come here," he said, and you did, walking toward him in your oversized slippers, and he guided you to sit on the edge of the couch, and then he stood behind you and began drying your hair with the smaller towel, his hands working the fabric through your damp strands with a gentleness that made your eyes prickle. You'd never had anyone dry your hair before. It was such a small thing, a nothing thing, a functional thing, and yet the intimacy of it was staggering, the careful way his fingers moved through the wet, the way he'd occasionally pause to squeeze a section between the towel and his palm, the way he'd brush a strand away from your neck and his fingertips would graze your skin and send a small, involuntary shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"My eyes still hurt," you whined, pressing the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids, and the whine came out small and childish and genuinely pitiful because they did hurt, you'd cried so hard on that sidewalk that your eyelids were swollen and raw and every blink felt like sandpaper. "They're all puffy and gross."
Jay giggled, a bright, surprised sound, the kind that escaped him before he could catch it, and you could hear the smile in it, the unguarded warmth of it, and you wanted to be annoyed that he was laughing at your suffering but the sound was so genuinely, infectiously happy that you couldn't even muster the indignation.
"They're not gross," he said, still working the towel through your hair, his voice soft with amusement. "You're just having a reaction to being dramatically beautiful in the rain for ten minutes. It's a known side effect."
"Dramatically beautiful?" You lifted your head slightly. "I looked like a swamp creature."
"Mm, a very pretty swamp creature," he corrected, and you could hear the grin, and you groaned and slumped back against his abdomen and he laughed again, and the sound of it traveled through his chest and into your spine and settled there, warm and constant, and you thought: I could live in this sound.
He finished drying your hair after a few more minutes, the dampness reduced to a soft, manageable weight that would air-dry the rest of the way. He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm gonna go wash up. Make yourself comfortable, there's water in the fridge, extra blankets in the closet, and the TV remote is—somewhere under the couch cushions, I always lose it."
You nodded, and he disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, and you heard the shower turn on, and then you were alone. The condominium was quiet, that rich, expensive quiet that big spaces produced, the kind that felt like being wrapped in something soft. You sat on the couch for a moment, your knees pulled up to your chest inside the oversized hoodie, the slippers half-off your feet, the towel still draped over your shoulders.
Then you got up. You didn't mean to go looking for him, you were just restless, your body still humming with the residual electricity of the evening, your skin still remembering the rain, the kiss, and his hands on your face, and walking felt like the only thing to do with all that leftover voltage. You padded down the hallway in your too-big slippers, past the kitchen, past the closet with the extra blankets, past the bathroom where the shower was still running, and you found his bedroom.
The door was open. The room was dim, just the lamp on the nightstand, a warm amber glow that made the bed and the bookshelf and the guitar propped in the corner look like they belonged in a painting rather than a real person's life. And there was Jay, seated in the comfortable lounge chair in the corner, the one with the deep cushion and the angled back that faced the window, the one you'd seen him sit in before when he was reading or thinking or absentmindedly strumming chords on his guitar without plugging it in. He was still in his sweats and t-shirt, his own hair damp and finger-combed back, his legs stretched out, his phone abandoned on the armrest, and he looked up when you appeared in the doorway, and the look on his face, open, warm, a little tired, completely yours, made your breath catch.
You walked in. Your slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the hardwood. You didn't say anything, you didn't know what to say, your voice having apparently used up its entire vocabulary on that sidewalk and now sitting empty and quiet in your throat. You just walked toward him, slowly, your hands finding the front pocket of the hoodie and burying themselves inside it, and you stopped a few feet from the chair, and you looked at him, and he looked at you, and the air in the room felt thick and warm and charged with something neither of you had named yet but both of you could feel pressing against your skin.
Then, without warning, without a word, without a question, without anything except the quiet, certain movement of his hands, Jay reached out and pulled you onto his lap.
It was smooth, the kind of movement that looked effortless but required a specific kind of confidence, a specific kind of certainty that the person being pulled wanted to be there. His hands found your waist inside the hoodie, his fingers closing around the fabric and the warmth underneath, and he drew you forward and down until you were settled across his thighs, your knees on either side of his hips, the hoodie riding up slightly where his hands gripped it, the red plaid boxers hidden beneath the grey fabric. Your hands landed on his shoulders, the only place they could go, and you were close, closer than ever before because this was a different kind of closeness, the kind that wasn't born from desperation or confession but from choice, from the simple, deliberate act of being exactly where you wanted to be.
His hands stayed on your waist. His eyes stayed on yours. The lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the slope of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw and the way his pupils had darkened, blown wide, the amber glow reflected in them like small fires. Neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and his breathing and the distant, low hum of the city beyond the window, and the silence wasn't awkward, heavy, or uncertain — it was full, the way silence is full when it's holding something that words would only diminish.
You sat there, on his lap, in his hoodie, in his boxers, in his slippers that had fallen off your feet somewhere between the doorway and the chair, and his hands were warm through the fabric, and his heart was beating fast against your chest, and the night was still raining outside, and you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
"If there's something horrendous on my face you should tell me and stop staring like that."
The words came out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper, because the way Jay was looking at you right now made it difficult to breathe properly, let alone speak at full volume. His eyes were dark, not the warm amber-brown they'd been over dinner or the soft, fond shade they'd taken on while drying your hair, but something deeper, something hungrier, the color of burnt honey held over a flame, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter and your thighs press instinctively tighter around his hips.
He didn't answer right away. His thumbs, which had been resting idle against your waist, began to move — slow, deliberate strokes along the curve of your hips through the hoodie, his fingers pressing into the fabric just hard enough that you could feel the warmth of each individual fingertip through the worn cotton, and every point of contact lit up like a switch being flipped somewhere beneath your skin.
"There's nothing horrendous on your face," he said finally, and his voice had dropped, lower than you'd ever heard it, a rough, quiet thing that seemed to vibrate through the pads of his fingers and into your bones. "I'm staring because you're in my clothes and it's making me lose my mind."
A startled laugh escaped you, breathy and nervous. "It's just a hoodie—"
"It's not just a hoodie." His grip tightened fractionally, his fingers curling into the fabric at your hips, and the slight, possessive pressure of it sent a sharp thrill skating down your spine. "You're sitting on my lap in my clothes, smelling like me, looking like that, and you're asking me why I'm staring?" He exhaled, a short, almost-laugh that was more breath than sound. "You're killing me."
The laugh that had been building in your throat dissolved into something else, something warmer and less certain, and you became acutely aware of how close his face was to yours, close enough that you could see the faint water droplets still clinging to the ends of his hair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his exhale ghosting across your chin, close enough that the distance between his mouth and yours had become a question that neither of you had asked yet but both of you were waiting to answer.
You answered it.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't a decision made by the rational, thinking part of your brain. It was gravity, pure and simple, the same force that had pulled you into his lap and pulled you to this condominium and pulled those three words out of your mouth on a rain-soaked sidewalk, your body leaning forward, your fingers tightening on his shoulders, and your mouth finding his with a certainty that surprised you both.
Jay made a sound against your lips, a low, sharp inhale through his nose, and then his hands were sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you forward, pressing you closer, and he was kissing you back with a fervor that made the kiss on the sidewalk feel like a prelude, a rough draft, a sketch compared to this, the final, full-color rendering, all the detail and depth and texture filled in at once. His mouth was warm, sure, and unhurried despite the urgency thrumming beneath it, his lips moving against yours with a precision that suggested he'd been thinking about this exact thing for longer than he'd ever admit, mapping out the pressure, the angle, and the way his lower lip fit between yours, and the deliberateness of it, the care of it, was so fundamentally him that it made something in your chest crack open and spill warmth through your entire body.
Your fingers climbed from his shoulders into his hair, threading through the damp strands, and the sound he made in response, a muted, rough “fuck” breathed against your mouth, sent a jolt of electricity straight down your center. You tugged lightly, experimentally, and his head tilted back. His breath stuttered and his fingers dug into your back through the hoodie hard enough that you knew his fingerprints would be embedded onto your skin, and the thought of that, of wearing his fingerprints beneath his hoodie, made you press into him harder, made the kiss deeper, made your tongue slide against his with a desperation that surprised you.
He responded instantly. One hand left your back and came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and the new angle made everything sharper, more intense, the slide of his tongue against yours sending sparks skittering down your nerve endings like lit matches dropped on dry kindling. His other hand stayed pressed into the small of your back, keeping you flush against him, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it was both of them beating in tandem like they'd been doing it forever and were only now acknowledging the rhythm.
You shifted on his lap, adjusting your weight, your knees tightening against the outside of his thighs, and the movement pressed your hips down against his in a way that made you both freeze. The sound that escaped you was small and involuntary, a half-swallowed whimper that vibrated against his lips, and the sound he made was worse, or better, depending on perspective — a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and traveled through his body into yours like a seismic event.
"Don't—" His voice was fractured, barely coherent, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath coming ragged and hot against your swollen lips. "Don't move like that if you're not—fuck—if you're not planning to follow through, because I—"
You moved again. Deliberately this time, not an adjustment but a choice, your hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind that pressed the heat between your thighs against the unmistakable hardness that had developed beneath the fabric of his sweats. The friction, the pressure, the feeling of him solid and insistent against you even through layers of clothing, pulled a moan from your throat that you didn't recognize as your own voice.
"Shit—" Jay's head fell back against the chair, his neck corded, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut for a single, trembling moment before they opened again and fixed on you with a look so raw, so unguarded, so full of want that it made your stomach clench and your breath come short. His hands slid down from your back to your hips, fingers spread wide, and he held you there, held you against him, and he didn't stop you when you moved again.
The dry grinding started slowly, almost tentatively, your hips finding a rhythm against his that was more instinct than experience, more feeling than technique. The seam of the boxers you were wearing, his boxers, dragged against you in a way that sent sharp, stuttering pulses of pleasure through your core with every movement, and the angle of it, the way his body was positioned beneath you, meant that every roll of your hips pressed you directly against the length of him, hard, thick, and impossible to ignore through the thin cotton of his sweats. You could feel the shape of him, the heat of him, and the knowledge that you were doing that, that you were the reason the campus heartthrob was hard, breathless, and gripping your hips like you were the only solid thing in a spinning room, sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs so quickly it almost embarrassed you.
"Jay—" His name came out broken, half-moaned, and you didn't even know what you were asking for, only that the friction wasn't enough anymore, only that the fabric between you was a barrier that your body was increasingly desperate to dissolve.
"I know," he breathed, and his hands flexed on your hips, guiding you, easing you into a slower, deeper grind that made you both gasp. "I know, baby, I know."
Baby. The word hit you like a physical thing, warm and weighted, and the way he said it, rough and reverent, like it had been sitting on his tongue for weeks waiting for permission to come out, made your hips stutter and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his t-shirt and a small, needy sound escape your lips that you couldn't have stopped if you'd tried.
"You feel so good," you whispered, and the admission came easier than it should have, your inhibitions eroded by the haze of sensation and the certainty that the boy beneath you was someone who would catch every vulnerable thing you dropped. "Mmgh, Jay, you feel—god, you feel so big."
A strangled sound escaped him, half-laugh, half-groan, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, palms covering the curve of you through the hoodie, fingers pressing into the plush softness with a grip that made your breath hitch and your spine arch. "You can't just—fuck—you can't just say things like that to me—"
"It's true," you breathed, rolling your hips again, slower, feeling every inch of him against you, and the words tumbled out without permission, fueled by the way his fingers were kneading your ass through the fabric with a desperation that matched your own. "You're so hard, Jay, I can feel all of you and you're so—"
He kissed you to shut you up, or maybe because he couldn't not kiss you, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that made the previous kisses feel like polite suggestions, his tongue sliding against yours with a slick, dirty insistence that made your toes curl and your hips grind down harder and your thoughts dissolve into a warm, wanting blur. His hands were everywhere on your lower half, squeezing, gripping, pulling you against him with each roll of your hips, and the wet sounds of your kissing and the muted creak of the chair beneath you and the broken, shared breathing filled the quiet room like a symphony composed in the key of desperation.
When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his lips were swollen and wet. His eyes were nearly black, the amber swallowed entirely by the blown-wide pupils, his chest was rising and falling with a heaviness that made you feel powerful and wrecked in equal measure. His right hand stayed on your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to dimple the fabric, but his left hand moved, traveled from your hip to the front of the hoodie, fingertips tracing up your stomach through the soft cotton, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, until his hand reached the hem of the hoodie where it bunched at your waist, and his fingers slipped beneath it.
The first touch of his bare fingers against the skin of your stomach made you shiver violently, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the way his hand was warm, moving downward with a slowness that was almost cruel. His fingertips traced the line of your waistband, his waistband, the plaid boxers, the fabric you were wearing because everything you owned was soaked through, ruined, and the only thing standing between his hand and the place you needed it most was a thin, faded layer of cotton that he'd bought at a store months ago and never thought would be worn by anyone but himself.
"Can I?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and low, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mixing with yours in the small space between your faces. His hand had stilled just above the hem of the boxers, his fingertips resting against the bare skin of your lower belly, and the question was so gentle, so Jay, even now, even with his other hand still gripping your ass, his hardness still pressing against you, and his breathing still ragged with want, he was still asking, still making sure, still putting your comfort above his own desperation, and the tenderness of it made your eyes sting, your heart clench, and your hips can’t forward into his palm in an answer that was more honest than words could ever be.
"Yes," you breathed. "Please, yes."
His hand slipped beneath the waistband.
The first brush of his fingers against you made a sharp, keening sound rip from your throat that you'd never made before, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than your lungs, somewhere primal and wanting and utterly unguarded. Jay groaned in response, a low, broken sound, and his fingers pressed more firmly against the damp fabric, feeling the wetness that had nothing to do with rain, and the heel of his palm ground against you and fuck—
"You're so wet," he breathed against your mouth, and the words were reverent and ragged and almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite comprehend that he was the cause of this, that the girl on his lap was this affected by him, by his hands and his mouth and the sound of his voice saying baby like it was the only word that mattered. "God, you're so wet for me already and I've barely touched you."
"You've been touching me," you managed, and your voice was unsteady, cracked down the middle by the slow, deliberate circles his fingers were drawing against you through the thin cotton. "You've been—ah—touching me this whole time, your hands on my—on my hips, on my ass, you've been—"
"Been driving you crazy?" he finished, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, knowing confidence that made you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure, and his fingers chose that moment to hook around the elastic of your underwear and tug it aside, the first touch of his bare fingers against your bare skin made every thought in your head evaporate like mist.
He explored you slowly at first, which was somehow worse than if he'd just plunged in and gotten to it, because his fingertips traced along the slick, swollen edges of you with a meticulous attention that felt like study, like he was memorizing you, learning you, cataloging every fold and every flutter and every place that made your breath catch or your hips jerk or your fingers dig harder into his shoulders. His middle finger slid through your wetness, gathering it, spreading it, and the obscene, slick sound of it combined with the feeling of his finger moving so close to where you needed it most and yet not quite there, not quite inside, was a form of torture so exquisite you almost sobbed.
"Jay, please—"
"Please what?" His voice was silk and gravel, his finger still drawing lazy, maddening patterns along your entrance, dipping just barely inside before retreating, a cruel, tantalizing hint of what was to come. "Use that pretty mouth for me, baby."
"I want—I want your fingers inside me, please, I need—"
He gave you what you wanted.
One finger slid inside, slow and deep and deliberate, and the stretch of it, the intrusion, the feeling of him entering you for the first time in any capacity, made your mouth fall open, your eyes squeeze shut, and a sound escape your throat that was somewhere between a moan and a cry. He was inside you, his finger, just one, but the girth of it, the length, the way it curled slightly as it pressed to the hilt, was enough to make your walls clench around him reflexively and your hips grind down against his hand seeking more, more, because one wasn't enough, not when you could feel how much more he had to give.
"Mmgh, that's it, baby," he groaned against your jaw, his lips brushing the skin there, his breath hot and unsteady. "Clench around me like the good girl you are."
The phrase hit you like a freight train. Good girl. Two words, spoken in that low, rough voice, with his finger inside you and his other hand still gripping your ass like he owned it, and you felt a fresh pulse of wetness coat his finger and your walls clamp down around him so hard that he hissed through his teeth and his own hips bucked up involuntarily beneath you.
"You like that," he observed, and it wasn't a question, and the quiet certainty in his voice, the way he'd clocked exactly what those words did to you and filed it away for future use, made you whine high and needy in the back of your throat. "You like when I tell you how good you're being for me."
"I like—I like everything you do," you gasped, and it was the most honest thing you'd ever said, because his finger was moving inside you now, curling and pressing and finding a spot that made your vision white out at the edges, your thighs tremble against his, and his thumb had found your clit and was drawing tight, devastating circles around it that made coherent thought impossible. "I like—oh god—I like you, I like your hands, I like—"
"Mm, like my fingers inside you?" His voice was filth, pure filth, spoken against the shell of your ear, and the warmth of his breath, the obscenity of the words, and the feeling of a second finger joining the first made your whole body seize and arch and press into his hand with a desperation that bordered on mindless.
Two fingers. The stretch was significant now, the girth of two of his fingers pressing into you, spreading you open, and the fullness of it, the pressure, the way his fingers moved in tandem, curling, thrusting, grinding against the spot inside you that made stars scatter behind your eyelids, was so overwhelmingly good that the sounds you were making weren't even words anymore, just a stream of whimpers and moans and broken syllables that spilled from your lips without your permission or your awareness. Your tongue was out, just slightly, your mouth open, your breathing ragged and wet and audible, and you were riding his hand now, your hips moving of their own accord, grinding down against his fingers, chasing the pleasure, and every roll of your hips pressed your ass into the grip of his other hand, which was squeezing and pulling you apart with a fervor that made you feel desired in a way you'd never felt before, like you were something precious, filthy, and his.
"You're so wet and so tight," he groaned, his fingers pumping into you with a steadiness that contradicted the tremor in his voice, the crack in his composure. "Squeeze me tight, baby, just like that—fuck—just like that, you're doing so good, you feel so fucking good—"
"I feel—you feel—" You couldn't finish the sentence, your brain unable to string together enough words to express the overwhelming, consuming, devastating pleasure of his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his other hand on your ass, and his voice in your ear saying things that would make your past self combust with embarrassment and your present self drip with more arousal onto his already-soaked fingers. "Jay—ugh—Jay, please, I need—I need more, I need you, I need—"
"You need me?" His fingers slowed, just slightly, and his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes finding yours, and the look in them was so intense, so burning, so full of love and lust and something fierce and protective that it stole the air from your lungs. "You need me where, baby? Tell me."
"Inside me," you whispered, and the words came out trembling and true and stripped of every layer of pretense you'd ever worn. "Not your fingers. I need—I need your cock inside me. Please."
Something in Jay's expression fractured. You watched it happen, watched the last thread of his restraint snap like a guitar string pulled too tight, watched his jaw clench and his nostrils flare and his eyes darken to something feral and desperate, and then his fingers withdrew from you, dragging through your wetness, leaving you empty and aching. Both hands came to your hips, gripping hard, steadying you, and he stood up from the chair in one fluid motion, lifting you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locking around his neck, and he carried you the four steps to the bed and laid you down on the mattress with a gentleness that was almost incongruous with the hunger in his eyes.
He stood over you for a moment, just looking, his chest heaving, his hair falling across his forehead in damp, messy strands, his sweats tented obscenely, and the visual of him, this boy, this man, who you'd watched from across lecture halls and sat beside in study rooms and fake-dated for months, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing, made you reach for him with both hands, your fingers closing around the hem of his t-shirt and tugging.
"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked and breathless.
He came. He stripped his t-shirt over his head in one swift motion and dropped it somewhere — floor, chair, another dimension, you didn't care, couldn't care, because his chest was bare, his abdomen was lean and toned, his skin was glowing warm in the lamplight, and then he was climbing over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his hands on either side of your head, and he was kissing you again, deep and dirty and consuming, his bare chest pressing against the hoodie, and you could feel his heart pounding against yours, or yours against his, or both, both, both.
"Wait," he said against your mouth, and he pulled back just enough to look down at you, at the hoodie, at his hoodie stretched across your body, the fabric that carried his scent and his shape and now you inside of it, and something in his expression went soft and hungry and utterly undone. "You have no idea what you look like right now."
"I look like I'm wearing your clothes—"
"You look like you're mine," he said, and the word came out rough and low and proprietary in a way that should have made your feminist sensibilities bristle but instead made lava flood through your veins and pool molten and insistent between your legs. "You look like you belong to me, and I've never—god—I've never been so horny for anyone the way I am for you right now. The way I've been for you this whole time. Every time you wore my jacket, every time you pulled it around yourself and it swallowed you whole and you looked at me from inside it like you were safe there—I wanted to put you on every flat surface I could find and—"
"Then do it," you interrupted, breathless, bold, your hands sliding down his bare chest, feeling the heat and the firmness and the slight tremor of his muscles beneath your palms. "Stop telling me and show me."
His breath hitched. His eyes searched yours for a single, electric second, and then he was kissing you again, and his hands were on the hoodie, pushing it up, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric and finding your bare waist and climbing higher, higher, until his palms covered your breasts, the feeling of his warm, slightly rough hands cupping you, squeezing gently, his thumbs tracing the swell of you above the cups, made you arch into his touch with a whine that vibrated against his lips.
"Off," he said against your mouth, and it took you a confused moment to realize he was talking about the hoodie, and then his hands were gripping the hem and pulling it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it off you, the soft grey fabric sliding over your head and your arms and joining his t-shirt on the floor, and the cool air of the room hit your bare skin for exactly one second before his mouth was on you, his lips pressing to your collarbone, your chest, your breasts, and his hands were everywhere, warm and big and eager, kneading and caressing and exploring the territory they'd been denied for months with a thoroughness that left you gasping and trembling and threading your fingers through his hair and holding on.
"Loved you in the hoodie," he murmured against your sternum, his breath hot and damp, his lips dragging across your skin between words. "Love you out of it, too. Love you every way you come. I want you every way you'll let me have you."
"Have me," you breathed. "All of me. Every—ah—every way."
His hands were on your bare breasts, palming them, cupping them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a slow, firm pressure that sent lightning bolts of pleasure shooting straight down your body to the place where you were wet and swollen and desperate and aching, and you were making sounds again. You couldn't stop making sounds, couldn't stop the whimpers and the moans and the small, keening ah, ah, ahs that fell from your lips every time his thumbs circled or his fingers squeezed or his mouth dipped down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breast. Your back was arched, your hips were grinding against nothing, seeking friction, seeking him, and the desperation of it, the mindlessness of it, would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, but you didn't, you'd left it on that sidewalk in the rain along with every wall you'd ever built.
"Jay, please," you gasped, your hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, your fingers clumsy and urgent and trembling. "I need you, I need you inside me, I can't—please—"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of you, bare from the waist up, your chest heaving, your lips swollen, your eyes glazed with want, wearing nothing but his red plaid boxers, made him exhale shakily and press his forehead against yours and whisper, "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Then die happy," you managed, and he laughed, even in the middle of this, even with his cock straining against his sweats, his hands on your bare breasts, your fingers in his waistband, and the sound was so warm and so him that it made your heart ache even as your body burned.
He stood, just for a moment, and pushed his sweats and boxers down in one motion, and then he was bare before you, fully bare, and the sight of him, all of him, the lean lines of his hips and the firm planes of his abdomen and his cock, hard and thick and curving slightly upward toward his stomach, the tip flushed and glistening, made your mouth go dry and your breath catch and a single, overwhelmed thought crystallize in the haze of your desire: who knew the campus heartthrob had such a big dick?
You'd imagined, of course. You were only human, and Jay was — well, Jay, and the rumors that circulated through campus gossip were as persistent as they were impossible to verify, and you'd filed them away under "things that were none of your business" even during the weeks when your business and his had become increasingly entangled. But the reality of him, the generous length, the substantial girth, and the way it twitched under your gaze, the tip leaking a bead of moisture that caught the amber lamplight, it exceeded every rumor, every imagined scenario, every late-night thought you'd dismissed as wishful thinking the morning after.
"You're staring," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, confident smile, but there was vulnerability underneath it too, the vulnerability of someone exposing himself, in every sense, to the person whose opinion mattered most.
"I'm appreciating," you corrected, and your voice was hoarse and your eyes were still fixed on him, and you reached out, your fingers wrapping around him, and the sound he made, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily into your grip, was the single most intoxicating thing you'd ever heard. "You're—mm, Jay, you're really—you're so—"
"Stop," he breathed, but it wasn't a command, it was a plea, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress on either side of your hips like he was holding on for dear life. "If you keep talking and touching me like that I'm not going to last long enough to—"
"Then don't make me wait," you whispered, and you released him and reached for him instead, your hands finding his shoulders and pulling him down toward you, and he came willingly, eagerly, his body covering yours, his weight settling between your thighs, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was gentler than the moment called for, slower, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips the same way he'd memorized everything else about you.
He shifted your positions then, his hands on your hips, guiding you, and you understood without being told, he wanted you on top. He settled back against the pillows, his head on the cushioned headboard, his hands on your waist, and he looked up at you with those dark, burning eyes and said, "I want to see you. I want to watch you. I want you to take what you need."
Your heart stuttered. Your hands were trembling as you straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips, the red plaid boxers still loose around your thighs, and you hooked your thumbs under the elastic of both, his boxers and yours, and tugged them down just enough, just far enough, and the cool air hit the slick, swollen heat of you and you shivered. Then you were positioned above him, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and the anticipation of it, the size of it, made your breath come short and your fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Slow," he said, his hands steady on your hips, steadying you, grounding you. "As slow as you need. I've got you."
You sank down.
The first inch made you both gasp, you at the stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him pressing into you, the girth spreading you open wider than his fingers had prepared you for; him at the wet, tight heat of you wrapping around the most sensitive part of him, the clench of your walls drawing a broken, guttural “fuck” from his throat that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. You paused, breathing through it, adjusting, and his hands rubbed slow circles into your hips, his thumbs tracing the crease where your thighs met your hips, so patient even though you could see the strain in his jaw and the tendons in his neck and the way his knuckles were white with the effort of not grabbing you and pulling you down the rest of the way.
"More," you breathed, and you lowered yourself another inch, and another, and the stretch was intense, almost too much, the kind of fullness that bordered on pain and pleasure in equal measure, and your face must have shown it because Jay's hand came up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his voice coming out soft and concerned beneath the raw need.
"You okay? We can stop, we can—"
"Don’t stop," you said fiercely, and you dropped your hips the rest of the way, taking all of him, and the sound that ripped from your throat was something between a scream and a moan, loud, broken, and utterly beyond your control, and the sound that echoed from his was its mirror — a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his head thrown back against the headboard, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough that you knew there would be bruises shaped like his hands tomorrow, and you would press each one in the mirror and remember this moment.
Full. You were so full, impossibly, overwhelmingly full, stretched to your limit around him, and he was big, bigger than you'd even thought from looking, because looking and feeling were two entirely different universes of experience, and the feeling of him inside you, the heat and the hardness and the way your walls clenched and fluttered and tried to accommodate the intrusion, was so much, too much, exactly enough. You stayed still for a moment, both of you breathing, both of you adjusting, both of you existing in the space between anticipation and motion where the world narrows to a single point of connection.
Then you moved.
You lifted your hips, slow, feeling every inch of him sliding against your inner walls, the drag of him exquisite and maddening, and then you sank back down, and the angle pressed him against that spot inside you, that spot, the one his fingers had found earlier, the one that made your eyes roll and your breath stutter and a high, keening whine escape your lips, and the pleasure was so sharp, so blinding, so sudden that your body acted before your brain could intervene. You bounced again, faster, harder, chasing that feeling, and the sound of your bodies meeting, the slick, wet slap of skin against skin, the obscene squelch of him moving inside your wetness, filled the room alongside the symphony of your shared moans.
"Fuck—" Jay's voice was shattered, breathless, his hands gripping your hips but letting you set the pace, letting you ride him, letting you use him for your pleasure, and the sight of you above him, bare and lost in it, your head thrown back, your lips parted, your breasts bouncing with every movement, was unraveling him from the inside out. "You feel so fucking good, you're so—god, you're so tight, you're squeezing me so hard, baby—"
"I can't help it," you gasped, and you couldn't, your walls were clenching around him involuntarily with every thrust, every grind, every time he hit that spot that made your brain short-circuit, and the clenching made him groan and the groaning made you clench harder and the feedback loop of it was driving you both toward an edge that was coming too fast and not fast enough. "You're so—you're so big, Jay, I can feel you so deep, you're hitting—ah—you're hitting right there, right there, don't stop, please don't—"
"I'm not stopping," he growled, and his hands moved from your hips to your breasts, palming them, squeezing them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a firm, deliberate pressure that sent shockwaves of pleasure cascading through your body, converging with the pleasure building between your thighs, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that you barely registered the shift in his posture until his arm was around your neck.
Not choking, never choking, you trusted him with your life and your body and every fragile thing you'd ever held, but holding, his bicep curling around the side of your neck, his forearm resting along your collarbone, his hand coming to cup the opposite shoulder, and the position, the possessiveness of it, the intimacy of it, the way it pressed your body flush against his chest and kept you close and controlled and his, made something wild, needy, and desperate claw its way up from the pit of your stomach and out through your mouth in a long, shuddering whine that you muffled against the side of his neck.
"I've got you," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and damp, his voice a low, devastating rumble that you felt in your bones, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, and the new angle, the new depth, the new force of him driving into you from below made you sob against his skin. "I've got you, baby, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere—you feel so good wrapped around me like this, so fucking good, taking me so well—"
"Jay—" His name was a plea and the only word left in your vocabulary, repeated over and over against the warm skin of his neck between wet, open-mouthed kisses and whimpers and the small, helpless sounds that were being fucked out of you with every thrust. "Jay, Jay, Jay—you feel so good, you make me feel so good, I've never—I've never felt like this, you're so deep, you're so—oh god—you're so big, how are you so—fuck—"
"Yeah?" His voice was gravel and fire against your ear, and his arm tightened fractionally around your neck, just enough to make your head spin and your body sing, and his hips pistoned up into you with a rhythm that was losing its steadiness, becoming rougher, more desperate, more animal. "You like how big I am? You like feeling me deep inside this tight little pussy? Squeezing me so good, baby, fuck—you're gonna make me come if you keep making those sounds—"
"What sounds—" you tried to ask, but the question dissolved into a moan so filthy and so loud that you would have been mortified if you had any mortification left, but you didn't, it was all gone, burned away by the heat of him and the grip of him and the relentless, devastating pleasure of him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over until your vision was blurring. Your thighs were trembling, your fingers were clawing at his back, and your sounds — the whimpers, the moans, the broken ah ah ahs, the way your tongue was out and your mouth was open and you were practically drooling with the overwhelming, consuming, ruinous pleasure of it, were filling the room and his ear and his consciousness until there was nothing else in the world but you and him and this.
"Those sounds," he answered, his voice fractured, wrecked, barely recognizable as the composed, collected boy who'd charmed an entire campus without trying. "Those—fuck—those sweet little whines, the way you're moaning my name, the way you can't even—you can't even talk, can you? Too full of me to think, aren't you, baby?"
"Yes—" It came out as a sob, honest and raw, your forehead pressed against his neck, your body bouncing on his cock with a desperation that had abandoned all rhythm and restraint, your hips moving faster, harder, chasing the peak that was building inside you like a wave pulling away from shore, gathering size and force and inevitability. "Yes, I can't—I can't think, you feel too good, you're too —god—you're too big, you're so deep, I'm—Jay, I'm close, I'm so close—"
"Me too," he breathed, and his arm around your neck shifted, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, and he held you against him, your face pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder, his face pressed to the crown of your head, the way he was holding you like something precious even while his hips were driving into you with an intensity that bordered on savage, made your chest crack open wider than it already was, made the pleasure in your body merge with the love in your heart until they were the same thing, the same overwhelming, consuming, impossible force, and you were crying again, you realized distantly, not from sadness but from fullness, from too much, from the impossible, miraculous reality of being loved, fucked, and held all at once by the same person, by the person you loved, by the person who loved you back.
"Jay—" you whined, high and desperate. Your walls were clenching around him in rapid, involuntary pulses that signaled the approaching edge, and his hips were stuttering, his rhythm falling apart, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps against your hair. "Jay, I'm—I'm gonna—"
"Me too, baby, me too," he gasped, and his hand tightened in your hair, and his other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you impossibly closer, deeper, his cock buried to the hilt inside you and his hips grinding up against you in tight, desperate circles that pressed against your clit with every movement. "Come for me, I've got you, come on my cock, let me feel you—"
And then, just before the wave broke, just before the edge crumbled beneath you, just before your orgasm crashed through you like a storm making landfall, he whispered it.
"I love you."
Oh my god.
Not love you. Not the shorthand version he'd been using for months, the lazy, abbreviated thing that let him say it without really saying it, that kept the I out of it, that kept the confession at arm's length where it was safe and deniable and less terrifying than the full, unedited truth. I love you. With the I. For the first time. The most important word in the sentence, the word that made it a declaration instead of a throwaway, the word that turned it from something you could brush off into something you had to catch and hold and carry with you for the rest of your life, and he said it right there, right then, with his cock inside you and his arms around you and your body on the edge of the most intense pleasure you'd ever felt, and the shock of it, the staggering, breathtaking gift of it, was what pushed you over.
You came with a cry that broke in the middle, his name and a sob tangled together into a sound that was neither and both, and your walls clenched around him in rhythmic, devastating waves that pulled and squeezed and milked him with an intensity that ripped a sound from from his chest that you'd never heard before, raw, loud, unrestrained, his head thrown back, his jaw clenched and his entire body rigid beneath you and inside you and around you, and then he was coming too, his hips jerking up into yours in erratic, desperate thrusts, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot and filling, and the feeling of him coming inside you, the warmth of it spreading through you, the intimacy of it, no barrier, no distance, nothing between you but skin and the shared, shuddering aftermath of something that had changed you both, made your orgasm intensify rather than fade, a second wave cresting on the heels of the first, and you were both gasping, trembling, and holding onto each other with a ferocity that suggested letting go would mean falling off the edge of the earth.
The aftershocks rolled through you in diminishing pulses, your walls still fluttering around him, his cock still twitching inside you, your bodies still pressed together from chest to hip, neither of you willing to create even an inch of distance. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the rain against the window, which had never stopped, which had been the soundtrack to the entire night from sidewalk to confession to this, this moment, this bed, this body against yours, this love made physical and undeniable and real.
He was still inside you. Softening, but still there, still filling you, still connected, and the warmth of him inside you, the physical proof of what had just happened, made you squeeze around him reflexively and him hiss in oversensitive response, and the small exchange was so intimate, so coupled, that it made you press your face into his neck and breathe him in and whisper, against his pulse, "I love you too. With the I. I love y—wait, no. I love you more."
His arms tightened around you. His chest expanded with a breath that seemed to fill him entirely, a breath that had been waiting, maybe, since the first time he'd said those words without the I and wondered if you noticed the omission, and the exhale that followed was warm and slow and carried with it a tension you hadn't realized he'd been holding until it was gone.
"Mm, good," he murmured into your hair, and his voice was hoarse and raw and smiling, and the hand in your hair stroked gently, absently, the way you'd stroke something you'd been terrified of losing and were now learning you could hold. "Good. I meant it, by the way. Every time I said it before, I meant it. I just—I wasn't brave enough to include myself in the sentence."
You woke up to the smell of butter.
Not perfume-butter, not the artificial, movie-theater approximation of butter, but real butter, the kind that sizzled and popped and went golden-brown in a pan, the kind that meant someone was cooking something that would be terrible for you and perfect in every other way. Your face was pressed into a pillow, the sheets were tangled around your bare legs, and the space beside you on the mattress was empty but still warm. The amber lamp had been turned off at some point during the night and replaced by the grey-white morning light filtering through the curtains, and you lay there for a long, suspended moment with your eyes closed and your cheek against the pillowcase, breathing in, breathing out, letting the reality of the night before settle over you like a second skin.
Then the smell of butter intensified, and your stomach growled loud enough that it echoed off the headboard, and you opened your eyes.
The bedroom was soft in the morning light, quieter and less cinematic than it had been in the amber glow of the lamp, but somehow more real for it. The chair in the corner where it had all started was just a chair again. The bed was just a bed, albeit one with rumpled sheets and the clear evidence of two people who had spent the night learning each other in ways that went far beyond the physical. Your clothes, his clothes, the grey hoodie and the red plaid boxers, were folded neatly on the nightstand, and next to them was a fresh glass of water, two Advil, and a small sticky note with handwriting that made your chest ache:
Eyepatch for the puffy eyes is in the bathroom cabinet. Left side, second shelf. Take the pills. Come find me when you're ready ❤︎
You took the pills. You found the eyepatch, which turned out to be under-eye gel patches, not a pirate costume, and you pressed them under your eyes and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror and looked exactly like what you were: a girl who had cried in the rain, confessed her love, had incredible sex, and slept in the bed of the boy who loved her back, in that order. The gel patches were cold, soothing, and you left them on while you pulled the hoodie over your head and stepped into the boxers and padded barefoot down the hallway toward the smell of butter and the sound of something sizzling.
Jay was at the stove.
He was shirtless, still in his sweats, his hair doing that thing it did in the mornings where it stuck up in the back at an angle that defied physics and dignity in equal measure, and he was holding a spatula and frowning at a pan with the concentrated intensity of someone performing neurosurgery rather than making a sandwich. The kitchen was warm and golden with natural light, and the butter was crackling, and there were two plates on the counter and a pot of tomato soup simmering on the back burner, and the scene was so unexpectedly, devastatingly domestic that you stopped in the hallway entrance and pressed your palm flat against your sternum as if you could physically hold your heart in place.
He hadn't seen you yet. He was focused on the sandwich, lifting the edge with the spatula to check the browning on the bottom, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like come on, come on, don't burn, don't you dare, and the tenderness of it, the sight of this boy, the one the entire campus tripped over themselves to get close to, standing shirtless in his kitchen at ten in the morning carefully monitoring a grilled cheese sandwich as if it were the most important task he'd ever undertaken, made something bloom in your chest so suddenly and so fully that you were moving before you decided to move.
You crossed the kitchen in five quick steps on your bare feet, rose up on your tip-toes, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw.
He was actually startled, the spatula jerking, his shoulder jumping, a small whoa escaping him, and then he turned his head and saw you and the startled expression dissolved into something so warm, so open, so unguardedly happy that you rose up on your tip-toes again and kissed him properly, on the mouth, soft, slow, tasting like nothing at all except morning and him and the quiet, unbelievable joy of getting to do this.
"Hi," you said against his lips.
"Hi," he said back, and he was smiling, you could feel it, the curve of his mouth against yours, and his free hand, the one not holding the spatula, came to rest on your hip over the hoodie, his thumb tracing a small, absent circle against the fabric. "You slept late."
"You wore me out," you said, and the words came out without thinking, and then the meaning of them caught up with you and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks, and Jay's smile widened against your mouth and he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips and said, "Nice," with such quiet, satisfied certainty that you had to bury your face in his bare shoulder to hide the fact that you were grinning like an idiot.
He finished the grilled cheese, two of them, golden, crispy, and oozing cheese from the edges, cut diagonally because, as he informed you when you raised an eyebrow, "diagonal is the correct cut, this isn't a negotiation,” and poured the tomato soup into two mugs, and you carried everything to the couch and settled into the cushions with your legs folded beneath you. The hoodie pooled around your thighs, the warm mug between your palms, and Jay sat close enough that your knees overlapped and his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you, not quite around you but undeniably there, a warm, steady presence that made the couch feel smaller and safer and more like home than any piece of furniture had a right to.
You ate. The sandwich was perfect — buttery, crunchy, the cheese pulling in long strings when you bit into it, the soup warm and rich and exactly the right thing for a morning when your body was sore in unfamiliar places, your eyes were still slightly swollen, and your heart was so full it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Jay ate his sandwich in three bites, which was both impressive and horrifying, and then he stole one of your untouched halves and ate that too, and you let him because you were too full, too content, and too busy watching the way the morning light caught the line of his jaw to summon the energy for indignation.
The TV was on but the volume was low, some morning show neither of you were watching, and Jay picked up the remote and navigated to Netflix and handed you the remote with a look that said your pick, and you scrolled. You scrolled through the usual suspects, the true crime documentaries you'd been meaning to watch, the romantic comedy that kept appearing in your recommendations with an algorithmic stubbornness that felt almost personal, the K-drama Jay pretended not to be interested in but always watched over your shoulder when you put it on, the nature documentary with the dramatic voiceover, the animated series, the cooking competition, the vintage sitcom, the new release with the ominous thumbnail, and the sheer, absurd abundance of it, the endless scroll of options that you'd never have time to watch, became its own form of entertainment, the two of you debating the merits of each option with the lazy, low-stakes passion of people who had nowhere to be and no one to impress and all the time in the world to decide.
You'd narrowed it down to three candidates when Jay's phone buzzed.
The sound was sharp and specific, the particular vibration pattern he'd set for family messages, and it cut through the comfortable haze of the morning like a pin through a soap bubble. Jay reached for the phone on the coffee table, swiped it open, and you watched his expression change, the easy, post-sleep warmth in his eyes sharpening into something more focused, his brow furrowing as he read, his jaw setting in a way you'd come to recognize as his tell for something he didn't want to deal with.
"Oh my god, you have to be kidding me," he muttered, and there was a note in his voice — not anger, exactly, but something adjacent to it, the exasperation of a person who'd just been handed an obligation he hadn't asked for and couldn't refuse.
"What's wrong?" You lowered the remote, the Netflix menu forgotten, the three candidate movies suddenly the least important thing in the world.
He turned the screen toward you.
The message was from his mother — you recognized the contact name, the formal Mom with no emoji, no affectionate modifier, just the word itself, clean and unadorned, the way Jay said she preferred most things. The text read:
Mom [10:49 AM]: Jongseong, bring Y/N to the summer estate in two weeks time. Your uncle can't make it this weekend.
And then, directly beneath it, as if the first sentence were merely logistical preamble to the real point:
Mom [10:49 AM]: If you're so serious about her, it's time the entire family met her.
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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ i like me better by lauv
𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : hi again hoonguin nation !!! unfortunately i did grow attached to this fic somewhere along the way & there are still so so so many things i have yet to put 🙁 no i didn’t put them here because too much would’ve been happening already . . there’ll definitely be a part two soon because i don’t leave you guys hanging 😘
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
⋮ ⌗ ┆概要⨾ a question in morality faces faultless uni student, yang jungwon. a man with the brains and charisma to fit wherever he pleases ─ just not by your side. ❪playlist❫
梁祯元 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 27.5k
explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、cheating themes (emotional cheating, no physical cheating)、college/university au、dom!jungwon、sub!reader、morally grey characters、misogynistic languages & themes (the portrayal of any characters here does not reflect their real life character)、won's in his head a lot...and a bit obsessive 🙃、reader is sunoo's cousin、alcohol consumption、mentions of and scenes of recreactional drug use (weed)、slow burn、mentions of a car accident、degradation/humiliation、corruption(ish) kink、virginity loss (f.)、inexperienced!reader、experienced!jungwon、biting/marking、vaginal fingering、finger sucking、cum swallowing、multiple orgasms (f. rec)、unprotected sex (don't do this)、creampie、breeding kink、petnames used: angel、baby、princess、sweet/pretty girl、⌇ℳ.list
── guest appearances by: enhypen、isa (stayc)、yuna (itzy)、kazuha (lesserafim)、oc named jaehyun (reader's boyfriend)
⋮ ⌗ ┆便条⨾ this monster of a fic 😭 since it's set in the world of cheater!hoon, i expected it to be a cool 8-10k. but of course, that didn't happen and here we are now 😁 this is halfway edited...because if i look at this any longer, i won't post it 😭 in any case, i will be back to edit more soon, but in the meantime, i hope you can enjoy this for what it attempts to tell as well as look forward to the last installment where sunghoon and jungwon get up to no good ^_^ until then, much loveeeeee! <333
Jungwon is troubled by a moral dilemma, being yours when three's a crowd. Your boyfriend is a constant thorn in his side, damned into irrelevancy but clawing back with a type of vengeance leaving bitter ash in Jungwon's mouth. The same distaste he attempts hiding at the stories you tell, the supposed happy pictures cluttering your feed. Happiness shines in your eyes, so pure and abundant. And yet, in your boyfriend's…his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, something dark hidden behind them. A pretence - a thin veil eclipsing true intentions Jungwon's yet to figure out. It drives him into slight delirium, seeing a variable he can't account for, knowing no good can come from it.
Then again, there's no good in being with Jungwon, that is something he can admit. But he can also acknowledge that if your boyfriend didn't exist, he would give you everything. If you asked, it'd be yours in a heartbeat. Over and over again before the thought of him or anyone else could cross his mind.
At least in this regard, he can say his intentions are pure. The same cannot be said for your boyfriend, who when finally revealed for who he really is, brings you soaked in downpour at Jungwon's doorstep. A smaller version streaked down your cheeks, collapsing your body in grief towards the man who hates how braced he is for this.
Jungwon wishes this could've come at different price - the void of your pain, the simplicity of it all. A muddle of good and bad blurring into the grey he's been swimming in since he'd laid eyes on you. And, as the soft salt lamp light casts across the soft landscape of your skin, looking like every bit of heaven in Jungwon's attic bedroom, he realises he's stirred long enough in his moral dilemma. Because what is a better confrontation than through?
It starts on an unimportant Thursday. On the blue carpet of their accommodation's foyer floor, where just the night before they'd been throwing back shots so fast it's a miracle they'd gotten into the club, much less found their way there. They're paying the price for it now, slumped in day old sweats shovelling greasy takeout food into their mouths, hoping their queasy stomachs can absorb anything non alcoholic.
"Okay," Sunoo concludes, the older of the three holding up a fried chip. "I admit: Sambuca is a better shot than Vodka but," he blows a raspberry. "In smaller amounts."
"Agreed." Jungwon murmurs, his thousand yard stare cast with a mindless burger-bite. Just the right amount of grease. He groans.
"You guys are pussies," Riki's eyes roll, stealing Sunoo's chips. Then dipping them into his strawberry milkshake. Jungwon looks away before he hurls.
"We are not the same clearly," Sunoo establishes, index finger wagging between him and Jungwon. "Jungwon and I know when to quit. You…drink from an unknown bottle outside the club at 4 am."
"That was really bad, I admit," Riki nods his head into the wall he's propped against, toying with his chain bracelets. "At least it wasn't spiked or anything. We had that nice little DMC on the curb too. You win some, you lose some."
The incredulous huff Sunoo does mirrors Jungwon's, eyes caught over in a smile of disbelief. "Let's not gamble with our lives, okay?" Sunoo's hand braces on Riki's shoulder, finally eating his chip with the other. "Just don't pull that shit when she's here,"
Jungwon remembers. "Oh, your visitor?"
"Is she hot?" Riki asks, because he has to.
"She's my cousin."
"My point still stands," the takeout bag echoes with Riki's rummaging, teeth bared to rip open some tomato sauce. "Actually, she can't be, right? Since she's related to you."
Sunoo shoots daggers. "I should kill you."
"It'll get me out my next exam, go ahead," Riki only shrugs, only to pause halfway through. "Actually, don't. I've got tickets to see Carti and Abel in the summer."
"And Abel," Jungwon whispers, chuckle bleeding into his hoodie's arm. For how reserved Riki is, parasocialism lives loudly in him, speaking as if he's familiar enough with the Weeknd to refer to him as Abel.
Jungwon has to bury his face, his hangover amplifying his laughter.
"My God, my exam is tomorrow," his fingers card through his loose curls, tugging at dark roots. "Why did I go out?"
"First year doesn't count."
Sunoo lifts his head, looking particularly drained. "I'm in second year."
"What the fuck?" Riki jerks back. Then Jungwon watches the light bulb go off. "Yeah, wait - you are. Yo, you need to get a grip ─ first years can't be bullying you into nights out."
"Says the guy who'd break down my door if I didn't come out for pres."
After a few more chews, Jungwon clears his throat, changing the subject. "She's staying the weekend?"
"Yeah. She'll be down tomorrow night and leave sometime Sunday," he explains, tenderness blooming across his face. The staircase light streaming through its leading glass door catches it, the foyer doused in early evening darkness, distant elevators dings announcing their destination. "I'll take her to the city on Saturday - give her another incentive to like the place."
"Another incentive?" Riki steals another chip.
"It's a long story."
"She's coming here for uni then?" Jungwon clarifies.
"Most likely," his response follows with a shake of the head, noticed by Jungwon. "In any case, we'll probably do bottomless brunch that day so if you guys are around, we could all have a drink when we're back."
"Let me get this Sambuca out my system first," Jungwon grins over his burger, stretching his legs to touch soles with the youngest of their three. Riki's nose scrunches, bringing more laughter out Jungwon. "But I'll be around."
"Me too."
"Thanks guys," Sunoo's cheeks bunch up in that rosy, pleased way. His gaze shifts back to his chips, of which there are none. "Where'd all my chips go?"
Not so discreetly, Riki shoves the last milkshake covered chip in his mouth, caught with a wail from Sunoo who lunges at him.
"Rikiiiii!"
Jungwon actually forgets you're meant to show. The exam he has the following Tuesday dials in his focus, tucking him away in the quiet library corners on a sparse Friday night. When he's trekking back to his residence of the year, he hears the faint buzz of a club night, admittedly dulled by exam session's tension but still palpable in the tipsy girls zooming past him, shimmering in their glittery tops as they giggle about the pres they're late for. It's the kind of lax Jungwon wishes he'd give himself, so rotted in the high hopes people have for him - overachieving, athletic, oh so friendly - he can't take a day off, doesn't allow himself to.
Existing for others weighs heavily today, a gnawing knot in his neck he massages while weaving through the path leading to his accommodation, wanting nothing more but to collapse into his bed and watch a movie. At least he knew what to expect then. He's rummaging in his coat pocket, a slight annoyance in grazes instead of grapples before his head shoots up, the call of his name earning attention.
In the grassy patch of land outside his staggering accommodation presents a somewhat usual sight. Sunoo, with his green zip-up sleeves rolled up, waving a friendly hand his way, smile to match. Except he's not alone.
You're there. Painted in hues of late afternoon sunlight, streaking gold into your hair, conjuring something mythical in your eyes, twinkle vast in them as your gaze sets on him. A strange thing happens in those seconds. Perhaps a skipped heartbeat or a flutter in his chest, an unknown coming in hot and fast, a flash of emotions he doesn't want to name. You're shy, he observes as your eyes dart soon afterwards, a hand grated against your jeans when eye-contact overwhelms you, circling back again because he stays. Lingers long after he starts his conversation with Sunoo.
"What you guys doing out here?"
"Riki had his door open, so I took his ball," Sunoo supplies, the football tucked at his side, set on the ground with his foot over it. "We'd do this all time when the weather was like this, playing until our moms came out moaning about mosquito bites and the grass stains we'd help get out,"
Sunoo giggles at the memory, hand over his whiskered cheeks before his eyes take on a comically large shape.
"Oh God, where are my manners?" The same hand splays over his chest, gestured in the space between you and Jungwon. "This is the guy I was talking to you about, my flatmate, Jungwon."
Sunoo introduces you, says your name. Jungwon tests the syllables on his tongue, mouth running dry. "Been friends for almost a year and I'm still your flatmate?"
The harmless tease earns him a slap on the shoulder, smile smug as he extends his hand over to you, shaking it despite the jolt of electricity conjured in your pressed palms. "Sunoo's cousin, right?"
"Yes," you confirm, sugar cookie sweet. It's how your voice plays in Jungwon's ears, haunting him longer than he expects, the current of your pressed skin never forgotten as his hand comes to his side again, a look cast between you and Sunoo.
"Mind if I join?"
"You're not tired from the library?" Sunoo quizzes, ball rolling out from his foot, treading to where you've created distance.
It's not intentional. His eyes just happen to find yours, foot coming down on the football as your eyes find his. A lone lip corner ticks, lifting upwards as he relays.
"I've got energy to spare."
And he does, their trio forming a pointed triangle shape, Jungwon closest to you as the ball gets kicked around, picking up mud specks Riki will rant about later, but it's worth it. Talking with you is worth the earful when he gets to learn more about you, the soft sounds of Sunoo's playlist humming amidst your nearby belongings.
You're in the middle of firming between one of three uni choices, an addition to seeing Sunoo again presenting the option of seeing the campus of one. You plan on studying Astronomy, have a thing for stars as seen on the star charm on your bracelet and the app on your phone you show him when Sunoo needs a break, chugging water from his Owala bottle. Your shoulders brush in the interaction, Jungwon's figure towering over you as he peers into your phone, focusing on your words, but it frays. Simmers down to your manicured nail pointing out the intricacies of the app he'll download later, camera lens pointed to the sky when you show him the constellations it outlines. Your perfume mists in the movement, something like brown sugar and marshmallow together ─ S'mores, he'll learn later on because your sweet tooth bleeds over into other aspects of your life. Your scent, your words, your actions. He notes it all and when he attempts archiving them in the hoard of his mind, he halts. Questions what to label such a thing. It's attraction, that part he understands, but Jungwon's mindful. Of Sunoo's presence looming protectively over you, hollering in the set sun that you should head inside, relaying the same information your mothers relayed about mosquito bites.
He also remembers Sunoo's words, about the other incentive swaying your decision and his mind, like it always does, takes it and runs. Mulls over possibilities, deliberates what the consequences of making his attraction known. If you'd reciprocate, if his extends beyond a harmless kiss or remains satisfied with pressed lips.
Miraculously, the file sorting stops. More so done when your voice pierces through his muddle of thoughts, his backpack hauled onto his shoulders again, looking your way as the football rests against your hip.
"We're planning on watching a movie after this," you mention, a curve to your lips dashed in timidity. His teeth ache to sink. "Did you wanna…join?"
The invitation fills his chest with a warm light, head tilted with mischief interfering. "Depends,"
You give your side profile, eyebrow arched with the same grin. "I can be a bit snobbish about movies."
"He's all about psychological thrillers," Sunoo rolls his eyes, turning his speaker off. "You'd swear he's studying Psychology with all the stuff docked into his Letterboxd."
"You have Letterboxd too?" He nods. Then takes initiative.
"You'll have to show me your profile," he insists. Walking alongside you, shoulders brushing again. Your breath hitches, peering up at him with the shake of your pupils as he adds. "This depends on what your favourite four films are."
"This?"
"How well we'll get along," he supplies, filtering into the lift, leaning against its back rail. "That's what Sunoo would want, right?"
"I'd hope so if you're coming here next year," he hikes a thumb over his shoulder, at Jungwon. "I'm in a house with him and Riki next year, so."
Jungwon drops onto Sunoo, a yelp dashing amusement amidst Jungwon's features as he slings an arm around Sunoo. "You'll be seeing a lot more of us."
It's a promise he sees linger on your mind, present when you've gone and rejoined in Sunoo's room, his door pinned open as Sunoo sets up his monitor to a movie night, Riki invited but already having plans with other friends to hotbox their car. Jungwon doesn't mind. After all, with Sunoo's back to you, he gets to inch close to you, comparing Letterboxd entries, laughing at some but pleasantly surprised by others. You have a lot of crossover, and he lets it be known, a harmless comment turning your head away, as if he hadn't seen the curve of your lips beforehand.
And when Sunoo's set-up is good to go, Jungwon doesn't persist. Lets Sunoo sandwich in between your bodies, offering butter popcorn you have a thing for and the movie plays, darkness dominating the space if not for the muted tones cast across your faces throughout, your face not forgotten even after you turn in for the night, Jungwon retreating to his room.
Collapsing onto his bed, he sees his notes from earlier. Also sees you. The sterling sliver of your bracelet, the hair against your nape, the aversion of your eyes, a hidden smile. He'd let it co-exist with the race of his thoughts, if not for their unusual lull, gratitude in his chest as he rests easy for the first time in years.
You're at bottomless brunch like Sunoo mentioned, flooding his Instagram story with scenery pictures and the obscene amount of cocktails you cycle through, Sunoo's words less coherent as the glasses pile. There's one video Jungwon's replayed, where Sunoo drunkenly asks what number cocktail you're on ─ a close friends story ─ and you match his energy, not as drunk but tipsy enough to yell the number back at him, giggling at your own ridiculousness. Jungwon's thumb jams into his screen, video paused on the slivered smile the camera catches, your head turned but expression vivid in his mind.
He has to do pushups like the loser he is, a poor attempt to erase the sight, heaving his way to 100. He's brought to his knees, hands braced on his thighs as sweat drops to the taut red carpet beneath him, breaths echoed in the vacancy of his room. A shower is needed, not without Riki catching him on his way out, whistling at the towel bunched around his middle, Jungwon ruffling his hair with an eye roll. He has no plans except to study, something he condemns himself to as the hours tick, only for a practice exam question to escape his understanding.
Luckily for him, one of his module's shining pupils resides in the same accommodation, floors down where he goes to bug him, stopped on his way into the winding staircase.
Sunoo stumbles into the foyer, lights flickered on by his sluggish movements, shopping bags draped around his forearms and is…just a bit of a mess. An endearing one after all the sugary cocktails consumed.
"Jungwooooon," he wears out all the o's, cheeks flushed and whiskered as he collapses over him in a hug, dropping enough for Jungwon to brace. Over Sunoo's shoulder, Jungwon looks, not exactly caught off guard but similar, looking for the other variable in the messy equation.
The heavy glass-panelled staircase doors echoes with its close, Mary Jane's pushed into your share of shopping bags as frilly white socks skid against floor stubborn on white, pushing hair out of your face. In the motion, your eyes lock, pupils blowing instantly. The twitch of his lip Jungwon's only tell.
"You should've come with us. There were so many cute shops," Sunoo asserts, prying from him with a pout as he rummages through his shopping bags, kraft paper crinkling. "I bought you something, got Riki a little something too. You know me shopping drunk."
A menace. Running without thought through isles, fawning over whatever catches his eyes and swiping his card without discrimination. It'd been one of the first few times they'd gone out together, a bottomless brunch meant to celebrate Riki who was equally drunk, flushed in his high cheek bones, mumbling to himself as he scanned articles of clothing. He'd picked out a zip-up hoodie, one Sunoo snatched out his hands, insisting it'd be his birthday present to him despite its costly price tag. Sunoo moaned the next morning, hands making a mess of his hair after he'd looked at his bank account while Jungwon and Riki could only laugh, Riki already wearing the hoodie. He wears it often.
"Glad you had fun," Jungwon comments, hand coming up to whisk some flyaway hairs out of Sunoo's face as he still rummages, stumbling a bit. Jungwon steadies him, turning his attention to you hovering not far behind. "Did you have a good time? No handful Sunoo?"
"I'm never a handful!" he retorts, childish in tone and encouraging shared laughter, your hand smoothing the back of your cousin's head.
"It was great fun, I had a good time," you confirm, easiness spread like melted butter amongst your features. Jungwon can't really tell if you're just as drunk, your observed nature one and the same. Except for the repeated flutters of your lashes, eyes somehow more glassy as they peer up at him. "Sunoo's great at convincing me to stay."
"Pretty sure Jaehyun has a big part in that," is Sunoo's harmless response, except when surprise floods your widened eyes, Jungwon realises the misspoken error.
"Who's Jaehyun?" he asks anyways, witnessing the squirm of your body as your gaze dashes to your feet, wiggling in your frilly socks.
"Only the guy she's─"
Your hand swallows Sunoo's mouth, the rest of his sentence unintelligible but Jungwon puts the pieces together. Surmises your demeanour and knows there's another man in your life. One you're contemplating going to the same university for, all in the sake of proximity.
He thinks it's cute. Partially wishes it was him that warranted the effort.
"We'll go put these down and come back out for drinks," you utter through gritted teeth, Sunoo tapping away at your hand with knitted eyebrows. You don't yield, instead baring a tight lipped-smile Jungwon's way. "You're still up for it?"
"Of course."
He's covered all his bases, study timetable on schedule, so he can afford the luxury. He's too nosy to pass up the opportunity anyways.
So, you go your separate ways again, rejoining later when Jungwon better understands his practice exam question and Riki's scratched at his door, meowing with an accompanying throaty laugh. Jungwon smiles despite himself, beer can box in hand with the other fist bumping Riki, asking what antics entailed his last night.
"I woke up high," he giggles, swiping a hand over his face. "Had to trek all the way back trying not to shit myself from all the cars driving by,"
"There was a rat in the bushes near the dining hall too. I fully launched like, at least three feet in the air."
Jungwon grins, nudging Riki's shoulder. "And you wonder why those scouts are always hounding you."
"I'm sorry, but I'm already unserious about uni. What makes you think I'll take that seriously?"
"I don't know," Jungwon shrugs, Riki pushing open the door to the foyer, motion-sensor covered to keep the room's dim, LED disco alight with drinks and chasers circled around Sunoo's ongoing speaker. His gaze cuts to you, shuffling UNO cards they'll use for other purposes and feels joy come from within. "Things surprise you. Maybe it's the kick you need."
Like Jungwon anticipates, the UNO cards are used for some other drinking games, ice broken as laughter clutters the air, meshing with the hype music Riki hogs the aux over, nodding along when he's not actively stirring shit, grin shit-eating when Sunoo forgets the rules again, prompted to drink with which he does with an eye-roll and pleased smile. You can only shake your head, face-palming. When you look up, Jungwon's eyes are on yours. He chuckles too, and the look you exchange embodies a secret you share, your gaze averted first ─ as always ─ before your group gets into other games, one that unknowingly puts Jungwon under the spotlight.
"Popular?" Jungwon can't help laugh, not drunk enough for this conversation. "This isn't high school, you know?"
"Bro, if we have to stop every five steps because we've come across someone who knows you," Riki cards his fingers through his blond hair, tucking it back into his snapback. "I'd say you're pretty fucking popular."
"He's sweet, sociable that way," Sunoo explains, fanning the flush beneath his cheeks before a sidelong glance of feigned disgust is chucked Riki's way. "Unlike someone."
"Good thing I don't do things for anyone's approval." Riki shrugs, swatting away outreached hands in Sunoo's drunk attempt of smoothing Riki's ego. "Doesn't hurt you're stupidly handsome."
Smugness begs for disclosure, pushed down by some shred of sheepishness as Jungwon swipes his flush away. "What are you even talking about?"
"His body when he gets out the shower?" Riki directs his sentence to you, forehead creased with bleached-raised eyebrows. "No joke."
A scorch unrelated to alcohol's blanket gnaws up Jungwon's neck, more embarrassed than flattered. Riki rarely talks in new company, but the alcohol's made him talkative. More than Jungwon bargains for.
"Hey, you're handsome too, Nishimura," Jungwon winks, gesture met with another swat. He creaks a turn your way, hyper-aware of your presence through this all. "As you can see, dramatics are our thing."
"Don't you think so?" Riki's question is posed, floor given with a fatal silence handed over to you.
Jungwon could kick Riki for instigating, the hidden smirk behind his cup fully intentional. Sunoo could intervene, but he's indifferent when checking his reflection with his phone's screen. Jungwon could too, but over the low murmur of Aminé, his nth life is sacrificed. He's barely known you twenty-four hours and yet, he doesn't recognise himself. The way you have no formula, how no slots carefully curated through his life belong to you ─ in everything he can (in)sanely control, you're an anomaly. Make him act that way too, hinging himself closer to inspect what perception of him you've formed, whether there's a world where if Jaehyun didn't exist, you'd pick him.
The dark lighting's cruel. It doesn't give you away, but the constant bounce of your pupils do, Jungwon given a nanosecond glance before you rock yourself with knees to your chest, fingers toying with your bracelet charms.
"Yeah," hardly makes it over the music, the speaker smashed to pieces if within Jungwon's reach. Down in your lap, your head ducks as a shallow nod confirms his slight disbelief. "He's, uhm…really handsome."
How do others usually respond to such a thing? A confession of attraction when it matters, when it goes both ways? Flashes come, but they go, not nearly as meaningful to the present moment, your presence balled so small into yourself like you can't believe the words escaped you, centimetres away ─ enough for Jungwon's hand to shift with the graze of his fingertip to your sandals.
"I still take the cake though," Sunoo's voice pulls Jungwon out the hammer of his heart, eyes flicked up in time for Sunoo's imaginary hair flip. "I'll give him a tough time during Summer Ball awards."
You seem to come back to life too, head shaking as you utter. "You have a ball?!"
"I sent you those Winter Ball pics, didn't I?" he gasps, his phone grabbed in a haste, searching through countless photos. Riki, slightly tipsy off rum, doesn't bother hiding his peer into Sunoo's phone, leveraging his chin on him as Sunoo scrolls uninterrupted. "It had a chocolate fountain and everything! They had fake snow blowing for our group photos, it was so─"
However attuned Jungwon usually is to Sunoo's words, they dissipate into the background, glazed over in a blurring film as you make your way across, settling in between Sunoo and Riki to view the pictures Sunoo showcases. Time passes like this, Sunoo's phone on constant display even after you've retrieved back into the dorms section, beer cans emptied in Jungwon's midst, teeth gnawing into his lip at the flush searing beneath his skin.
"I might get my pills," Jungwon lifts himself off the ground, seared heat held in his body.
"You're meant to take them before you start drinking," Sunoo helpfully reminds him, yanking his phone away from Riki's swipes. "What do you want?"
"Post this selfie, it's bet─" Riki's eyes bulge out his head, grin manic. "Is that a fucking thirst trap?!"
"Give it back, Riki!"
Jungwon leaves them piled together, a mess of giggles and mild embarrassment with Sunoo's phone out his reach. With a beep, Jungwon scans himself into their flat, halls carrying an eerie silence as his feet swipe across the slate carpet, meaning to duck into his room five doors down but instead going further to the kitchen. Two further doors down, opposite Riki's room, where the door creaks open and─
You're there. Back towards him, having the same idea of getting water. Head whipping in his direction with a look similar to a deer caught in headlights.
"Jungwon," you start, sheepish and small. "Hi."
His heart starts up again, might as well be reaching out his chest to claim you as his own.
"Hey," he says, low and unassuming. Breaching further into the small kitchen in increments, so not to spook you. "Needed water too?"
"It's for Sunoo," you answer, hoarse to which you clear your throat. "He's always the worst one between us two when we go for bottomless brunch. He'll need it."
Jungwon's brow quirks, remembering your interaction earlier. Despite your supporting act towards your cousin, you'd been fairly tipsy. Enough to look him in the eyes in an unabashed way, the image seared into his corneas. While you still drank after the fact, it was drinks below the percentage of 10, slowly sipping, eyes watching their interactions unfold as you curled into your shell again.
He'd wondered if he'd have the chance to see you comfortable again.
"And you?" he asks, stepping closer. You remain rigid in place, a rush of water filling Sunoo's glass. "You handle alcohol well?"
"I guess…I can have a few," is your estimation, eyes avoiding his. He, however, doesn't miss the split second glance you take at him, fingers seeking the comforted fiddle of your hooped earring. "Sunoo mentioned you flushed when drinking."
"That came up in casual conversation?"
He pushes. Your layers started to peel away in the shadows of night, a ball kicked across the grass staining the bottoms of his sneakers. You'd found a rhythm eliminating the racket of your brain and spoke freely, which is why he does this. Checks to see how far he can go, even if Sunoo had mentioned some a crush of yours in his presence. The same one you hadn't mentioned since, but seemed pretty gone for.
Then again, you'd said he was handsome in a group of people. Unless Jaehyun showed up to sweep you off your feet ─ to Jungwon, all bets are off.
Teeth creep into the flesh of your bottom lip, hand caught in the cookie jar. With only your side profile given, Jungwon can only draw conclusions as you close the tap just as starts to overflow, a quiet laugh to yourself as the ring of your hand illuminates the liquid coating it.
"Sunoo brought it up earlier," you answer, a closed mouth smile given to him. "Said he has to constantly nag you to take your pills."
"Must've taken the night off then," Jungwon's head tilts, stepping closer until he's at your side. Not enough for your shoulders to touch, but as he settles, the sleeve of his shirt catches against your skin, a gulp your only tell. "Is it bad?"
There's only a faint hum occupying the slender grey and white paved kitchen, the ongoing buzz of the fluorescent light haloing your figures as tension eats away at the space, makes the air crackle and walls draw in. Leaning, Jungwon lends a palm to the counter's edge, veined inner forearm exposed, one your eyes do a slow drag of. He chuckles, because you're meant to be focusing on the face he offers and you do so slowly, intimated by what you'll see. His blatant stare as your eyes do a scan of his features, screwed in force focus. The kick he gets out of it must make him sick, pushing him to draw closer, the cloud of his linen fabric softener engulfing you and still…you don't waver. Your eyes do a few fast-paced blinks, but you're rooted in place, nothing but the tremble of Sunoo's glass giving you away.
You place it on the counter's edge too, realising the hint given.
"Your cheeks are really flushed,"
Caution laces around the words you utter, trembled but spoken, eyes cemented to a trail of his features, skipping over his eyes.
"It's going down your neck too," your own neck cranes to catch a glimpse, hand starting to raise then lowering, knowing better. Jungwon doesn't bother hiding his smirk, your head ducked with scattered hands grappling for your glasses, maybe your composure too.
"I should probably head back, I've─"
A crash.
Water and glasses crashing to the floor, liquid doused on both your shoes with shattered pieces in between. The look of horror pales your face, mouth agape as your fingers tuck back hair behind each ear, sharing the expression with Jungwon. He doesn't say anything for a moment, neither do you, unmoving before your exhale comes out in pieces of it own, apologies steadfast out of your mouth.
"I can't believe that just happened," your eyes drop down to his shoes, tip of them dyed a deeper hue. "I got water on your shoes too. Oh my god, are you okay? Let me just─"
Before your hands can extend a millimetre, Jungwon's hands eclipses them, holding them firm in place. He catches you in a freeze, not an inch of you moving for what seems like hours, head slowly moving to meet his gaze, his one already on you. Always on you.
"Let me get the dustpan," he insists, nodding to cue your own. "Hang tight."
His hands leave yours, coldness invading his palms as he quickly finds what he's looking for, dropped down on a knee before you as the glass clatters together in a bunch. Out his peripheral, he spies your hands, drumming against the flesh of your thighs before nails sink into your short's material, displeased.
"I'm so sorry," your voice withers when you speak, not fond of your mistakes. "I'm usually not like this."
"It's okay. It's just glass," and as glass crackles, swept into the plastic of the dustpan, Jungwon feels the shift before he's a witness to it. The unravel of material in your clutches, the draw back down your shoulders do from your ears. A exhale from the depths of your chest. "Besides, wouldn't want you to injure yourself. You're Sunoo's guest,"
He uses the pause to his best abilities, on his knees before you, peering up at your figure haloed by florescent lighting ─ looking like every figment of dreams that'll haunt him moving forward.
"I should take care of you too."
The following year, things change.
Jungwon starts his second year - the year that actually matters - and moves into an off-campus house with Riki and Sunoo, drawing straws to find himself in the spacious attic room. Sunoo's doing an internship for the year, so he's only around as much as exhaustion and long commute hours allow him to. Jungwon changes sports, feigning upset at his own decision amongst his Swim teammates, reducing his extra-curricular hours down to Taekwondo so he affords himself more hours in the library. Other things stay the same ─ he's still stopped every few metres, greeting people who feel like they know him but one of them he stumbles across, is the only person able to make him stop fully in his tracks.
You.
Your trip up to their campus (now yours too) was the dedicating factor, reusable bags in your hands filled with your food shop and a uni-friendly amount of alcohol. Your smile is sheepish when Jungwon looks back, one with more security mirrored by him before he decides his plans in town can wait. He helps you take your bags back to your accommodation (the quaint one next to his old one), meets your flatmates that happen to be in the kitchen and when he thinks he's due to leave, you invite him into your room.
It's every bit of you, cluttered with everything you love ─ projector painting the night sky across your ceiling, movie posters pinned to your walls, peg board adorned in cute trinkets your bag has no space for at your desk, the familiar waft of brown sugar and marshmallows. It's like a peak into your mind, abundantly clear in your wardrobe doors plastered with printed photos ─ friends, family, moments you want immortalised forever. A few stick out to him, like the photo frame positioned behind your low bed frame, the pictures with your boyfriend. The same story repeats itself, your smile contagious to everyone except your boyfriend.
Jungwon's lips curl.
"Fortune cookie?"
In your palm, the red plastic bundles, outlined by gold script like the ones packed into the takeaway plastics ripped apart by him each time he vows never to drink again.
You see the curious tilt of his head, only encouraging the smile on your face as you lead with, "It's one of my favourite memories ─ sugar and fortune after a warm meal,"
Fondness pools in your eyes, trained on the object now closed around your fingers. "We wouldn't go every month, but my parents made a habit of going when we could. The owners were really lovely too, always give us huge portions and sent us home with a bag full of fortune cookies. It was nice ─ it's a good reminder of home."
You offer the fortune cookie again, Jungwon accepting with gratitude across his face despite the ugly churn of turmoil within him.
He wishes he could say he didn't carry emotional wounds, plasters over bullet wounds he's since trudged along with him since childhood but it simply isn't true. Everything he is is a product of early lessons, where inconsistency ran rampant in his home and he's made do with its consequences. While one parent festers abandonment, another prompts condition ─ to be loved is to be perfect. Anything less and he may as well not have any parents. Looking back on crispy childhood videos, he realises he was a lot to handle, holding the kind of temperament babysitters overcharged for, but it didn't change his parents' fondness over him. Their voices, clear in the background of recorded tantrums carry enough sweetness to make him sick, but it's only after that he realises why he has the reaction, why his stomach turns at the videos.
Because somewhere along the line, they'd changed. Adored Jungwon like the shiny toy he was and then, as life took its natural course, they'd grown bored. Almost troubled by their own creation. Perhaps there's only so many tantrums you can suffer through before you combat them with silence, but it's deafening ─ it's been deafening for as long as Jungwon remembers and in the helplessness younger Jungwon experiences, his parents slowly retracting from him, he comes to the make-up of his life.
Control.
Because even if one parents occupies Jungwon's house like a guest, he can at least vye for attention from another. Stop his angry tears, clean up his act and model himself after the children his mother openly praises in front of him, casting a look of regret his way. And it works, he earns admiration back, perhaps not as much as he used to, but it's enough to encourage the mask he puts on as the perfect son. Good grades, excelling at sports, friends with everyone ─ a parent's shiny badge of honour. Everyone adores him for it, the variables in his life he infuses with control, to the point where dawning a mask is not an act but instilled in him. Moulded to his skin, forever stuck over some childhood wound he hasn't bothered dealing with.
Sure, he's sat on several couches in clinical clean offices asked to describe how those experiences have shaped him, but as soon as those invasive questions crop up, he shuts down. Closes and locks the door so deep-seated emotions don't barrel out of him. He'll give an answer, one seen right through judged by the pitying smile therapists give him and by the end of the session, when they've shook hands, Jungwon knows he'll never return. Not because he's helpless, but because he doesn't see need for it.
He'd rather cast his control as far as it can reach than sit in the discomfort of his emotions, so to desire a future with you ─ wholly wrapped in your own emotions ─ is laughable at best. Though, he swears he would never assume the same control over you, its debate is valid in what he already holds regarding you. To be with you, and if that comes at the consequence of losing your bum boyfriend, he can't be too mad.
After all, it is what's best for you.
Especially after what's meant to be casual conversation he once has with Riki, soon after your first meeting, Riki hunched over his desk as his nimble fingers roll a joint with practised ease.
He's sourcing information meant to serve him, which should add to his own perceived moral corruption, but Riki sees right through it. Understands it for what it is through shrouded secrecy ─ emotional vulnerability.
"You know anything about that Jaehyun guy?"
Riki hums, rumble deep in his chest while his heavy-duty jewellery clinks together. Jungwon's only given his friend's back as he rests atop the black abyss of Riki's bed, clutching the duck plushie he's scribbled black dots into.
"Nothing good," Riki relays, gathering the grain of weed to funnel into rolled paper. "I'd go on a few nights out in their town and,"
He shakes his head, thinking no good of the situation. Jungwon's heart starts to do a slow, doomed beat.
Riki's chair squeaks as he swivels it to face Jungwon, joint forgotten as his arm props up to rest against his chair's back. "His friends are a bit scummy, the kind of people who haven't outgrown their popularity in school,"
"I mean, this was right after grad, so I don't know if they're still the same but," Riki's head tilts, a hiss between teeth given before he turns back around, resuming his joint roll. "Even being a guy around them makes you uncomfortable ─ the way they talk about women is just─"
"Degrading?"
"Disgusting," Riki answers, producing a groan afterwards. Remembering. "For her own and Sunoo's sake too, I hope that crush doesn't last long."
Except it does. Carries on as Jungwon finishes off his first year at uni, not moving his parents with his high scores and bleeds into summer, where he discovers over a group call with Sunoo and Riki, you're now dating the bastard. Silence takes over the line, a look traded between him and Riki, all of which is seen by Sunoo who can only sigh.
"He seems different," Sunoo replies, sounding like he's convincing himself. "I met him a few times, so my hope is that he'll keep treating her well."
It's partially what Jungwon hopes too. Not to suffer at the hands of another, but faith in Jaehyun's hands is hard to give, especially when Jungwon finds himself thinking of you more. Combing over past interactions and theorising how future ones will go now that you're going to the same uni as him. Unfortunately for you, you firm your choice before you're able to hear news of your boyfriend's transfer elsewhere, a distance he sees you're more than willing to travel frequently despite your fear of driving.
As much as he can appreciate the sentiment, he can't help but scoff. Because even if Jaehyun sends you flowers and lines the smile of your face, it doesn't erase what Jungwon's heard. Though foolish of him to take statements and run, Jungwon rarely finds much logic when it comes to you. How he'll fulfil his role as your friend despite the harboured feelings in his chest, how he'll execute caution in the words spoken to you over the programmed responses he gives over and finally, how he still wants you in spite of how head over heels in love with your boyfriend you are.
He already knows himself to be corrupt in some sort of way and in the dead of night, when Riki's clocked out his nocturnal shift, their second-year house quiet, his mind will wonder. If there's ever an amount of sweetness he can show you to look his way, to make you reconsider or consider him at all ─ whether that meant if you were with your boyfriend or not. He knows you wouldn't, but in the howls of night, his imagination presents itself for what it is and all he can do at this point is imagine.
Then, he remembers how distant you've grown. How, the longer you're with your boyfriend, the further Jungwon drifts off. So, he lays the aimless thoughts to rest, not entertaining them and succumbing to social obligations, seeing your missing figure in places arranged by coursemates and other friends alike, the fortune given to him burning in his pocket.
Wait and you'll see.
You wouldn't say your world revolves around your boyfriend, but it's pretty damn close.
He's the first person you tell small happenings throughout your day to, the first to receive the photos you'll eventually post on socials, the last person you talk to before bed. It's to be expected, you reason. He's your first boyfriend, after all. Your first real boyfriend, not that version on the playground where you propose with candy rings in the morning and breakup before the day ends. It's new and exciting, limbs light when your phone dings with his response. He doesn't respond often, because second year is demanding, but you're happy with whatever dosage you get. After years cradling your juvenile crush to your chest, this is more than you ever anticipated. How ever much you may get of him, you're grateful nevertheless.
Because in the end, he'd picked you.
It's not a popular thing. Being in a relationship at university, particularly in your first year where the two-week early start rounds up everyone in the same boat, attempts to familiarize themselves with their new way of life, different shops and places they'll gain memories in ─ of all this in the midst of lethal amounts of drink. You're thankful you can handle your alcohol, but being hungover nearly every day isn't ideal. At least your bed-rotting sessions are a good excuse for a night-off. After the last one, keenness is sparse within you.
"You haven't slept with anyone yet?" One of your flatmates, Isa asks, face aghast. "It's been like, four days. We've gone out loads too."
Another flatmate, Yuna, nudges her shoulder, mutters amongst them two heavily clogged in uncapped laughter, knees slapped over the chorus of the same playlist you're getting sick of.
"Well, I've got a boyfriend, so…"
"Stop, that's so sweet!" One of your nicer flatmates, Kazuha saves the day, hand over her heart, to which you smile to.
It's short lived.
"Ha, right," Yuna huffs, a fictional record scratch screeching as the rest of your flatmates' heads whip her way. She sees their widened eyes and realises her mistake, smoothing over the glittery crop top you'd just complimented her on. "Sorry, that was uhm, silly of me,"
"It's just," she starts, swirling the contents of her drink in her red paper cup, sharp eyes cutting up to yours, distaste pooled in hers. "It could never be me. Committing to a man, giving him my youth only to watch my whole world fall apart because in the end, all men do is disappoint."
She straightens, the kitchen alarmingly silent, music playing no longer as her lip corner sharpen like pitch forks, falsehoods in her expression. "But you know ─ to each their own, right?"
You shouldn't have gone out that night, you'd been emotional enough to bite your tongue, drowning your sorrows in the corner while Kazuha exchanged worried looks to you, rubbing your back when no one looked. But you went anyways, because you'd made a point of proving your youth didn't revolve around Jaehyun and yet, when you'd thrown up your guts in the club bathroom, escorted out by security guards, subsequently walked home by an exhausted Kazuha, you'd called Jaehyun. He didn't pick up the first few times, but ultimately did to hear your cries, tears streaming down your face as you wished for nothing more than to be with him, in the comfort of his arms where hurtful words didn't mess with your head and you could just be happy with what you had.
She'd apologized the next day when you'd hauled yourself out your bedroom, washing the dishes while your stomach could only hack noodles. It lacked sincerity but at that point, you didn't care. You're bound to meet people unlike you at uni, she's one of them. Besides, despite your reservation, you could make friends. You didn't have to rely on Sunoo and his friends' company, and maybe it's a cheat code making friends who are just as obsessed with their boyfriends as you are, but it brings peace. Peace you long for amidst the whirlwind of classes starting, so many things happening all at once, the weekend your boyfriend invites you up to his weeks later immediately accepted.
You're with him now. A time long awaited due to scheduling conflicts and your crippling fear of highway driving you conquer to see him, to make things work. And yet, in the middle of the folded over-limb kisses you drown in, your mind is elsewhere.
It isn't initially, your heart sent into a series of flutters as Jaehyun indulges you in the sweet kisses you've missed, so brimmed with happiness you smile into his lips as you peck him, again and again until your arms loop and cross at his nape. Missed yous are traded, initiated by you then relayed back by him, his lips overlapping yours as the kiss deepens. There's a calmness that comes with the intimacy, the dull of your mind amplified by static accumulated through the week. Pending assignments, next year house stress, one of your girlfriends in the midst of a breakup. The tears she cried, you mirrored alone in your room after consoling her, riddled miserable at the mere thought of your life without Jaehyun. The whole other half of your heart, no longer yours after so long pining after him, counting petals on the chances of him loving you or not. Phone calls and texts can only do so much. After all, he's busy too, his degree eating away at your anxious bats for assurance and after your last call ends, your mind's set on seeing him again. Existing alongside him, stuck to his side because at least then, your love is tangible. Not a detail of fiction, but something you can hold and touch, pressing your chest against his to have your hearts sync because what is your heart if not beating for this? For him?
Except it doesn't. Not now anyways.
As the kiss deepens and your back lays across the expanse of Jaehyun's bed, his body caging yours, a thigh slides between your legs, your breath picks up. Starved for oxygen yet with no intention of prying, you lose yourself in his affection, so sugary sweet your heart aches. His thigh shifts, and it's just close enough for friction, a touch of it and your claws seek a home, hinging into the material of his t-shirt as a tease. You're meant to falling further into intimacy, seeking to become one with Jaehyun, but the more you lose yourself, the more things begin to blur. Jaehyun's figure isn't as prominent, clouded in a haze of lust then cleared by an image you can't forget.
Jungwon.
Jungwon kissing you like you hold his last breath, adoring your skin in searing kisses filled with love, trailing all the way from the hollows of your collarbone down past your navel and then, he looks up at you. Through long lashes and dark eyes, desperation and affection overflowing in his iris' hue, begging you for the chance. And you let him, his veined hands working at your jean button before he cannot do without your lips longer, coming back up for kisses you reciprocate in the same vein, a moan caught at the back of your throat as his hand cups over you, in no way possessive, but a reminder of his presence. Of how badly you both need each other.
Then his hand moves. Slithers beneath rough material then soft, under the waistband of your underwear. His fingers, unhurried, feel you, glide between your glistening folds. You're too far gone for the weight of embarrassment, its shred kissed away by the groan Jungwon does into your lips, an open-mouthed moan vibrating against them.
"So good for me, so wet," he'd say and you'll moan in likeness, writhing from his words and motions, your zipper undone by the force of his hand as he explores you further. Teasing your entrance with circled fingertips before they go in, one at time because he knows it's your first and treats it as such. Whispering sweet nothings amidst syrupy kisses, a drizzle of degradation mixed in just to have you weaker. Putty in his hands so that when you're close too soon, it's to no surprise.
He'll only grin against you, teeth teasing your bottom lip before he utters the magic words. "You gonna come? Gonna be a good girl for me and come?"
And that's when it hits you. How vivid the image is, how badly your mind and body holds onto that desire in the face of another. Your boyfriend who is not Jungwon, but Jaehyun attempting the same thing as your miraged Jungwon.
"Stop, stop," you pant against him, licking your mixed saliva as your hand braces to his chest. He relents, expression winded and…confused. Perhaps your mind plays mean tricks on you and there's a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, the crush of guilt following the avalanche of the man miles away, none the wiser.
"I'm sorry," it's an admission of many, weighing heavily in the air now stale. Your back straightens off the bed, legs loosely crossed as you toy with the fingers in your lap, your stare there too. "I just…I'm not ready."
You could be. Things are going well, enough to brave the terrain of uncharted territory because of all you held in your heart for Jaehyun. Other than the glaring fact that you'd just imagined the entire sequence with someone other than him.
"It's okay," Jaehyun says, falling into compliance as the bed springs hiss with his leaving weight. His back to you, you hear the latter part of his response. "Not like this hasn't happened before."
However cruel it may be, his words carry truth. Many a times there has been when something resembling readiness filled your chest, reaching out a hand to grab ahold of his in attempt to become one and yet when the moment comes, intervention does too. Not by any outside forces but a gut feeling. An internal voice whispering its disagreement, not giving its reasons but a feeling convincing enough to pump the breaks, sorrows on your shoulders as you're forced to deal with the consequences, having to convince Jaehyun he's still someone you want while also shouldering your own conflict. The internal brawl of why you aren't ready, why this couldn't happen, what would it take to make the voice disappear.
These are thoughts you don't get to share with Jaehyun, his ego tender as is it now. In the same song and dance, you flock over to him, on your tips of your toes, draping over his back in a blanket of sympathy.
You hope this time he isn't hurt enough to shrug you off.
"I want to, I really want to," you confess, giving him the pieces of you to bind together. Calm the noise. "I don't know why or what…stops me."
Your body lifts in the degree his shoulders rise with the exhale he does, so heavy and eerie in profound disappointment. You have to shut your eyes so you won't hear it in your dreams.
"No worries. You're not ready, I wouldn't do anything you aren't prepared for," he recites like it's rehearsed, his go-to phrase in times like these. In his hands, he fumbles with the matching LEGO keychain you insisted on getting, a physical manifestation of your bond. He discards it to the table, a gaze tossed over his shoulder, expression softer now. "I'm just glad you're here."
The lump in your throat makes your voice hoarse, gulped down in the pained smile you give.
"Me too."
His neck cranes more at the same time you go in for a peck, a series of little affections before the rain clears, grey clouds not yet gone as he lists off options for dinner. Later on, when you've made polite conversation with his flatmates in their shared kitchen, chuckling over a hot pan with bellies filled, you'll cuddle together, the best mess of limbs as he plays a Marvel movie. It's not your favourite, but isn't that love? Aligning best, accommodating even when interests mismatch. Your mind starts to scatter as the city crumbles on screen, reminded of the last time you'd watched a movie.
With Jungwon, a respectful block of distance in between that you hadn't thought twice of. Until now, when you relive the experience, cells singing in your body at the proximity, its abundance and prospects of a lack of. How the screen illuminates his side profile, painting the slopes of his face in a way that seems unfair for someone born with such features. His fingers will nudge the popcorn over to you, knowing how much you like the butter on your tongue and in a movie that interests you both, a scene will come calling for shared sentiment. Your gazes lock, the shared smiles coming with the lock of hearts on the same wavelength.
And now, you do ─ share a secret. Only, it's yours alone. Bathed in grime and shame, the possibility of Jaehyun's cutout figure replaced with Jungwon's.
You don't entertain the thought, closing the door on the impossible and locking it behind you. Because you know, no good comes from the click of its unlock.
Keeping up appearances proves to be exhausting.
This, Jungwon knows all too well. The same old story, the same horse beaten to death as soon as Jungwon saw himself as an outlier. All his responses come rehearsed, some interest mixed in with falseness as he conversates with his coursemates. Exams have come and gone, relinquishing the chains keeping Jungwon at a study desk the past few weeks. He should be happy, he supposes. Now life can resume its usual pattern, more freedom to catch-up on his hobbies, indulge Sunoo and Riki in time spent together not crackled with impending stress. His mind can ponder more on you and why even in a time like this, your presence mirrors that of a ghost.
You'd already rescinded the longer you spent being Jaehyun's, disdain apparent in Jaehyun's face the one time you facetimed him alongside Jungwon. Sunoo and Riki had been there too, all in the kitchen together making some pasta dish you'd lit up at, the same one you mirror at your on-screen boyfriend. Jungwon plays his part, masking the bitter aftertaste he suspects Jaehyun sees right through. It'd explain why you'd leave the room whenever Jaehyun would call afterwards, if you hadn't thoight to do so firs. Why you meet up with Sunoo on campus more often, Jungwon's presence more so an accessory than a necessity.
He tries not to mind. After all, what possessiveness harbours in his heart is his alone, not meant for someone with a significant other. Except it lingers longer than he accounts for, his crush preceding levels of prediction his mind can't control. It's something he wants to dissect, pick apart to figure its intricacies and faults so he can best move forward, however that may look like. However, the only logical thing for him is to let you go, live the fabricated life you've dreamed up with Jaehyun. A shame, because you amount to more than what he can give, but who is Jungwon to judge?
After all, he's meant to be nothing but a friend. A quiet accomplice that comes with the natural bond between you and your cousin. Yet, he lingers, never one to let go.
It's what he does now, a pint grabbed at the Falcon with coursemates celebrating the end of academic torture. He laughs along, sometimes sliding in a joke himself they'll laugh at. He'll catalogue it, knowing to play it safe with them, chat like their work colleagues because in a sense, they are. Enough distance for no further invitation, but enough to share commonality.
It's the story of Jungwon's life, a sentiment shared with most because Jungwon's biggest fear is not losing anyone, but fear of himself. The authenticity of his figure and what that entails.
"Jungwon!" A voice pierces through the barrage of muddled thoughts. His head shakes to clear them, surveying his surroundings to find himself at the pool table, drink in hand and three sets of eyes on him.
One of them very familiar, his fangs bared in a slick smile. "Wanna join? I could use the help."
His course mates have since left, onto more wholesome activities because their version of fun stops after two pints. Exams over with, Jungwon's teeth gnaw into his lip, not eager to leave but considering if this unknown is how his night unfolds. Sunghoon, known through his Taekwondo extra-curricular, is one of the guys from that crowd Jungwon gravitates to, liking that their togetherness didn't require conversation for its own sake. And when a session is particularly draining, sweat dripping from Jungwon's body, Sunghoon will offer a cold drink, slapping his back with a proud smile. It makes him feel seen - in ways he usually strayed from.
However, Sunghoon isn't alone. He's with what Jungwon assumes are his housemates - Heeseung and Jay - judging by their Tom and Jerry dynamic, bickering about nothing, none the wiser to Jungwon's looming presence.
Sunghoon cocks his head, expectant. Jungwon gives his brain the moment off, relief in his smile as he ambles over, Sunghoon's eyes in moon crescents as he welcomes Jungwon into their fold, pulling him in like he's always had a space.
Heeseung and Jay are good at that too, dapping Jungwon up with bumped shoulders and continuing their conversation like Jungwon was already there, deliberate sidebars taken to give him context. There's nothing feigned about the interaction, their attitudes genuine as they immediately reveal themselves to be crude but friendly losers, only half listening when Sunghoon goes over the stakes of pool. Of which there are none for Jungwon since they'd already agreed the loser would clean out their haunted basement.
Heeseung and Jay are determined not to lose.
Jack of all trades, Jungwon doesn't worry. Especially when he overhears Heeseung strategising how to interfere with Sunghoon's 'fucking A shots,' one of the suggestions being interference from one of the ladies working the bar - a lady Jungwon infers Sunghoon has some history with.
Which piques his interest because last he heard, Sunghoon was with another girl. One of the hockey girls from the uni team who giggle and wave every time he'd walk past their pitch.
Additionally, there's someone missing. Sunghoon's longest friend out of the bunch.
"Where's Jake?"
The pool game's started, Sunghoon first to go. The stakes seem higher than anticipated.
"He's got plans," The pool balls knock together. Hard and dispersed, several sinking with spectating groans. "With his girl."
Despite the drone of ongoing indie music, Jungwon could hear a pin drop, visible tension festering in unspoken air. Heeseung's cleared throat cuts through the waning indie song dulling in the bar's speakers.
"Songyi." Jay supplies, an elbow to his ribs courtesy of Heeseung. "Ow! Fuck's that for?"
"Unnecessary," Heeseung seethes, a gulp done while his gaze trembles in Sunghoon's vague direction, the same man striding to Jungwon's side, eyeballing his shot. "Hey man, he didn't mean─
"What's it matter?" Sunghoon pipes, eyes trained on the green. His lip corners sharpen, pinpointing the scattered balls. All to their advantage. "You guys are gonna lose - I've got my girl anyways,"
In its aftermath, Heeseung and Jay exchange wide eyes, smiles forced down with snickers bitten back to secrecy. Like that, the energy shifts like there was no tension to begin with and Jungwon struggles. Wondering if he'd imagined it or would it be a conversation he'd ever get to know later on. Sunghoon's always good to be around, comfortable enough for Jungwon's mask to drop enough for a real peak at him but Sunghoon's different with the guys around. Bold with a hard laugh scrunching his nose, volleying crude jokes back and forth with Jay and Heeseung to the effect of Jungwon's guffaw, doubled over with ringing ears not quite believing their input. The onslaught of beers he nurses help loosens him up amongst new company, brain still working to catch onto their group dynamic. However, as the night winds, Jungwon can only think it's not really playing into a role around them, rather him getting comfortable enough to be himself. At peace and unworried.
If only things were always like this.
"We're gonna go pick up and smoke," Jay's eyes point to Jungwon, giving a highbrowed invitation. "I'm out my overdraft, my treat."
"Just say yes. His poor budgeting isn't your problem." Heeseung folds over Jay's shoulder, shoved off with an abrupt jerk.
"I'm a nightmare on anything except edibles," is Jungwon's response, foot kept in the closing door with the add on. "I know a good brownie recipe, so whenever you're free, I'm down."
"My man," with a head nod, Jay leans in for a dap and shoulder nudge. His attention moves over to Sunghoon, amusement sparkled in his eyes. "Where the fuck you been hiding this guy?"
"We could've got that 5 bed house with the jacuzzi," Heeseung adds.
"Not sure how'd that work with all the Nitro subs you give away," Jay argues, turning back to Jungwon. "He's paying for at least three girls subscriptions. For what favours? I'd hate to know,"
"Or love to, actually. Lord knows this guy ain't getting any."
"I'd be so easy to kill you right now," Heeseung seethes in a joke, perched arms on Jay's shoulder giving leeway to putting the younger in a headlock, smiles between the two.
Jungwon smiles, warm from something unrelated to alcohol.
"Yeah, well whenever you get your hands on those ingredients, let us know," Jay insists, pulling out a wad of cash, checking if the amount suffices. "I'd offer our kitchen but Jake's a bit of a bitch with it. Likes keeping it a certain way,"
"Yeah, after you left his used pan to rot the week he was away," Heeseung snorts, no more applying a chokehold but hanging off Jay, the view admittedly sweet. "The way he saw it, stopped, then said you could keep it."
"Free upgrade," Jay shrugs, stuffing the cash back in his designer wallet. The look Heeseung and Jungwon share makes his dimple appear. "I did feel a bit bad, but it's whatever."
"Come round anyways," Heeseung proposes. "Jake's not home much, so it'll be fine."
If Jungwon could look behind him, at Sunghoon, he would. Instead, he smiles, accepting the offer before they leave, patting their backs in embraces he's pulled into, smiling regardless.
With their presence gone, a quieter ambience comes through, affording Jungwon the chance to digest the past few hours. He doesn't over-complicate things, what he could've said better, what landed with them and just enjoys it for what it was ─ a good time. Sunghoon sees as much on his face, affection in his expression as he offers Jungwon a pint at the bar, his favourite bartender conveniently free. Under the neon lights streaming behind her, she works slower than usual, served patrons still bustling about but settled into their dispersed conversations, allowing her the chance for quick chatter.
She is beautiful, that Jungwon can objectively can agree to, beam akin to sunshine when her attention finds Jungwon's. She's kind and a bit mischievous, seen in the wink she sends, reminding Sunghoon of a promise after her shift. Handing Jungwon's Guinness to him, foam remains on her thumb, licked away with eyes locked on Sunghoon's. Jungwon looks away to spare himself of what he feels is a private matter, suddenly fascinated with the ongoing ice hockey game projected on one of the TVs until Sunghoon escorts them to another area. It's the direct opposite of where they last were, virtually no one in the tucked away section only lit by one sole overhead orange light, green plush armchairs amongst modern chic decor too nice for a uni town bar, its only eyesore an out-of-place dart board without any darts.
Kept behind the bar, a common practice. Especially after Sunghoon mentions an incident involving a very drunk football player and stitches he needed over his eyelids.
Over the indie soft rage of Rec Hall, the two nurse their beers in silence, gazes mostly avoided as they observe other uni students engage. Let their hair down because their biggest worry is how much of their loan will cover tonight's drinks, laughing loudly and without care. Some flirt, some reflect while others hang off their seats, guys cradling cash notes in their hands watching the game play out.
Jungwon thinks about what that all means ─ the people you surround yourself with. Sunoo and Riki back at the flat, Sunoo indulging Riki in some video game he's obsessed with despite his disinterest, despite the long hours of his unpaid internship. He wonders if Jake and Sunghoon ever did the same, if they'll ever do anything like that again.
Sunghoon's seemingly unbothered by the whole thing, but years together frayed isn't something Jungwon thinks anyone is capable of sweeping under a rug.
So, he asks. Because if there's anyone who will reflect the honesty he gives back, it's Sunghoon.
"What was that earlier?" Jungwon chances, peering into his drink to feign casualness. "With Jake's girlfriend."
Jungwon cranes his neck like the sight fascinates him, ears catching the scratch of stubble as Sunghoon runs his hands over his jaw. He's too nosy for his own good, Jungwon thinks, but things left unsaid always bother him ─ annoyed by himself at the words he can't relay to you.
"Ah, that," Jungwon's head lifts, eyes on Sunghoon as he speaks. "Well, thing is, Songyi used to be my girlfriend."
Pool balls knock together in the distance, their impact may as well sounding like a natural disaster. Very fitting considering the information Sunghoon's just dropped.
Jungwon's back straightens, a slow crawl to alignment with his jaw dropped. "You're not serious, are you?"
"Not my idea of a joke," Sunghoon laughs, stare directed ahead of him before he chugs his drink, smiling over the rim. "But how can I be mad? I got what I wanted in the end."
The bartender, the dots connect in his mind. Jungwon lazes his sight over in the direction of the bar, seeing his new girlfriend pour a drink and remembering how close they'd been when ordering drinks. "When did you start dating?"
Something sick falls over Sunghoon's face, grin wolfish as a chuckle comes thereafter.
"You're better off not knowing," He casts Jungwon a look as if it's a throwaway, iris hue dark and heavy. "Officially, a while ago."
He spares Jungwon the rest, sagging into the plush of their chairs fit for kings. "Jake's relationship didn't come long after that and even though it's been ages, the guys always have some sort of awkwardness about it. As if things were─"
Sunghoon contemplates his next words, hand against his stubble with slow, distant blinks weighing out the options of what he'll choose. Jungwon chooses not to move.
"Let me not. I was the asshole at the end of the day."
Jungwon casts sensitives glances around their surroundings, assured by no prying ears. "Hard to imagine you that way,"
He gulps down his beer to shrug off the compliment, meaning it but still carrying a sense of apprehension.
Sunghoon laughs like he's said something funny. "People can surprise you then."
"You don't look too caught off-guard about other things though," his arm crosses over their shared side table, nudging Jungwon's shoulder gently. "What's got you troubled?"
"Nothing." Jungwon answers immediately, a reflex. Another, the scratch behind his ear.
"Bullshit," Sunghoon chuckles, a twinkle of amusement dashed in his eyes. "I know that tortured look anywhere. I wore it the same year I had no means to my girlfriend,"
Curiosity crosses his face, a thick eyebrow raised. "It's about a girl?"
Jungwon non-answer is answer enough.
"Who is she? Girl in your lectures? Flatmate?"
The grilling should call for tension, a natural deflection Jungwon's offered other times in positions like this. He likes to think of conversations as pieces of a puzzle and with the right pieces he picks, it'll all make sense. He'll make his own image, while the other person makes theirs of him ─ his image, but this isn't like then. More than wanting a knack for honesty, he's troubled. Beyond the circumference of his own knowledge, so he seeks it in Sunghoon.
"Flatmate's cousin."
"They close?" Sunghoon asks, Jungwon's nod bringing out a hiss from the older of the two. "Dicey, but I trust your judgment. She must be sweet."
He thinks of you then, delicate when the world isn't. Sweet when you have no reason to be, simply because it's your nature. You're braver than he is, Jungwon realises.
"She is," he confirms. "All my opposites."
Sunghoon pushes Jungwon's shoulder with disapproval, the pity-party he throws for himself a circus quickly packed away.
"Must be why there's that famous saying," Sunghoon alludes to, languid pace in conversation as they watch the bar pass them by. "Really though ─ why the anguish?"
There's many points to his anguish, but he settles for the most obvious. "She's got a boyfriend."
"And that's stopping you?"
"It should," Jungwon counters, picking the lint off his long sleeve. "But…I'm betraying myself. I can't not want her,"
"Are you betraying yourself or what others expect of you?"
Jungwon doesn't answer despite the dip of his heart, instead looking to Sunghoon with mirth. "Enough pints deep to be introspective, huh?"
"I need some redeeming qualities," he jokes back, a secret between them in their smiles before their gazes tear apart, back on the moving bar that move ahead of them.
"Her boyfriend's a piece of shit."
"They usually are when they're in it for the wrong reasons," Sunghoon sips on his beer, a smack of the lips and a breath afterwards. "She relies on you, right?"
Jungwon nods.
"Then there's nothing to worry about. What's probably got her is puppy love ─ I don't think I need to tell you how that ends," he supplies, sequences of your relationship's end playing in mind, each a different version. All with the same ending. "One day, her knight in shining armour will look a lot like you. Run when you've got the chance."
"You think it'll come?"
"It will," Sunghoon doesn't miss a beat, his line of sight Jungwon as his head turns to him. "When everything's said and done, we should go on one of those double dates. My girl loves making friends,"
Behind the counter, as if sensing their eyes, Sunghoon's girlfriend brims a cheek-filled smile, busing the table with a wave. Jungwon thinks of the mess they've been through, then sees their shared smiles in spite of it. It makes him feel better about his own situation, has the thought cross his mind that even the right things can sometimes be messy.
If wanting to be with you, to cherish you with a heart that had no limits, a mess is what he'd have to be.
You're here again.
In the perimeters of Jungwon's room that carries a world's worth of weight in the air despite the cracked open windows. He suppose it's a consequence of the day's earlier events, how you'd been cornered and like Sunghoon said, Jungwon appeared like your knight and shining armour. He wishes it were true, since Jaehyun is still Prince Charming in your eyes, but at least here in his room, he can create a world where none of that exists - where you don't long for a prince disguised as a dragon and peer down from your castle, eyes only for Jungwon.
Movie night.
They've been few and far between the longer you've been with Jaehyun, time between lectures spent making new friends and driving up to see Jaehyun on the weekends. Every weekend. And every weekend, when he hates himself, he'll make his dreaded way to Instagram and see the flood of your story ─ dates with Jaehyun, your held hands, him looking off elsewhere instead of at you. To some, it reads as cute, as commented by your friends, but Jungwon can't help the ugly fester in his chest. Knowing you're the only one making the effort because Jaehyun is 'done' with your uni town, says there's nothing to do there as if you're not there.
You say you don't mind the three hour long drive, most times taking back roads instead of the highway that still scares you. And like the idiot Jungwon is, he suggests going on it together because scary things are best tackled in company.
"Really?" you perk up, lashes fluttering with disbelief. "You'd do that for me?"
He'd do anything for you.
"Of course," he says instead, propped against the kitchen counter top with his arms folding across his chest. "What are friends for?"
When the day comes, you're white-knuckling the steering wheel, speeding up the slip road joining onto the highway and you're scared. Jungwon takes charge of the aux, switching the song to something like yours ─ a shared thing since Shrek had made it's way into both of your four favourite films ─ Smash Mouth's 'All Star' thumping through the speakers. You don't take your eyes off the road, but your head turns the slightest in his direction, a former aghast face morphing into mirth, nervous laughter becoming a whole-hearted one, grip released with thumbs thumping against the leather steering wheel. What starts off low becomes lyrics belted out obnoxiously, you still mindful of the road, but scared of it no longer. Not with good tunes blasting and Jungwon at your side, like he always is.
He's not this time when you're heading up to see Jaehyun again, because he's incapable of coming down himself. A fact Sunoo grumbles into his apple, taking a bite with an eye roll. He doesn't mean to do it, but Jungwon's eyes meet Riki's and dart away, a sentiment between them ─ a sense of doom.
A sense he should've taken more seriously as he readies himself for lectures, only for his phone to ring.
"Hey, what's up?" Because you never call.
That much apparent when he hears raised voices in the distance, the roar of the highway pouring through the phone speaker. "Won,"
"I didn't know who to call, Sunoo's at work and I─" you're shaken, tremble apparent in the frenzy of your voice.
Jungwon's already putting on his shoes. "Where are you?"
You describe the highway leading out of your uni town, the one always taken on your way to Jaehyun except your driving fears have been confirmed. You'd been in an accident, not a big one when Jungwon runs every red light to get to you, but enough to stare blankly at your clipped car, expression void of emotion. To make things worse, the asshole that's cut you off and caused the whole thing, is entitled, some middle-aged loser who looks like he's never put down an alcohol bottle in his life. Jungwon pulls up when the loser's cursing at you, threatening to sue you within an inch of the life for the damages he's made of his own car. The slow-moving traffic, prying eyes and the raise of his voice dial you down in notches, head hung with the toe of your shoe digging into obsidian asphalt. You've never looked smaller, so in your head. Jungwon's at your side in a flash, hands braced against your shoulders as he searches your eyes for more distress.
"You okay?" he asks, voice tender and steady. Eyes darting to inspect your face of injuries ─ there, thankfully, are none.
"I'm fine," you huff out, breath withering before you take a big inhale, centring yourself. "I called insurance, they'll be here soon. I just─"
"Should've let your boyfriend drive. That way, we wouldn't be in this mess."
Scum sounds behind Jungwon, and it sets him alight. Licks heat against his back and conjures wrath in his chest, eyes growing wild as his head does a slow swivel to the scum in question. He's a balding man, looks like he hasn't showered in weeks, spoken to a women in longer. If you weren't here, Jungwon hates to think of what he could do, knowing the danger you'd encountered on a trip he didn't even want you going on in the first place. His hands have left your face, bunched up in a fist at his sides, but they give, colour bleeding into his knuckles again as he glances over his shoulder, at you more in need than the shitty guy trying to take advantage.
So, he ignores the man. Tends you until your respective insurance companies come, a tow-truck too because your cars are unfit to drive. While you're busy with the agents, hands used to explain the situation, the culprit takes a drag of his cigarette, satisfied with his wrongdoing.
Jungwon doesn't think, simply yanks the cigarette out his grip and stubs it to the asphalt, crushing it beneath his shoe.
"What the fuck?"
"Try that shit again," Jungwon retorts, the epitome of hate pooled in his dark eyes. "And you'll be road-kill I'd run over."
The man hollers behind Jungwon, but he doesn't care to listen, walking off when heads turn, at your side for the rest of the fiasco before everyone departs, your weekend belongings now in the back of Jungwon's car. He's on his way to the vehicle, you in tow with the man loitering around to try hitch a ride, except you stall in your steps. Turn and face the man who'd made you feel small.
"It's not my fault," you start, your soft features blending in with the rigidness your chest puffs with. "Your careless driving is not my fault. And you putting the blame on me makes you an even shittier person than you are now."
It's the only place Jungwon thinks of after your insurance companies have left the cleared scene, prying eyes no more as cars zoom by, Jungwon slipping in when he gets the chance. Your gaze sets out the window, mind elsewhere and he makes no attempt to arrest it in poor attempts of cheering up, instead letting the place he takes you to speak for itself, surprise drawing a blank on your expression, your body turning to him.
"The planetarium?" you ask, almost in disbelief.
Jungwon kills the engine, keys jangling together. "Yeah. Let's go."
It's a bit out of the way, three towns away from your uni campus. It'd been the one you couldn't wait to see when Jaehyun said he'd come down for the weekend, but caught the flu and didn't want to make you sick.
At least your excuse is more believable.
Jungwon gets out the car, opening your car door because you're slumped in your seat, not plagued by earlier but rather the gesture of it all. How you've found yourselves here during an early Thursday afternoon, little to no cars around, the planetarium all yours to wonder about. Jungwon probably has class ─ you remember he does when the fog clears ─ and yet he makes no mention of it, purchasing your tickets and leading you inside, room swallowed in black beside the calm glow of planets and stars hung, a voice in likeness relaying information known to you like the back of your hand.
You attempt a bargain of his time, insisting you can leave early so he can make it for his workshop. You only get a laugh in return, Jungwon's face illuminated from the stars projected onto him, ducking through different avenues of the room as you hear from say,
"I don't want to," he answers, plotting himself on the slated bit of floor where other spectators lay a bit away, pointing up at the stars on the ceiling. "I've been missing those workshops for the past two weeks. I'd rather be here."
A chill runs down your spine when with you whispers in your ears, freezing your hands mid-air with eyes enlarged, looking around like help will come. Except your version of help is at your feet, Jungwon's arm behind his head as he shuffles for comfort, a gaze cast your way in a quiet question.
Will you sit?
And you do, folding in a mechanical way, hugging your knees to your chest with a look up at the ceiling, lips brushed together as you stare at constellations you name. Out-loud, it seems, when Jungwon points out another, asking its name. Their names are being introduced in the ongoing intercom, yet he wants to hear it from you. Take your mind off things, not known to you until after the fact when you've laid back beside him, mouth having run a hundred miles a minute as you've filled him in on details the intercom leaves out, the same sparkle belonging to the stars above found in your eyes as your chest heaves, propped up on an elbow as you're looking at him.
His eyes trail downwards, his full face given moments later along with the slow spread of his smile, dimple somehow showing amidst darkness and there's another thing. Lightness in your chest, burdens forgotten when you're with him. And you soak in it, revelling in how his interest never dips no matter how much information you've dumped on him, questions asked to show he's been listening. There's a moment too, when he's hauled himself off the ground with the dust of his clothes, a hand offered to you. You take it like you have times before, but a current ripples right down the middle of your pressed palms, alarm flared within you as he brings you to your feet.
He sees it. Asks, "You okay?"
"Yeah," is your poor excuse, hands grated against your jeans to dilute the current. "Just winded. Hungry maybe."
In true Jungwon fashion, he takes everything you say to heart. Pauses for you to accustomize to the topsy-turvy spin of your world, steps slower as you venture further into the museum, reading slates of information, posing for pictures he happily takes and when there's nothing left to be seen, Jungwon takes you to your favourite fast-food restaurant, exchanging toys with you over salty fries when he gets the one you wanted. A Sanrio keychain, Keroppi yours and Kuromi's his. Unbeknownst to you, he'll clip it onto his bunch of keys, jangling as he turns the ignition on and drives back, early evening colouring the sky once you've climbed out his car, watching him lug your weekend bag on his shoulder and unlock the front door, turning to you with a smile that's only inviting, luring you into a house that doesn't exactly feel like home with how long you've been away, but Jungwon builds the bridge. Indulges in what you've left behind, lighting a candle you'd purchased as a house-warming gift, mixing in with the aroma of butter popcorn to the sounds of your favourite movie.
You don't check your phone, forget to after you sent Jaehyun a text explaining why you couldn't come up. Only for planetarium photos to dot your Instagram story, question marks his response. You don't see them until morning, not after you've watched three movies alongside Jungwon, trading popcorn and conversation, the wear of the day slumping you to his shoulder, a smile on your face as you slumber, the same one mirrored by him before he tucks you in, at least having the decency to sleep on the couch despite Riki's puzzled face.
When he's gone, lights turned off in his wake, Jungwon burrows into the cushioned couch, pulling the blanket over his eyes but still remembering the last of your conversations before you'd fallen asleep.
"The main couples here," in the movie Hairspray, musical notes filling the room. You chuck a piece of chocolate in your mouth, eyes undeterred. "They seem to give an equal amount, don't they? In their relationship."
Jungwon contemplates. Knows the root of your question despite the attempt at clouding it.
He hums, hand swallowing popcorn from the bowl between you two.
"There's a bit of back and forth but in the end, it seems equal, right?"
You must realise it too. The plea woven into your voice, the quiet desperation making your pupils tremble whilst looking at him, his expression not giving anything away.
Because if it did? You'd know how undeserving he thought Jaehyun is of you.
Alias, he relents, settles into a passive expression seen as empathetic before he replies, "I'd say so,"
"I don't believe in relationships being 100% but say if they were, I think that amount being the same is a bit of a stretch,"
"Life happens, after all. You're whole before you met your partner, but even then, when you are together, it's hard to maintain that whole because you're sharing a life together," he explains, fingertip absently tracing the bowl's rim. "You're not gonna be 100% all the time, and they won't be either. You give and take, but what matters in the end is if you feel like that whole doesn't feel empty with them by your side."
He chances a look at you, not sure how his words land ─ if they make sense at all because his brain is scrambled. Wrestling between reason and his own emotions that never seem in-check around you. It's only years of practised masking allowing him to be this way: diplomatic, trying to see your situation from all different angles and delivering his verdict in a way that's kind but still the truth.
Which explains why you ask the unexpected, duvet cover bunched in your non-buttered hand while you look at him, mini TV screen casting colours across your features.
"Do you think I give too much?"
He's not stumped. Besides the momentary stall of his heart, every bodily functions carries on uninterrupted. His brain works over the words, erases the blunt edges and gives encouragement in his lifted lip corners, eyes trained on yours as he lets you down easy.
"I think you're being brave. Loving with your whole heart isn't something a lot of people can do, if everything is considered," if he considers himself. "I can't say anything for sure because I don't know everything about your relationship, but I think you always show up as your best. I'd hope he does the same for you."
You're quiet long afterwards, gripping the duvet cover harder before you grant it some give, an exhale expelled before your back meets the hoard of pillows against his headboard. The thought that maybe he's somehow overstepped occurs to him, but reason reels him back in. Reels you in as you nudge the popcorn bowl his way, solace your expression as you spare him the turn of your head, a bittersweet grin on your face.
"Always there for me, aren't you?"
His heart cracks a little, a huff of what's meant to be amusement coming out wistful, stonewalled by the handful of popcorn he takes, pushing it back to you before his eyes draw back to the screen.
"I try my best."
His phone screen glares beneath his blanket, searing at the back of his eyes but he still looks on. Lets them crawl over the snapped picture taken: not of you, but of his bunch of keys and yours. You'd left them on the living room table shortly after you'd entered the house, disappearing into the bathroom and he…they'd been together. Yours and his, keychains aligning and he'd acted on impulse. Sinking into the sad shell of himself that doesn't get to hold you close while you sleep, turning his phone off and trying to sleep, seeing stars dance across your face like they had in the planetarium where only you and him existed.
Today's one of the days where Jungwon thinks the weather's manufactured.
Spring's meant to be in full swing, gentle breezes of the winter's last winds, sun sheepish behind its accompanying clouds and yet it's been nothing but rain. Angry rain and arctic winds, enough to not confuse him of what coat to wear walking to campus. Then, on a random Tuesday, the air sizzles with a preview of summer, temperatures high enough for Sunoo to fill up the children's paddle pool they'd foolishly purchased with Riki's insistence to have a barbecue.
Which is exactly what they do, Jungwon driving with Riki hogging the aux again, Sunoo with his head out the rolled down windows as they drive to the big supermarket in their town. Everyone comes out with the sun, outside seating for cafes and restaurants packed with patrons laughing, smoking, burning a shade of pink all in the joy of summer's hinted presence. To Foster the People's 'Take Me Back' Jungwon finds himself not looking in his rear-view mirror for what feels like a first. In the teased summer sun, his hand hangs out the window, carding cruising winds through his spread fingers with one hand on the steering wheel. Something's ticked in his brain ever since he's seen you last, seen Sunghoon last too. How life would be if he didn't premeditate it, let the cards fall where they may be and at least give himself the grace of a moment before he dissects it. It's hard, any ingrained habit to be unlearned is, but today, when time seems to move slower, ice cream doing a slow melted drip in the sun, he feels it. The moment he exists in, the buzz of excitement in the air, the music thumping through his car's sound system, the comfort in the triangle friendship he's found with Sunoo and Riki. It makes him chatty, trading old stories and current tidbits with friends who feed off the flow of conversation, stopping every so often in a singalong, their shared first year summer playlist entailing all their fave songs and memories.
It's nice. Peaceful.
"You skipped my song again," Sunoo sounds from the backseat, clicking his tongue with a swat at Riki's shoulder. "There's a queue for a reason."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood for Rina Sawayama."
"Well, I'm not the mood for Sexyy Red," Sunoo argues back, eyes finding Jungwon's. "Would you like to be driving a car blasting Get it Sexy?"
Jungwon pauses, remembering last when the song played. Their trio drunk, the song's moans filling their living room. "Good song, but time and place."
"Wouldn't want to scare off the ladies,"
The car comes to stop at a red light, the car beside them occupied by four elderly women, hollering with sunglasses and canned cocktails floating in their backseat. By sheer coincidence, all their gazes cast Jungwon's way, his head nod rippling swoons through the car, their chatter amplifying before the green light diverges their paths.
"You pulling everyone except who you want is kind of peak."
"What does that mean?" Sunoo asks, hands hinging on each of their car seat shoulders. "You're interested in someone?"
Jungwon can only laugh really, dimples cratering into his cheek as his forehead falls into his palm, elbow balanced on his windowsill. It's been nearly a year since Jungwon met you, downstairs on a stretch of grass where things unknowingly began to shift, it was only a matter of time before he'd be found out. For however observant Jungwon attunes himself to being, it's synonymous with Riki, many moments occurring to his dot-connections and shit stirring. He should've expected this, maybe been a bit mad at Riki for letting it slip in front of the last person who should know but Jungwon can't find it in himself to be mad. Riki's apologetic in the boxy smile stretching his lip corners and the sun's out ─ he really can't complain.
"It means nothing," Riki deflects, barely covering his grin. "Here you go. Here's a song actually worth queuing."
Stardust comes through, living up to Riki's words and despite the shambled attempt at covering Jungwon's crush, Sunoo doesn't pry, seemingly losing himself into the collective head nod done throughout the car, volume turned all the way up by Jungwon before the bass drops. They're singing offkey when the lyrics finally come, enunciating even the beats of the song. It's silly and care-free, everything Jungwon deprives himself of, but not now. Not in the car he nearly swerves, not the big supermarket where he laughs at Nut-Free Bluey Cake and launches onto Riki's taller frame, happily carried into the next aisle while Riki attempts a grumble beneath him, Sunoo pushing the cart with a giddy grin. And when they've racked up an abysmal bill, rock-paper-scissors played at the till, they laugh. Louder than they should because Sunoo's been picked, swiping his card while Riki and Jungwon jump around, hugging with fevered pats on each other's backs. They sing more songs back in the car, Jungwon taking the long way home to fit in more and when they're back at the house, Sunoo gone to change, Riki and Jungwon linger in the kitchen, reading over the receipt and transferring the difference to Sunoo before they bolt their separate ways.
The care-free energy doesn't cease when they return, changed into swimming adjacent attire, board shorts mixed in with vests and rash guards, Riki starts up the grill as Jungwon wrestles Sunoo into the paddle pool, his shrieks filling the tiny back garden in harmony with Riki's hiccuped laugh. A tip of Riki's finger gets Sunoo stumbling in, laughing in a shriek as he clatters, eyes in moon crescents as he tosses the remaining water not splashed onto the hot concrete their ways, Riki fleeing through the back door's walkway and Jungwon defending his own with a pre-loaded water gun.
When the coast seems clear, Riki returns and there's almost no water in the pool now, an epic war fought where there's only wet losers who decide to make themselves useful, drying off and taking shifts inside the house, unpacking meat for Riki to grill and pre-making their burger buns, stuffed with combos Jungwon jokingly wrinkles his nose at, Sunoo's shoulder shoved into his with a playfulness he sinks into. Happy, the happiest he's allowed himself to be.
They're together again sometime later when Riki's grilled most of the meat, Sunoo's shrimp only left which he leaves in Jungwon's hands, heading back inside to take a call. There's still some sun, customary of the late season, the spared sunlight hitting Sunoo's face as he lounges in the pool, legs extended with feet dangling off the pool's rings while Jungwon grills, not a thought running in the lull of his usually over-active brain.
"You're different these days." Sunoo observes, fingers rippling through what's left of the paddle pool.
Lightness takes at Jungwon's chest, carefully flipping the skewered-shrimps. "How so?"
"I don't know," Sunoo drawls, a pout on his face. Jungwon can tell even with his back to him. "I feel like I know you better than I have. It's…nice."
He presses, hears the sizzle of shrimp as he gives it firmness from the spatula held in his hand. He thinks of Sunoo's words, how transparent they are and vulnerable he's become. His answer is an easy one.
"I think so too," it ends in a smile, only for his heart to do a slow sink. "Next year's gonna be hard."
With Sunoo graduating, Riki and I in his rear view mirror, Jungwon thinks. You'll still be here, but it won't be the same.
For a beat, no words occupy the space. Only the sizzle of meat and the drag of water, quiet and tranquil. Bird chirp in the distance, a gust of wind making dead leftover leaves dance across stones, the temperature suddenly dropping.
"It's bittersweet, isn't it?" Sunoo offers, and Jungwon has to turn. Stand on the opposite side of the grill and face his friend, watching his exact words spell across his face in a reluctant curve of his lips. "But why are you thinking so far ahead? There's still plenty of time left."
Because it's instinct, thinking three steps ahead, anticipating.
"I don't know," is Jungwon's premade answer, and it bothers him how dishonest it sounds to his own ears. He thinks again, searching, keeping his hands busy with the meat that might charcoal. "I think I'm preparing for the worst and controlling what I can. So that when it happens, it doesn't hurt as much."
It's as honest and coherent he's been about his own feelings, a somewhat sickly feeling coming with the admission. Like he could crawl out of his skin. But before he can take it back, his eyes catch on Sunoo's face, silent surprise unfolding with lips shaped in an O. Then, when he notices their eyes lock, kindness brims in them, warmer than usual as Sunoo's head tilts, surprise morphing into quiet sympathy.
"You live your life so far ahead of itself," he lets the younger one know, a pinch of regret in his face as if he experiences Jungwon's life himself. "I don't like getting hurt either, but that's life no? Getting to experience what you can in spite of it,"
"I think that's what makes moments like these better. Knowing I opened my heart up to the experience because even if somewhere along the way, pain comes along ─ it's only temporary. Because in the grand scheme of things, I'll still be able to look back at this - all the memories we have together - and still be grateful I accepted them for what they're worth," Sunoo explains, heart on his sleeve. "Something to cherish."
Jungwon thinks back. There's little to cherish from before, living for others despite being the most guarded he's ever been. He's been that way at uni, the key from the keyhole removed just to let Riki and Sunoo in and when you come along, he unlocks it completely. Opens the sliver of sunshine streaming in, and what feels like all he knows isn't enough. He wants to let people in, wants to share more belly laughs and inside jokes that resonate with him. Be in the moment and not worry about every moment after. Perhaps he's made his start, like Sunoo indicated, but when they pack up their house next year, Sunoo's tears spilling over while Riki wills himself not to cry - Jungwon wants to cry too. From the depths of himself because he knows he'll miss what felt like forever. He'll miss taking no more than ten steps to bug Sunoo to watch a movie, push back his hair with Sunoo's headbands as they try out skincare masks, huddle in the kitchen on weekend mornings - all three of them - their blended playlist blaring in the background, dancing around even Jungwon after spills the milk to his cereal. Because there's more to life than getting it right the first time. Jungwon knows this now.
"Yeah," Jungwon concedes, burying his chin into his propped knees. Not holding back his tears, but blinking then away. "You're right. It is better that way."
Sunoo is nice enough not to say anything, not initially. Jungwon's too in his feelings to hear him come out the paddle pool, Sunoo's hand finding the back of Jungwon's head with tender strokes, a brush of pride-filled affection in his touch. Jungwon lets his heart crack a little, a tear escaping with the bite of his lip. The hurt festers, but as soon as its felt, it's gone. Soothed away by being experienced and with the lift of his chin, Jungwon inhales. Exhales for what feels like the first time ever and lets a little of rigidity go.
Whatever may come of his life, he will let it happen. Won't orchestrate anything beyond his exhaustion and let destiny take the wheel.
The ride is smoother that way. That much clear when Riki comes back with a share of ribs for Jungwon, buying them despite their extortionate prices because he's always thought of Jungwon. And even when he jokes about the sombre mood, when they're on their feet again, he bumps Jungwon's hip with careful eyes searching for Jungwon's temperament. And like this, meat sizzles, tucked into buns perfectly sliced by Sunoo and eaten in ongoing chatter, another day in sun but one of the first where Jungwon leaves the door open.
It's raining again. Heavily.
A matter of days before Jungwon's set to take his final exams for the year and he's surprisingly calm. Of course, he'd studied but he'd also had fun, spending nights when Sunoo wasn't tired in the living room as a trio, doing and talking about absolutely nothing but still marked as something to cherish to him. He also sees Sunghoon, goes over to his place where Heeseung perches on Jungwon's shoulder, oohing and ahhing over the brownies he makes, Jay enticed by the aroma filtering into the living room where he'd previously played his guitar. And in their concrete backyard, they lounge on camping chairs, munching on the soft heaven Jungwon manages to bake and minutes later, they're laughing at nothing. The small fire Sunghoon's made outlines their faces, their happiness on display and Jungwon sinks into his own, hands in his pockets and slumps into his chair, happy.
Which the weather doesn't mirror. Except it's not meant to reflect his mood, but yours, heart thudding in your neck as your phone vibrates with incessant calls attempts and a flood of texts.
You'd been just about to toss your phone away for a study session, settling down at your desk, smiling at your pegboard, trinkets and a photo booth photo taken recently of you and Jaehyun. Your Kerropi keychain had found its way onto the pegboard too, because after you'd lost one of your keychains, you'd been apprehensive of losing others.
In your hand, your phone buzzes, screen alight with a selfie of you and Jaehyun, his cheeks squished as you pucker your lips into a kiss onto his cheek. Happiness floods you, accepting the welcome distraction, painfully unaware of its destruction.
"Hi baby!"
You've been butt-dialled, softened by material and limbs, but even that couldn't muffle the words you'd heard. The horrid laughs of his friends back home since he'd finished the academic year, you always coming last.
"Dude! Surely, it's been a year," his friend hollers, a smack delivered to Jaehyun. "And you still haven't cracked that?"
"I've been trying, believe me!" he insist, tone doused in a bucket of sinister tar you're so unfamiliar with. "She always clams up the last minute. Can't tell you how many boners she's sent to the grave."
"She has that whole innocent, cutesy thing going for her," another friend explains, one you've had nothing but respectful interactions with. Your stomach twists, a sudden wave of nausea attempting to drown you. "But, I mean, come on? She would've slobbered on your knob with that crush she had on you in school. What's stopping her now? Men have needs too, don't they?"
"Don't even, bro, because─" and he laughs, a genuine hearty laugh that splits your heart in two. "─when she's feeling all guilty for not putting out, she'll try give me a blowjob and it's the fucking worst,"
He laughs again, his hand likely over his eyes like you've seen him do plenty of times. Only now, you're the butt of the joke.
"I just imagine whatever Pornhub video I watched the night before and jizz in her mouth to get it over with," he explains, chorus of laughter filtering through the phone's speaker. "There's still time though. All bets are not off yet, gentlemen. I'm getting my money, her virginity too!"
It's the last thing you hear as your phone jolts in your tremored hand, thumb aggressively tapping at the red end call button, with its delayed end coming with the shudder of your breath. The force of it, dry heaved out a throat working, gargling with no remnants in your stomach being pulled again and again, a desperate rush to your en-suite, your phone dropped like your knees to hard floor, spit plonked into the toilet bowl.
Sanity is the last thing considered, your back pressed to cold tiled wall as your arms circle around your knees, wobbled lips pressed into the bone as your body rocks. Willing whatever wretchedness you've just heard not to be real, to be a figment of whatever horrible imagination your mind's become.
However, when you're shaking your head, hoping the thoughts will drop out your ears, you only manage to connect the dots. His sudden interest after an eternity spent pining over him, the half-efforts elsewhere except the bedroom, the dismay you'd been met with when you'd introduced him as your boyfriend to other hometown friends, to Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki. The thought makes you sick, how everyone was able to see what laid beneath the surface but you, the person supposedly closest to him. His girlfriend.
The title once meaning everything to you drops slug over your body, skin crawling at the heavy, disgusting feel as there is no one to blame except yourself. For wearing your heart on your sleeve, for believing Jaehyun was above you, for giving yourself to him.
You want out. Out this bathroom, out your skin, not a thought in mind as you're stumbling out your bathroom, not caring for the pitter-patter of rain hitting your window and storming through doors and halls, figure soaking in rain as you run as hard as your burning lungs allow. The drenched weight of your clothes threatens to weigh you down, but you persist, tears mascaraed in the rain pouring over your face as you round the familiar corner, huffing and puffing with your hands on your knees, at the doorstep of someplace urgent. A place you'd neglected trying to find a home in Jaehyun.
Jungwon opens the door, because of course he does. In the face of his surprise, you can only sigh, meekness in your croaked voice as you ask, "Can I come in? Please?"
He'd be a fool to leave you in the rain, a fact you know now Jaehyun is capable of doing if it didn't get his dick wet. Your eyes pinch together, weak heart hoping once you trudge through Jungwon's doorway, all thoughts of your ex-boyfriend will cease, soaked shoes slipped off, tracking rain in the house as you're ushered to the upstairs bathroom, Jungwon moving swiftly to hand you towels and an extra change of clothes.
His.
The relieved sigh you do should make guilt crush you, but you've forgone all thought. All emotion, only allowing the hot shower of water run down your back like you'd hope your previous relationship would.
You don't talk much after you've come through the door, whispered 'thank you's the extent of your vocabulary as Jungwon hands you towels and clothing to change into, hanging your soaked pair on the towel warmer to dry quicker.
You're wounded, that much is clear in the gauntness in your face, skin pale and eyes soulless. He can't pry, the first tumble of his words possibly the final blow, your crumble inevitable, fleeing because where else can you go? Sunoo's not meant to be in until late, you're not as close with your friends because well, Jaehyun is your best friend.
And yet, you make no mention of him. Don't attach yourself to your phone like you'd done before, giggling over sparse text messages and fawning over pictures of you together. As a substitute, your small figure hovers at the stairs leading up to his attic bedroom, complaining of the rain, how your troublesome presence would've left earlier if you didn't want to get soaked.
"Stay over," he insists, hauling himself off his bed. "You can take the bed, I'll get the blow-up sorted."
There's back and forth and in an effort not to make you cry, he gives into your insistence, you taking the blow-up bed and him preached on his bed. The small TV mounted in his room blares, in the corner you occupy playing some movie he doesn't pay any attention to, face permanently creased as his eyes run over yours, wondering what he can do to erase it.
There's little he can do without knowing the source, an omission of truth on your part after an hour and half long film, another absently switched over to before you burrow into your set of bedding, back towards him for a long while. The TV's eventually turned off, silence eating away at the bitter night.
"He had a bet going with his friends," you confess, voice small and tear-wrinkled. "That's all this was to him ─ some sick joke that he could make with his friends,"
"I don't even─I can't even─"
Jungwon sits up, heaving a sigh twisted in disappointment and heartache. Mounts his pillows to support his back, salt rock lamp in the corner providing some light as he coaxes you with tenderness. "Up on the bed,"
You don't move. His hand pats his mattress in a three-beat sequence. "C'mon, angel."
Hesitation for a moment longer, your back still to him, and then there's give. Your figure hauls itself up, drowning in his clothes and ambling over to him, stalling at his bedside, his arms out in comfort you've been robbed of.
A knee edged into his bed, dipping with your looming presence before you draw to him, submitting.
"In my arms. That's it," your back finds his chest, slumping with the world's weight on your shoulders, turned away because he can only imagine you'd hate for him to see you like this. In pieces ─ for nothing. "Go ahead, get it off your chest."
"He─" you hiccup, trembling in Jungwon's hold. "They knew I liked him and made a joke of it. They probably said all kinds of hurtful things and I just…he made it clear he was never in it for me,"
"He just wanted to brag to his friends about beating them to it," the disgust flicks off your tongue, body tensing against him. In the circle of his arm, a thumb caresses the top of your arm, devoted to your care. Your comfort. "As if I'm something to claim."
"You know you're not his to claim," Jungwon reminds you, cheek pressed to the side of your head, lips brushing against your hair. "Nothing of you is even his to begin with because no man ─ no person ─ can ever take anything from you,"
"If you love the way you love and treat people, that will always come back tenfold," he assures you, something you might hate to hear, but need to anyways. "Same goes for what those shitheads did,"
It's a first. The crackle of your laughter, subdued, but undeniably there, vibration bleeding through to his chest. A smooth curve graces Jungwon's face, dimple cratering.
"I can't wish bad on them," Even though he already has, mulling over methods of a get-back while he selects words for you. "But they'll get what's coming to them. Nothing goes unpunished,"
"Nothing goes unrecognised either," his neck cranes to see you better, tear-stained cheeks and a pout on your lips, painted in the soft cream hues of his lamp. "I'm really grateful you confined in me. I can't begin to imagine the pain you're going through,"
"But at least you and I both know by talking about this and separating yourself from the situation, you're doing good by yourself. Clearing out all the bad to make way for good because at the end of the day, that's what I truly believe you deserve and that's what will come to you. Everything good because you're deserving of that and much more,"
"Okay?" His head ducks to meet your hung head, lifting to reveal the wobble of your lips as you nod along. "C'mere."
You burrow, body turning to envelope in the embrace he gives you, limbs tangling in a sigh of relief as you bury your face into his shoulder, his chin resting upon yours, hand stroking the back of your head.
"It's okay," he mumbles, knowing it'll be, hoping you'll eventually see it that way. "He doesn't know how good he had it, but that's not for him to know."
Your bodies separate on your behalf, the first pull away, him following along. He anticipates more distance between you, easiness in his expression that you'll attempt a smile at, which you do, but at a closer proximity, hands hinged at the top of his chest, fingers overlapping onto his shoulders. The heat of your skin burns into his, through material and his skin dotting with goosebumps as novelty swirls in the hue of your eyes, features creased in a taste of bittersweet before you're inching closer, nails digging into his shirt.
"Jungwon,"
His name is breathless, uttered in a hushed voice like others will pry. Will take him away from you, and he tenses. Sees beyond your intentions, hyper-aware of his hands splayed onto your folded knees between his legs before he lets out a shaky exhale.
"I─I don't know if this is," right, some things considered. Varying in severity depending on the person, he thinks his own motives regarding you aren't as squeaky clean as you believe them to be. He isn't sure whether after things with Jaehyun (if they've ended, which he hopes they have), you're doing any better than a man who'd been so desperate to have you, he considered push and prying. Inserting himself where he didn't belong.
There's no need now.
He's corrupted, he thinks. Maybe not meant for the porcelain you are.
"I," you struggle for the words, grasping to the front of his shirt like a lifeline, at odds with yourself. Your eyes show him as much ─ but there's something else in them too.
A plea.
"You're the only one I could tell this to," you confess, glassy eyed all over again. "I don't think you or I realise how many times you've been there for me,"
Your forearm's used to wipe away your tears, a quiet sniffle before steadiness leads your eyes, ceasing the expansion of Jungwon's unmoving chest.
"I may be acting out of weakness, but that doesn't change what you've always given me," your hands move, flat against the plan of his chest, up and down like you could soothe the hammer of his deafening heart. "All I need is comfort,"
You. All I need is you, is the statement echoed in Jungwon's mind, run on repeat like a broken record, lost in an echo chamber that doesn't know what to do with itself. Not with this information, not with you on him, pleading with your pretty tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that cast a sparkle despite the darkness looming over you like the dark clouds in the sky.
He should be logical about this. Differentiate it like everything he's ever done with his life because it's got him places he'd set for himself. Study hard ─ good grades, good university, good job. Sociable ─ hangouts, friends, the loss of being alone. Everything is a system and chain reaction for him, spelled out because at least if dealt the hand of fearing loss of control, he could control some things. All the variables he could plausibly dictate while maintaining his good graces.
But you're not a variable. Not some stat he could account for since the first moment he's laid eyes on you and it makes him tick. Tittering on how this could be and what he had to do to make things plain and simple.
Unfortunate for him, all he had to do is accept it for the mess it is. Like everything else involving thoughts and feelings.
"Do you want to?" he asks, because he really needs to know. In the depths of his heart. "I don't want this to be something you regret."
After he's gained your trust, to see a reality where come sunrise, you never meet his eyes, sit furthest on the couch, don't entertain anything that has to do with him ─ he's selfish and enamoured enough to never want that for himself. Not in any timeline.
"I can't regret you," you affirm like a confession, steady enough to meet his gaze with a calmness running the direct opposite down his spine. "I can regret things, but that will always exclude you."
A hard thump, then a flutter. His heart tickles against his bruised chest and his fingertips itch, gnawing into the material splayed over your knees, his clothing. Even now, having gone through rain and a warm shower, brown sugar and marshmallow still persists, a sugary sweet aroma enticing him, begging him for mercy.
His forehead falls to yours, your arms woven around, wrists crossed at his nape. Breaths shared, his eyes closed, brain scanning for what to do next. What to do with what he wants most, whether he can accept it for what it is or plague himself for never accepting it in the first place.
Noses brush each other, breaths synched. Both are shaky, for different reasons but you anchor yourself to Jungwon, fingernail tracing across his nape before you're holding his face with hands that won't let go. The itch persists, shorts material sleeving into the webs of his fingers. He so badly wants this, has been pining over you for months and that greed grinds his teeth together, gritted in apprehension. Questioning whether even if your words given, this will be a once-off thing. He's gone enough to take what he's given but as he peers down at your lips, plump, unkissed - he can't help wrestle himself. Wondering if once is ever enough when it comes to you.
"I don't wanna think about this too much," you bring him back to life, speaking the words he needs to hear. Your forehead's creased, sincerity in your red-rimmed eyes. "If it feels right, then…"
He'll let go. Stop thinking five steps ahead, of the worst possible outcome and let himself be. Kiss you like how he's always wanted to.
The mere press of your lips electrifies him, drawing goosebumps all over his warm body as you let the press linger, lips overlapping each other in a pucker capturing the tip of the iceberg. The nerves, tamed desire. It's only the surface of what Jungwon feels and he's hooked, falling apart when you go in for seconds. He surrenders to buried feelings, firming his grip on your arms as you press further, face screwed like you're giving him your all. Jungwon can't help the groan that escapes him, especially when the hitch of your breath ends with a whine, lips parted as his tongue runs along your bottom lip, the shudder you get travelling through to him. He could do this forever, Jungwon thinks, kiss and kiss you, get lost in the plush of your lips and never leave, engulfing himself in your existence because that's what matters most to him. You and then everything after.
Being together like this unlocks you, peels back what you've so secretly hidden away under the guised affection for Jungwon that couldn't exist beyond the confinements of friendship. You'd pushed himself aside, too enamoured by the star you'd set yourself on, staring too long into the Sun, only to leave yourself blind. But Jungwon, always there, has this gravitation pull over you, keeping you to him despite your best efforts and with the gentleness of the moon, you fall. Tip over into the dark well you've always harboured for him, witnessing first-hand how much devotion you hold for him as your body sinks into the kiss, limbs pressed into his with a want that won't cease.
Jungwon's back finds the mattress, laid flat with his head between pillows, his pupils swallowing the honey brown of his eyes. There's softness in his eyes, there's always been for you, but in the dark of his room, his eyes are almost sharper, fuelled by the sentiment iron-cladding his grip to your hips, his chest rising as you peer down at him, hands attached to him. You blink away the lazy film coating your eyes, letting out a wistful sigh while your hands explore, inched centimetres over to where his heart is. It'll beat out his chest, you think, with how fast it's going. The intimacy of it, being seen makes him shift briefly, hips unknowingly brought up to make you move on him, something more brushed against your back. You gulp it down, the sheepishness flooding your cheeks. He sees it too, and extends his hands out for you, holding your cheek in his palm with the quiet call.
"C'mere,"
And you fold, arms bracing yourself as Jungwon holds your face in his hands, kissing you like he'd always meant to. The thought pools warmth in your stomach, stirred slow and steady as he leaves traces of himself all over your lips, teeth tugging at your bottom lip to make you do a silent gasp, the boil threatening to spill over as your body grows antsy, wishing to fan the flame.
"Won," you rasp, and it sounds so desperate. So harsh in your ears. "More,"
His thumb traces the outline of your mouth, ghosting over its frame to settle below your cupid's bow, capturing its every movement as the confession finds itself said into words.
"I need more."
Only then, his eyes flicker up to yours. They're unassuming, more so gauging where you stand of all places, to which he makes up his mind. Flashes an indulgent grin your way before you start to feel him shift.
"I'll give it to you, baby. Don't have to say another word," he muses, back lifting off the mattress as you pull away for space. Between your legs, he's hard, impossible to notice. Especially when the dull ache between your legs attunes itself to him. "In my arms, back to me."
Wonder starts in your mind, prickled by the erratic jolt of your heart rate, but in the calm of Jungwon's expression, you find some peace. Let your nerves be nothing more than that and let him guide you, shorts given to you taken off with your shoulders surrounded by his frame, his arms shadowing yours, hands over your fidgeting ones.
"Nervous?" he asks in a whisper, so close his lips brush the shell of your ear. You squirm into him, channelling the jitters with crescent nail-pressed marks in your thighs.
"A little," you confess, sheepishness finding itself in your cheeks again. Your head turns away like he's facing you. "I-I haven't done this before."
"Not with yourself?" he hums, nosing along your neck.
You gulp, memory providing clip images. "I have, but…"
Your head hangs, breath coming out ragged from the patterns he draws on your thighs. "It doesn't feel as good,"
He hums in understanding, against your back to make all the hairs on your body stand. His hand inches closer, not purposely because he's still drawing patterns, but it feels that way. "It usually feels better when someone's doing it for you,"
His teeth catch on your earlobe, a gentle mark before he lazes over down the column of your neck to lick a stripe against it, a whimper his reward. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with,"
"I'll touch your clit and you'll feel so good, princess. I promise," he begs, threading your fingers with his before they ghost over the front of your underwear, with no pressure in a hover that makes you buck. "And when you're ready and want my fingers, I'll give them to you. At your own pace, until you come."
You've never felt so restless, a thing of feral nature scratching at your chest, with no release but this. A man's hand between your thighs as you heave like you've done under covers, lips clamped together with a whimper of your release. You think of Jungwon, how he'd take his time with you, learn what feels good for you and commit to it, whispering sweet nothings in your ear before he kisses you right off a cliff.
There's only one answer.
"Please," you plead, squeezing his fingers. Turning around to give him your glossy eyes, tortured without any. "Touch me."
A soft curve pulls one end of his lips, false pity in his features before he pecks your lips, looking you in the eyes as he says, "Then let me."
Wordlessly, you unhook your fingers from his, a steady tremble against your thighs as you give him free reign, anticipation rife in twitch of your lips. First, he doesn't do anything, just lets you sit with your legs open, helplessly aching and wet. Somehow, it's a secret you want to keep to yourself but as Jungwon's middle finger drags across the gusset of your panties, over your entrance - a slight push in to hear your slick's echo - and upwards, between your outlined folds and onto your clit, where he rubs, you croak. Unleash a sound you've always kept to yourself and he groans at it.
"So sweet for me," he moans in your ear, hands already beneath your waistband, tugging. "Off, off. These need to come off,"
With the same haste, you try slide your underwear off, bracing against Jungwon who doesn't even let you get them off your ankles before he's on you. Collecting all the slick spilled out your entrance, circling it with three fingertips with a drag up to your clit, going up and down to collect or savour as teeth tease at your neck. You mewl, body feverishly hot at the new stimulation, of having someone else touch you this way, your head spinning too fast to keep in time with.
"You're so wet. So ready for me, huh?" he groans into your neck, licking it as you feel his hips buck up into your back, a firm push of his clothed cock against your ass. A quiet squelch sounds, caught on the graze of Jungwon's fingers. "You clenched, baby. Oh, you know I want it too, fuck."
His fingers come back up to circle your clit, nice and slow to the detriment of your deep breaths, shallow and worn as a pool of molten lava swirls in your belly, at unrest while Jungwon dedicates himself to you. Kissing every inch of your skin, grazing with his teeth and then biting, applying enough pressure to pull the high keen from your throat, embarrassed but so turned-on you can't think straight.
"Feels good, angel?" he coos at your fast nods, your hips helplessly following the fast rubs he does, breaking you from within. "Think you're ready for my fingers?"
A desperate hand reaches for his one stationed on your knee, keeping your legs open. Your head tips back on his shoulder, throat bobbing as you rasp a moan, near tears. "Please ─ want more,"
"When did my princess get so greedy, hm?" he muses, the hint of condescension in his voice. Buckling under the shame of it, you seep into its pleasure too as your hands splay onto his thighs, muscles tense beneath your palms. "It's okay, I'll bite. Just sit back and watch."
So, you do. Watching with a heaving chest as his hand slides further, then stops. The silence of the moment is ear-splitting, nothing but Jungwon's slow and controlled breaths in your ear before his fingertip circles your entrance, done with no motive but make you shake. Have it glisten against his fingertip, done with his index finger to and held up for both your eyes to see, your cheeks set aflame.
It's not the end of Jungwon's cruel and unusual punishment, the fingers hovered to your face, expectant for your mouth. Jungwon doesn't say anything, just gives the slightest nudge of his shoulder, bottom lip coming between your clenched teeth. Then, they draw closer and your mouth opens, fingers laid flat against your tongue before your mouth closes. You sing around the digits, tasting yourself with a mewl that can't seem to stop, timid at first but when your tongue twitches, you try again ─ tongue swirling round his fingers, tasting him too.
"Fuck, you're good with your mouth," he gruffs out, fingers gliding further to make your throat close, gag muffled against his skin. His other hand leaves your knee, lightly pressed to your throat as he tries again, another gag following. "Holy shit,"
Both hands leave the circumference of your face, one hand back on your knees admittedly pulled together to calm the ache between your thighs you couldn't solve and his other ─ dipped behind you, the smack of his lips coming with the drop of your heart.
"You're mine now," he says, a bite down on your earlobe to make you yelp as he busies himself with his fingers tracing your entrance, taunting. "No one's gonna get you like this, taste you like this,"
A breach ─ finally ─ and he steals all the words you could possibly say, your chest full of air, shoulders heightened up to his neck and you blink a hundred times over, adjusting to the foreign feeling of someone else so intimately intertwined with you. More feeds in, your breath shuddering as all you can do watch, his knuckle past your glistening lips before it curls, a high keen automatic.
Claws fly into material, the fabric of Jungwon's sleep trousers, scrunching into the material as you catch your lip in your teeth, body hunching over into the feeling. So pleased, wanting more and more. Down your spine, Jungwon's kisses follow, at the top of it where exposed skin prevails and down into the material of his shirt, warm air huffed into as he chuckles into you.
"Too much?"
"No," you shake your head, hip jutting for more. "Jungwon,"
"What, baby?" he calls, so sweet despite his amused chuckles. He's curling more, moving his hand for the heel of his palm to hit against your clit. You squeal. "Use your big girl words. How else am I supposed to know how you're feeling?"
The squeals never stop, echoed as you brace back onto Jungwon like a magnet, his trousers in your hands as squelches fill the room. You can't help yourself, the slow unwinding of your body does into him, only your hips drawn to him as he pumps a lone finger into you, everything and not enough at the same time. The feeling pumping through your veins overwhelms you in the best way, seeing the truth to his words as he fingers you, feeding more until he's knuckles deep. And when he's─
"It's here, isn't it?" he smiles into the column of your neck, loving to hear you whine. "That gets you weak?"
He says it like a mere observation, finger hooked with a press against a spongy spot hunching you over, the moans pouring out each time he presses it against it. Desperate hands seek his crumpled duvet covers, clutching for dear life as you feel your brain rewrite itself, attempting to recall if you've ever felt this good or if it's just Jungwon who makes you feel that way. No time is offered to ponder the matter, pleasure drowning out simple mental gymnastics as you keen more, walls closing in as you buck your hips to meet his finger.
"Oh baby, you love getting fingered this much?" Jungwon chuckles, a firm hand on your shoulder to haul you back to him. Against him, your chest lapses, forehead accumulating sweat as you blink away the dazed haze over your eyes, pressure building your stomach. "I haven't even put another in, how much more my cock."
You buckle over his crude words, melting back with a whine as your hips keep bucking, meeting the hand cupped over you with more and more on your mind. "Should I add another?"
"Please. Now!"
"Oh," the disappointment comes with a hard bite against your neck, a yelp surfacing at the same time he pushes another finger in. Your nails find his bicep, lodged in with a cry. "I'm sure there's better ways to ask for what you want,"
Two fingers deep, the top bone of his palm slams into your clit with vengeance, voice stolen from you, released without regard for prying ears and your dignity.
"There's better ways to ask me," he emphasizes, a shiver sent down your back. "Right, princess?"
Despite the incessance of his fingers, you at least have the presence of mind to answer back, an enthused nod coming with your answer. "Yes."
"My sweet girl," the sternness melts in a blink, smoothed against the skin of your cheek with an adoring kiss as the coil in your stomach twists, nearing its limit. "I'll add another, okay?"
"Thank you," the heave comes with the shutter of your eyes, head hung as the pressure builds beyond what you're equipped to handle. A short break, then the stretch.
The fingers you'd already been dealt had a stretch of their own ─ foreign, long, thicker with the kind of intrusion edged with discomfort. Except when you'd taken a breath, closed your eyes and trusted, he moved at your pace. He listened to you, attuned to every shift in your body that resisted or begged for more. And now, the width bares teeth into your bottom lip, discomfort sounding at the back of your throat. Immediately, he ceases, leaned into the crook of your neck.
"Hurts?"
"A bit," you admit, feeling small. "It'll get better though,"
"It doesn't have to if it's too much for you," his response is instant. "I can go back to─"
Your hands eclipses his, a turn back to him with trembled lips and a tension that cannot be eased. "No. I-"
You turn away, having no reason to be shy but being so in the end. "I wanna try. It'll be preparation for…"
He knows. He knows what you mean too, if not from context clues, but the way your walls do a weak squeeze of his fingers, his smirk bitten back.
"C'mere," he calls, and you answer. Kissed like you're porcelain, wondering how you'd ever allowed yourself to be kissed any other way. "So sweet for me. I'll go slow, okay? Let me know if you need me to stop,"
And you would ─ if you needed him too. Except you're on the brink of destruction, your body not your own as your pants fill the room, mixed in with the squelches that only amplify, Jungwon's fingers picking up speed as he feels you relax, letting go as you surrender everything to him.
"You're close," he huffs, littering your neck in kisses. "Gonna come for me, angel?"
You might, except this release doesn't feel like others. It feels like─
"Jungwon, I might─" the embarrassment colours your face, bucking hips eagerly to meet him despite the horror soon approaching. "I might, fuck."
He knows you best, it seems. A graze of his teeth to your pulse, a tender bite and a kiss to seal the deal. "You won't, this is different. It's okay, princess. Come for me."
His fingers are still going, your hips are still bucking and you can only brace as you take your last breath and shatter in his hold. Let go like he asks with your vision engulfing in stark white. The world beyond the feeling is no concern of yours, swallowed by the birth of pleasure swallowing you whole, vibrating in every crevice of your cells bumping together. Your eyelids force blinks, ones that don't come with the clear of your vision initially, but when your soul finds itself back into your body, Jungwon's room comes back into focus. His lit salt lamp, sneakers arranged in a straight line, the hoard of medals ─ you see it all, and then your sight drops down between your legs. A damp pool seeping through Jungwon's navy blue duvet cover, probably darker if not for the low-lighting, and the removal of his fingers, both them and his hand drenched in clear liquid making your shivering body very still.
In silence is how the next few excruciating moments pass, eyes darting nowhere in particular as you come to terms with the mess you've made ─ whether Jungwon anticipated this, or whether your first sexual experience entails embarrassment you can't come back from. Decision paralysis keeps you rooted in place, no limb budged an inch except for Jungwon's hand - hoisted over your shoulder with the careful chase of your sidelong gaze, not seeing but hearing his fingers in his mouth again, lips smacked together.
Then, a hum comes. Much like the last time, except there's something feral on its tail end, an unexpected variable your brain's failed to consider. So, you shift ─ just slightly, angling yourself enough to get a better look of him, his expression no longer cast in the darkness of your silhouette and illuminated by his salt lamp. His eyes are what you've seen black holes look like, an endless pit of exposed hunger you're still trying to wrap your head around. Amongst other things like how he just stares at you, licking you off his fingers while he hums at the taste. Emotion lurches in your chest, a door opening you're unaware of its existence and it…resonates with this. Filth. A unknown you've quietly managed to package away, only to meet its other half.
"Must've felt so good, huh angel?" he coos, other hand coming up to caress your cheek, an automatic melt into his palm. "You're not embarrassed, are you?"
Eyelashes bat, your gaze scatters. All cues he sees before his palm places tender pats on your cheek, the skin of your cheek pulled between his pinched fingers.
"Don't be silly," he drawls, shifting closer to you. The hairs on your body stand, his fresh linen scent engulfing you. "If I needed to know how good you felt, that was the best way to show me,"
His head ducks, meeting your eyes flickered down to your lap. "It felt good, right?"
A look into his eyes is given a chance, cheeks aflame at how starkly honest they are. Your head ducks again, nodding wordlessly.
Then his hand migrates, softly and without a word too, hands woven around your ponytail he tugs at enough for your head to lift. Caught in your throat, your breath is gulped down in a big gesture, eyes having no choice but to peer into his.
"Want more?"
You already know your answer.
Except the vacancy of its sound is not enough to appease Jungwon.
"I won't give you more if I can't hear you."
Your exhale crumbles on its way out, brain racking itself to remember if Jungwon was ever like this. Gentle, yet stern enough to straighten your back, kept on your toes as your breath held for his every word.
"Yes," your voices comes out, meek but an answer nonetheless. "Please, Won. I..need you,"
Magic to his ears, the loaded tension of the moment disarms itself in the smile he beams, a more playful yank of your hair done before he's barrelling towards you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. It feels like a contrast and continuation of your last kiss all at once ─ hungry, desperate and with an itch with the sole function of being scratched. The amount of affection he bombards you with knocks you off-balance, lips prying in a pathetic plea as his teeth sink into your bottom lip, soothed with the stroke of his tongue, the action folding your body into yourself.
You do your best to support yourself, staying upright but Jungwon leans and leans, frenzied to feel every inch of skin pressed into his and it lights you on fire, being so desired and wanted when you've felt nothing but discarded. With your back blending into the mattress again, his lips meeting skin you hadn't spared a thought towards ─ the tip of your nose, under your eye where a mole rests, on the curve of your jaw and all the way down your torso, teeth nibbling the skin of your collarbone to render you even more weak. Kissing his way all along from one hip to another, taking his time with you until your fingers thread into his hair, tugging enough to warrant the lift of his head, teary eyes meant to summon some sympathy.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted you," he groans into your skin, dragging his lips against the skin of your lower stomach. "I want to savour everything,"
One last kiss is pressed to you before he lifts from the bed, pushing his boxers and sweatpants down in one swoop, not waiting a minute longer. Except for the moment you rise, propped up on your elbows to stare, slow blinks done as your eyes hate to starve themselves of the sight of Jungwon stroking himself in long, languid strokes, his large tip smeared with precome as more beads, its flushed appearance and size a hard pill to swallow.
The corner of his lip lifts, amused with the honesty you wear on your face before he draws closer, the nudge of his tip to softly spread your lips apart making you clench. An aired chuckle is all you hear beyond the mess in your chest, sight devoted in watching Jungwon glide his cock between your folds, knocking into your clit knowing it'd make you quiver, hand flying to grab his arm.
"Angel," his voice bleeds with fondness, brain a puddle of syrup between your ears. "Look at how wet you get for me,"
The slick that's accumulated in his scarce motions is to the amount of flattery, echoed when your walls close again as he nudges your clit, dragging himself down with his thumb replacing his tip. You catch your lip between your teeth, whimper heard nonetheless as his precome trails down to your entrance, his tip resting there.
Your hips circle with his thumb, but your neck cranes to see what he schemes before his tip circles your entrance, painted to his eyes. The image must conjure fire in him as he gives a broken breath, tip not resting, but being feed in, the tiniest bit of skin beginning to meet yours.
"I should─fuck, get a condom," he sounds winded, looking dishevelled with the heightened rise of his chest, pulling back out to trace your entrance again. He tosses a look to his bedside table like he's actually considering it, head swivelled back to yours when you give his wrist a squeeze.
"It's okay." is all you say, slowly but surely spreading your legs further, your extension of invitation.
Everything following afterwards occurs in blocks of time, the flutter-shut of his eyes as he collects himself at your words, him lining himself up with you and then him pushing in. On sleepless nights, you'd considered what this moment would be like, you anticipated pain and while there's a sear of it, there's more relief. Not in that you're doing this with someone you love, but the fact that it would feel good. And that Jungwon delivers on.
Plenty of adjustment time is given to you, his palm smoothing over the skin of your forehead before it's kissed, sugar-sweetness in his voice as he asks if you're ok. At this point, he's buried to the hilt and it's compressed your lungs from the inside-out, the stretch of him an element to account for. But the fullness? How engulfed and full you feel, with all of him snug in you, arms caging your body with his mouth possessive against blooming bruises on your neck? Your brain cannot comprehend the kaleidoscope of sensory and emotional information.
Then he moves. Eyes locked where you connect, watching while you feel himself almost pull out entirely, only his tip left before he feeds himself back in, slow and unhurried. The keen at the back of your throat comes with the curl your body does into itself, nails seeking refuge in the duvet cover. Shallow thrusts follow, pulling the want out of you as every thrust, however minimal adds fuel to the fire, discomfort dissipating with the slow bloom of pleasure, your voice no longer yours as moans empty with every grind.
"Sound so pretty when I'm in you," Jungwon smiles, grabbing the collar of his shirt to take his t-shirt off. The hard ridges of his toned torso make you squeal, walls coming down on Jungwon's cock. "Keep this up and I'm gonna keep stuffed forever."
The filth he speaks with contrasts sharply with the dimpled smile he gives you, endearment unapologetic and ever-flowing as Jungwon maintains his slow grinds into you, your jaw unhinging as shallow pants empty out of your mouth.
You must feed his ego with all your reactions, face permanently scrunched as Jungwon rubs slow circles against your clit, coaxing your walls to have some give as his thrusts remain shallow and controlled. Every place your skin meets his feels explosive, cells vibrating with the slow drizzle of ecstasy you find yourself drowning in, thighs twitching as one of your ankles hooks around his waist, looking for an anchor.
His eyebrow raises, the beckon of your hand bringing him closer, his hips in no way stalled as he switches to torturous grind into you, pelvis grinding up against your clit in an action you squirm at, holding onto him hopelessly as he engulfs your vision's field.
"Won," you moan, leaned into the hand he cups your cheek with. "Faster, please...I want more."
The thumb giving your skin calming caresses halts midway, a momentary pause where his eyes linger on your lips and the squirm of your hips bucking for friction, before his moves again. Down to your chin and flirts with your neck, no pressure applied except for his index finger down on your pulse, erratic thunder beneath his fingertip.
"What my angel wants," his lips curve, sharp at their edges. "She gets."
It's the last of his sweetness you see, your request fulfilled as he lifts from the human cage his body makes over yours, situating your legs with a wider spread and better grip. He pulls out of the home he's made in between your legs, leaving nothing but his beaded tip for your walls to cling to before he sinks in again, with no remorse for the drying gasp you do. Your brain barely has time to catch up to the fill of him, the rhythm his thrusts set almost claiming as he notches into you feverishly, a subtle build but with enough speed to undo the last of his restraint, his head thrown back as his Adam's apple bobs, a trail of sweat gliding against its column.
It's too much all at once ─ the incessant pressure of him pistoning into you, deep enough to make his claim of you everywhere and the image of him, so worked up yet so relieved. Sheer bliss is born amongst his features as his head lolls back to you, eyes drinking you in with unmatched attention. Losing yourself in the building coil pulling tighter, you're acutely unaware of how Jungwon sees you: the precious body before him, breasts bouncing with every thrust delivered, thighs trembling beneath his bruising grip with a face so perfectly strung in rapture he wills himself not to come. You look every bit of heaven he feels, the lurch of his heart mirrored by his hand as it soars to knead the flesh of your tits, soft skin under his palm as his fingers flick over your sensitive nipples.
"Taking me so good," Jungwon's voice makes it over the slaps of skin, his biggest competitor the moans you've given up withholding. "Aren't you a good girl for me?"
Your enthusiastic nods earn a chesty chuckle, an itch scratched as his fingers pinch your pebbled nipple, Jungwon getting off at the squirm you do, huddling into yourself as if you can escape him.
He knows how to reel you back in though.
"Oh, you just love praise, don't you? Love hearing me tell you how pretty you sound, how good you are at taking cock," he coos, heart growing three sizes at how you visibly undo at his words, eyes doing a reveal with the bat of curled lashes. "You're just a sweet little thing that likes getting fucked, right princess?"
He deserts your tits for your face, thumb smoothing over the plush of your pouted lips, resting in their middle. They aren't usually words you'd say out loud, your response, but even as your head turns with the deniable sheepishness hiking your cheeks up, he sees right through you.
"You're cute trying to hide from me," he muses, a gentle hand directing your eyes back onto him. "It's no use. Not when this pretty pussy's clenching around me."
His thumb presses and you comply, parting your lips and letting him fill your mouth as he drives further into you, somehow maintaining the constant chase he does after your orgasm, pleased moan hummed into the wet slick of his skin.
"God, you're gonna make me come sounding like that," he curses, a knit to his eyebrow as sweat beads between them, breaths coming with lapses in his chest. "I'll take care of you first. How about that, princess? Stretch you out, reach all the places your fingers can't,"
You're squirming again, hips with a mind of their own, moan blending into the flesh of his thumb your tongue lolls around, parting with a trail you mewl at. It disconnects once far enough, most of it dribbled down your kissed lips parting open again as Jungwon finds your clit, ample slick for the circles he draws on you, unearthing squeals that white-knucle your hands to the duvet covers.
"It's okay, baby. You've got me now," he coos, affection in the face of his punishing thrusts. "I'll cherish you, I'll treat you well,"
"I'll fuck you like you deserve."
His words have you in a complete daze, head spun in endless loops that never allow your mind to settle, on zeroing in on the feeling deep-seated in your stomach, so big and explosive you're scared of what it'll bring.
Jungwon's right there with you, holding your hand as you brace for impact.
"You wanna come?" he asks, voice hoarse. His eyes track down to where you connect, a white ring of your mixed fluids around his cock. "God, this isn't enough, but I'm gonna come too,"
Regret rings heavy in his words, his frustration your own as your lips tremble, wondering if you'll ever feel this good again.
"Promise we'll do this again?"
His sentence hits your eardrums like a pin, prickled with a waver and vulnerability he's been stripped down to, your legs hoisted onto his shoulders before he leans down towards you, tearing a yelp out your rasped throat as he buries further into you, bucking up into you with all the desperation he offers.
Close like this, skin-to-skin, you share breaths, cycled between searching lips only just missing each other, the sight of his eyes unforgettable as they swim in the ocean of his defencelessness.
"I need to hear it," he chokes, torn gaze cast away then directed back to you, a kiss pressed in time with a thrust. "You promise, princess?"
Your fingers sail to the dishevel of his hair, making more of a mess in your own desperation, body ticking away as your eyes brim with overwhelm, chest burning with your release.
"I promise."
It's sealed with your release, the pressure built over stretches of time erupting with the last overlap of your lips, yell echoed off his lips as you come. The feeling rips right through you, electric through bodily cell as your eyes roll back, a helpless grasp at the sides of Jungwon's face as your head cocks back, body bowing off the mattress. No word can even attempt to describe how you feel, suspended in air that can only compare to a freefall, soaring through whistled air before you're hung amongst the clouds, coming down with a regulated breath pattern after its shudders paired with the ones passing through your body.
Unbeknownst to you, Jungwon experiences a similar fate, laying witness to your orgasm capturing him as if you never want to part, velvety walls coming down on him with a taste for ruin. He has no choice but to fall apart, starved for the last few pumps his greed seeks before he pushes himself deepest in you, spilling over in white, thick ropes. It takes everything in him ─ the awareness he'd hurt you otherwise ─ to keep himself rooted in place, core burning as his forearms keep him suspend, his head hung as he catches his breath.
The lazed film coating his eyes, speaking to his exertion, is prompted to clear at the feeling of fingers in his hair. They're tender, unhurried like their prior pull, and in the soft hum from your chest, his head is coaxed to lift upwards, pushing your legs down at his sides when he gazes up at you. In a glowing sheen, you beam a closed-mouth smile, twirling the end of his hair around your finger. Much like he is, having given himself over to you, its evidence seeping trying to seep out the walls he's plugged himself in, neither of you in any hurry for its discard. Unravelled around your finger, it moves down to his face as it descends down the slope of his nose, ghosting over his lips to rest in one corner of his lips, a question in your eyes.
"You okay?"
Despite his fatigue, he can't help but chuckle. "I should be asking you that."
Your lip corners lift higher, downturning in a brush of timidity.
Silence denotes the moment, nothing but the murmured sounds of night and sleeping figures taking any shred of spared space. Your index finger thoughtfully taps into the crevice of his lip corner, soaking in its feel as well as your own.
It doesn't take long for you to answer back.
"Yeah, I am," you croak, sincerity shining back into his eyes. "I will be too."
That's all Jungwon needs to hear before he's summoned enough strength to inch himself upwards, peppering your face in adoring kisses you giggle at, fingers in his hair then and after you two drift into a slumber, the world beyond his bedroom walls forgotten.
Jungwon has a hard time getting out of bed the next morning.
Not because his exhaustion keeps him chained to his bed, but because you're there with him. Peacefully asleep with limbs tangled in his, something he's somehow missed yearning for. Not plagued with yesterday's earlier woes, your chest rises and falls as you sleep soundlessly, nose only twitching when Jungwon's thumb caresses over the flesh of your cheek, wondering how any of this is real.
If it'll continue being real.
Before he can stop his own mental spiral, your arms encase him, eyes closed as you pull him closer. His smile is as true as can be as you nuzzle into him, the warmth of your close bodies unwinding the creep of tension in his, his body finally at ease as he falls back asleep.
An hour or two later, the comfort of his bedroom is swapped for the cold of the kitchen, his clothing draped over you in oversize as you sit at the kitchen counter, the extent of him letting you help with breakfast being keeping him company. Over the flip and sizzle of fresh pancakes, Jungwon finds himself grateful not only for you, but the fact that Sunoo ─ an early riser like himself ─ has plans, keeping him from discovering his one and only cousin spent the night. He didn't need to know just yet whatever…this is. While Riki poses somewhat of the same threat, it'll be hours before he trudges downstairs, swaddled in a blanket with his hair scraping the high ceilings.
Like this, Jungwon's shoulders unwind, cease their climb to his earlobes and he basks in it, the warmth and quiet of his home, the taps of your nails against kitchen counter, some song hummed absently under your breath and the domesticity of it all. What he hopes can someday become his permanent reality.
"I broke up with him," you say, a confession abrupt enough for Jungwon to cast a sidelong glance, pancakes browning. The least he does is heighten his eyebrows, saving the rest of his reaction in internal monologue. "I should've said so before but,"
He hears a knock of bone into the counter, your elbow braced into the slab as your chin rests in your palm, a pout on your lips with eyes that seem far away. Out his realm of understanding.
"He sent me all these frantic texts after I ended the call, saying everything was out of context and that he could explain."
Even Jungwon can't hide the scoff he does, turning the stove off with an eye roll.
"Of course, there was nothing to explain. I'd heard it all," a flash of hurt crosses your eyes, and Jungwon white knuckles the spatula unloading the pancakes onto your plates. He'd do any to scrub Jaehyun's existence from your brain, not for his own selfish reasons anymore ─ just so you wouldn't have to carry the baggage of hurt he's brought you.
"I ended it right then and there. Told him we were through," you conclude, brimming a closed mouth smile, extending when he draws closer with your plate. Whipped cream and sprinkles he's specially set aside for your share are in his other hand, a funny feeling in your chest at the sight. "So, we don't have anything to worry about."
Jungwon's eyebrow can't help but quirk, the question sharp on his tongue. Heavy in his throat.
"We?"
You're not as stumped by the question as he imagined, a raise of your shoulders coming with comfort blended in the soft curve of your lips.
"If you wanted to," is your suggestion, shaking the can of whipped cream. "I mean, I'm a bit of a mess at the moment and probably shouldn't be proposing anything serious right now, but─"
Your words die in the press of Jungwon's lips, his body leaned over the counter to meet you. It's soft and tender, how things have always been with him, a smile coming with the gentle reminder as your hand deserts the can and lays across your cheek, thumb resting in the dip of his dimple.
A sincere lock of the lips and another press of him is all you get before he centres in your vision again, nothing but patience in his expression. "In your own time. You figure stuff out ─ how you feel, how you'll move forward and whenever you're ready, I'll be here,"
"Even if it's not me," his voice carries an echo, lid unscrewed before he gets out a heart sprinkle, placing it atop the swirl of cream. His eyes cut back to you, honest as he'll ever be before he adds, "I'll be here because my support is the least of you deserve."
It happens suddenly, the flood of emotion rushing up your chest and to your eyes, a miserable wobble of your lips cooed over as Jungwon gives a light chuckle, hand to your cheek as a tear is wiped. "Thank you."
"No need," is his quick answer, your plate pushed closer as he gives you a nod. "Eat up before it gets cold."
A hum dislodges from your throat, gulped down with the rest of emotion's ugly flare, heart still seemingly in two. It's to be expected, despite everything. Jaehyun was someone you'd projected your life intertwined with, stretching far beyond the scope of university with your white-picket fence and sold sign outside your two-storey house. You'd loved him, undeniably so, and with the reveal of how sorely misplaced it'd been…your reaction is warranted. Has a place, as Jungwon's expressed, where you'll sort through all your fondness, the signs you'll hate yourself for seeing in hindsight and whatever else comes with the crumble of hopeful dreams. And in that, you'll find yourself again. Who you are beyond the label of a girlfriend, someone who stands in their own right and still loves with all their heart because even if Jaehyun screwed you over, you'll bloom again. Because love given is never wasted.
Fondness comes in a blanket draped over Jungwon's shoulders, seen in his lopsided smile as he watches you decorate the rest of your pancakes, excitement tipped in the corners of your lips as you snap quick photos before digging in. He watches it all unfolds, cutlery put to use and served to your mouth enveloping the fluff before the hum comes. Overflowing with satisfaction, eyes alight as they sparkle, flavours dancing on your tongue. His heart lurches, like it's always done, but at least now, the phenomenon doesn't feel as lonely, Jungwon no longer on his one-man island as he rejoins society, feeling everything before he can sort it into boxes, because despite what you'd said about yourself being a mess, he likes it. Prefers the chips in the mosaic you've made of yourself, of everyone he's letting in properly this time and allows himself to be the same ─ an imperfect mosaic, pieces of everyone he's ever loved.
There's nothing but goodness engulfing Jungwon, his own plate in hand as he settles down beside you with a playful shoulder nudge, the same one done by you with a smile. Jungwon realises, despite how picturesque and pure the scene is, he can still be evil. Not wholly, but enough to make you look like an angel. Though his future intentions don't denote the same villainess, he carries some of it while you busy yourself with pancakes in his kitchen, phone at his side as he sends off an anonymous text to the man he'll drive wild. Your dear ex-boyfriend who never stood a chance.
Unknown number: Beat you to it.
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𝑰𝑵 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑪𝑯 ◝✩ young lord lee heeseung begins courting f.reader but what happens when they’re torn apart by expectations, families, wealth and power? Will their relationship last, or will they grow without each other and never continue their younge love?
𝟏𝟐.𝟐𝒌—◝✩ 𝑾𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬— smut (mdni 18+), oral (f&m rec.), penetrative sex, implied unprotected sex (be careful), missionary sex, spooning sex, hair pulling (f&m in.), multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, creampie, vanilla (in a sense) sex, grinding, facial, cum eating, fingering, swearing, major angst, kissing, if there is anything else lmk!
—◝✩| 𝑯𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠— ok but hear me out… I kinda like this, not gonna lie, the request was already perfect and I just thought yes. But this is actually part one, bye cause I didn’t have time to edit the next part. There is only one smut scene but it’s also 2k words so you can’t say I’m not feeding you. I tried a new layout for this so like enjoy!
The Kingdom of Elias worshipped three things above all else. The Crown. The Gods. And bloodlines. In that order.
A noble's worth was measured by the name they carried. A shop owner’s worth was measured by how much he earned. A soldier’s worth was measured by victories.
And the daughter of a blacksmith? She was supposed to be worth nothing at all. Yet somehow, everyone in the kingdom knew your name.
Perhaps it was because your father never stopped talking about you. Or perhaps it was because people genuinely believed the old man's ridiculous claim.
"My daughter is the Moon Goddess reborn."
Every person in the capital had heard him say it. Every market vendor rolled their eyes whenever he brought it up. Every noble laughed.
Yet none of them could explain why the entire room always seemed brighter whenever you entered. None of them could explain why flowers bloomed unusually well around your home. None of them could explain why even the grumpiest villagers softened whenever you smiled at them.
Your father certainly couldn't. He simply crossed his arms proudly and declared that he was right. As always. "My daughter was blessed by the moon."
The man was impossible. Your brothers agreed. All four of them.
Unfortunately, that meant you had five overprotective men in your life. Your father. And your four older brothers. It was unbearable.
─ · ✿ · ─
"You're not going," your oldest brother, Seo-jun, shook his head.
"I am," you replied.
"You're not," Min-hyeok agreed.
"Yes."
"No," Tae-rin patted your shoulder almost sympathetically even if he was disagreeing too. You glared across the breakfast table. Seo-jun glared back. The rest watched the argument unfold.
"I am attending Decelis Academy," you repeated.
"You're not," Ha-jun, your youngest brother, laughed as if your ideas of leaving where hilarious.
"I was accepted."
"You can reject it."
"I earned my place."
"You can still reject it."
You wanted to throw bread at him. Instead, you settled for kicking his shin under the table. He yelped. Victory.
Your father immediately pointed at him, "See? My angel-daughter has spoken."
"Dad."
"What?"
"You cannot keep calling me that."
"I absolutely can."
Your Tae-rin groaned and Min-hyeok rubbed his face. Seo-jun looked ready to jump out a window as Ha-jun simply laughed again- like he found your suffering funny. Your father remained completely serious.
"You were born under a full moon."
"Dad."
"The moonlight turned silver-" he continued.
"Dad."
"The village priest cried-"
"Dad."
"The cows started mooing-"
"The cows always moo!"
"I know." You buried your face in your hands and the table erupted into laughter. For a moment, warmth filled your home. For a moment, everything felt perfect.
Then your father spoke again, "Any boy who looks at my daughter loses his eyes." The warmth vanished immediately and- of course- all four brothers nodded.
You stared at them in horror. "WHAT?"
"Reasonable," Seo-jun spoke.
"Completely reasonable," Min-hyeok nodded.
"Very reasonable," Tae-rin agreed.
"Honestly, we should take their hands too," Ha-jun suggested calmly.
You nearly choked, "No one is taking anyone's eyes!"
Your father snorted, "We'll negotiate, sweetheart."
"DAD!"
Unfortunately for you, they were only half joking. Unfortunately for every young man in the kingdom, they were only half joking. Because you were adored. Absolutely adored. And nowhere would that become more obvious than Decelis Academy.
─ · ✿ · ─
The buildings stood upon a mountain overlooking the capital. Ancient stone towers pierced the clouds. Silver 'WELCOME STUDENTS!' banners fluttered against the wind. Future rulers, generals, scholars and nobles studied within its walls.Only the kingdom's most talented students could attend. Which was why many nobles were furious about your acceptance.
A blacksmith's daughter. Among aristocrats. Among heirs. Among future lords.
Scandalous. You didn't care, you had worked too hard, studied too much, sacrificed too many nights. No one would take this from you, not even nobles- especially not nobles. The academy gates opened and students poured inside.
─ · ✿ · ─
Carriages lined the roads.
Expensive fabrics. Precious jewels. House crests. Power. Everywhere.
You adjusted your books, lifted your chin and walked forward.
Immediately, people stared. You ignored them. Then someone collided into you. Books crashed. Papers scattered. A groan followed.
"Watch where you're—" The stranger froze. You froze. The boy kneeling among scattered books looked around your age. Dark eyes. Handsome features. Expensive uniform.
Noble. Definitely noble. Unfortunately.
The boy stared. And stared. And stared.You frowned, "Are you alright?" No response. His mouth opened slightly. Still nothing. A second boy suddenly appeared. Then another. Then another. And another. And another. Until six other young men stood around him.
All nobles. All staring. You were beginning to feel concerned.
"What happened?" a boy with soft eyes and gentle asked. The kneeling boy pointed at you and you blinked as they looked at you. Silence.
Then one of them whispered, "Oh."
Another whispered, "Definitely oh."
A third whispered, "Completely oh." You had no idea what was happening. Then the kneeling noble finally stood, his eyes never left yours.
"Hello."
You raised an eyebrow, "Hello."
The silence returned. The other boys exchanged looks. One visibly fought laughter. Another looked horrified. A third pinched the bridge of his nose.
Finally, one sighed, "He's broken."
"What?"
"Completely broken." You blinked. The noble in front of you still hadn't looked away. He extended a hand.
"My name is Lee Heeseung." Something about the way he said it felt important, as though he expected recognition.
You simply shook his hand, "Nice to meet you, Heeseung."
His friends looked excited. Heeseung looked hopeful. You smiled politely. Then walked away.
The seven nobles remained frozen. Several moments passed. Finally, one spoke, "She doesn't know who you are."
Another burst into laughter. A third nearly fell over. Heeseung stood motionless. Completely devastated. Because for the first time in years— someone had treated him like an ordinary person.
And somehow...
He liked it.
─ · ✿ · ─
The next few months changed everything. Mostly because Heeseung became impossible. Absolutely impossible. You saw him everywhere.
At first you assumed coincidence. Then you discovered he had changed his study schedule three times just to match yours.
You discovered he sat near you whenever possible. You discovered his friends regularly abandoned him so he could speak with you. You discovered he was shameless. Utterly shameless.
"Good morning," he whispered for the third time that lesson.
"You said that already."
"I missed you."
"You saw me ten minutes ago."
"It was a difficult ten minutes."
You stared. He smiled. Infuriating. Months passed. Friendship grew. Slowly. Steadily. Against all logic.
Because despite his ridiculous behavior... He was kind. Painfully kind. He remembered everything. Your favorite books. Your favorite flowers. Your favorite tea. The subjects you struggled with. The subjects you loved. He listened.
He cared. And worst of all—
you started looking for him too. The realization terrified you.
─ · ✿ · ─
One winter evening, snow drifted outside the academy library. Most students had returned home. Only a handful remained. Including you. And including Heeseung.
You sat across from each other studying. Or at least pretending to study. Heeseung had read the same page five times. You hadn't read yours at all.The silence felt different tonight.
Heavy. Expectant. Dangerous. Finally, Heeseung closed his book.
"(Y/N)."You looked up. His expression was serious. Far too serious.
Your heartbeat quickened, "What is it?"
"I need to ask you something."
The room suddenly felt smaller. Outside, snow continued falling.Inside, neither of you moved. "What?"
He swallowed. Then stood, "Come with me."
─ · ✿ · ─
The gardens of Decelis were famous throughout the kingdom. Flowers bloomed among silver fountains. Crystal lanterns illuminated winding paths. Winter snow glittered beneath starlight.
It looked almost unreal. You followed Heeseung deeper into the gardens. Neither of you spoke. Your heart was racing. His was worse. Far worse.
Finally he stopped beneath a moonlit archway. For several moments, neither moved. Neither breathed. Then Heeseung turned toward you.
And everything changed. Because for the first time since you met him... There was no teasing.No laughter. No confidence. Only honesty. Raw. Terrifying honesty.
"(Y/N)," he said quietly. Your breath caught. His eyes never left yours. "I've liked you for a very long time." The world seemed to stop.
Snow drifted around you. Moonlight painted silver across the garden. And Heeseung continued, "I tried not to, it didn't work." A nervous laugh escaped him. "I thought it would."
His hands trembled slightly. "I thought if I waited, it would disappear."
It hadn't. You could hear it in every word. Every breath. Every heartbeat. His feelings had only grown stronger. "And now?" You whispered.
His gaze softened, "Now I think about you constantly." The confession struck like lightning.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't look away. He stepped closer. Only slightly. Enough. "Will you let me court you?"
The question hung between you. Simple. Terrifying. Life-changing.
Your heart pounded because the answer had been growing inside you for months. Every smile. Every conversation. Every stolen moment. Every ridiculous greeting. Every shared laugh. Every glance.
You already knew. And so did he. You smiled- a small smile- but it was enough. "Yes." For a moment, Heeseung simply stared. As though he couldn't believe it.
Then the realization hit. And his entire face lit up. The joy there was so pure it nearly stole your breath.
He looked happier than anyone you had ever seen. And under the moonlit sky- the future seemed endless.
Neither of you noticed the figure watching from a balcony above.
Lady Lee.
Heeseung's mother. Her face cold. Her eyes sharp. And her expression furious. Because the future her son envisioned... Was not the future she intended. And she would do everything in her power to destroy it.
─ · ✿ · ─
Lady Lee did not sleep that night. Neither did Heeseung. Neither did you.
For very different reasons. You lay awake in your small room at the academy, staring at the ceiling as snow continued falling outside.
Your heart refused to calm. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. The way his hands had trembled. The way his voice had cracked. The way he had looked at you after you said yes.You smiled into your pillow despite yourself. Then immediately buried your face in it. This was ridiculous.
You had never been the sort of girl who daydreamed about romance. You had spent most of your life studying, helping your father, dodging your brothers, and trying not to get dragged into village gossip.
Yet somehow Lee Heeseung had appeared and ruined everything because now your heart was doing strange things. And you hated it. Mostly.
─ · ✿ · ─
Meanwhile, Heeseung was having a far worse evening because his mother had summoned him. Immediately. The moment you left. The doors of Lady Lee's private chambers closed behind him. The sound echoed. Dangerously.
Lady Lee stood near the fireplace. Elegant. Perfect. Terrifying.
The resemblance between mother and son was obvious. The same sharp features. The same dark eyes. The same commanding presence.
Unfortunately, Lady Lee possessed none of her son's warmth, "Heeseung."
His jaw tightened, "Mother."
"Who is she?" Straight to the point. Of course.
Heeseung didn't pretend ignorance, "(Y/N)."
"The blacksmith's daughter."
The words dripped with disdain. Something ugly twisted inside him, "She has a name."
Lady Lee's eyes narrowed, "You forget yourself."
"No," His voice was calm. Dangerously calm, "I remember exactly who I am."
The silence that followed felt sharp enough to cut skin. Lady Lee studied him carefully. Then sighed-like she was disappointed. "As your mother, I am attempting to save you from making a mistake."
The anger inside him grew, "(Y/N) is not a mistake."
"She is a commoner." The words struck like a slap. His hands clenched. Lady Lee continued, "You are a lord's son."
"Second son."
"That changes nothing."
"It changes everything." His voice rose for the first time, "You know it does."
The room fell silent. Because they both knew the truth. Heeseung would never inherit the titles. His older brother- Lee Heedo- would.
His future had always been different. Less restricted. Less political. Less important.
Yet somehow his mother still expected perfection. Still expected obedience. Still expected him to marry according to status. According to power. According to blood.
Never according to love. "End this," the command rang through the room. Heeseung laughed. A single sharp sound. Lady Lee looked startled.
Then offended. Then furious.
"No."
The word landed like a sword strike. "No?"
"No," Lady Lee stared. Her son had never spoken to her like this. Not once. Not ever. Yet here he stood. Meeting her gaze directly. Refusing.
Over a girl.
A blacksmith's daughter.
The realization made something cold settle inside her. Fine. If Heeseung would not end this willingly—She would end it herself.
─ · ✿ · ─
The next morning, you walked into class and immediately knew something was wrong.Heeseung looked murderous. Actually murderous. You paused beside his desk, "Good morning?"
He looked up. The murderous expression disappeared instantly, "Oh."
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You look like you're planning a crime."
"Only a few." You blinked. Heeseung smiled. But the smile didn't reach his eyes. Not entirely.
Something had happened. Something important.
Before you could ask further questions, arolled up piece of paper struck the back of Heeseung's head. He didn't even flinch, "Ow."
The entire friend group had arrived. Unfortunately.
"What did I do?"
Jake stared, "You disappeared."
"Yes?"
"You abandoned us."
"Mum."
"You missed dinner."
"Okay?"
"You have a girlfriend for one night and suddenly forget your friends exist." The classroom exploded into laughter. You nearly choked. Heeseung looked smug. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
You covered your face. The boys continued arguing. The teacher eventually arrived. Order returned.
Mostly.
But one thing became painfully clear. Everyone was going to know. Soon. Very soon.
─ · ✿ · ─
The disaster arrived two weeks later. In the form of your brothers. All four of them. At once.
You were walking through the academy courtyard with Heeseung when a familiar voice echoed across the grounds, "(Y/N)!"
You froze. Heeseung froze. Slowly. Very slowly. You turned around and immediately wished you hadn't.
Because Seo-jun was standing there. Alongside Min-hyeok. Tae-rin. And Ha-jun.
The Four Horsemen of Your Personal Apocalypse, "Oh no."
"What?"
"Oh no."
Heeseung finally noticed them, "Who—"
"My brothers."
"Oh." A pause. Then another. Then:
"Oh no."
Now he understood. The four men approached. Their expressions growing darker with every step. Particularly when they noticed Heeseung standing beside you.
Very close beside you. Far too close. Ha-jun pointed, "Who is that?"
You considered lying. Unfortunately, Heeseung stepped forward. And bowed politely. "My name is Lee Heeseung."
Traitor. Absolute traitor.
The brothers exchanged looks. Dangerous looks. The kind of looks soldiers exchanged before battle. "Lee?" Seo-jun repeated.
"Yes."
"The noble family?"
"Yes.""The lord's son?"
"Yes." Silence.
Then: "No."
Heeseung blinked, "No?"
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm asking."
"I know enough," Seo-jun crossed his arms, "You are not courting my sister."
The courtyard became completely silent. Students immediately began watching. Of course they did. You wanted to disappear.
Unfortunately, your family prevented that. Frequently.
"I'm not asking permission." The words left Heeseung's mouth before he could stop them. Your brothers stared. You stared. Even Heeseung looked shocked because that had been a terrible thing to say. A truly terrible thing to say. The resulting silence was horrifying.
Then Seo-jun smiled. That was somehow worse. Much worse. "Interesting."
Min-hyeok nodded slowly, "Very interesting."
Tae-rin cracked his knuckles. Ha-jun looked delighted because chaos was his favorite hobby.
"Oh, this is going badly," You whispered.
Heeseung whispered back, "I noticed."
And somehow against all logic of the situation—You almost laughed.
─ · ✿ · ─
The first letter arrived three days later. Lady Lee's seal gleamed upon the wax. You frowned. Then opened it and your blood ran cold because the contents were clear.
Painfully clear.
'You are not suitable for my son.'
You read the words once. Twice. Three times. Each reading made your stomach twist further.
She spoke of bloodlines. Status. Reputation. Duty.
Everything nobles valued. Everything you lacked. The message beneath the polite language was unmistakable.
'Leave him.'
You folded the letter carefully. Then walked home. Your father was working. Sparks danced through the air. The familiar sight usually comforted you. Today it didn't. Immediately, he noticed. His hammer lowered, "Sweetheart."
You swallowed, "Dad."
His expression changed instantly. The smile disappeared, "What happened?"
You handed him the letter. He read. Once. Twice. Then a third time. The air became very still.
"Dad?" No answer. "Dad." Still nothing.
Slowly, your father folded the letter, placed it on the table, then rolled up his sleeves. You stared, "Dad?"
"Where is my hammer?"
Your eyes widened, "Dad."
"Just asking."
"Dad."
"Perfectly innocent question."
"DAD."
The forge door suddenly opened and your brothers entered. Unfortunately. Your father immediately handed them the letter. You watched all four read it. You watched all four become angry. Very angry. Perhaps murderously angry.Your headache arrived immediately.
Because this situation had somehow become worse. And you were fairly certain nobody had reached peak anger yet.
Not even close. Especially not Lee Heeseung. Who had not yet discovered what his mother had done.
When he did—
The kingdom itself might have reason to worry.
─ · ✿ · ─
The kingdom had much more to worry than expected because Heeseung discovered the letter the very next day. And he was furious.
Not the quiet irritation his friends were accustomed to. Not the mild annoyance he displayed when Jake stole food from his plate. Not even the dangerous anger he showed during academy tournaments.
No. This was different. This was the kind of fury that settled deep in a person's bones. The kind that remained. The kind that changed things.
Forever.
─ · ✿ · ─
You were sitting beneath the old oak tree near the academy gardens when Heeseung found you. Immediately, you knew something was wrong. His uniform was immaculate as always. His posture was perfect. His expression was calm. Unbothered.
The sort of calm people possessed right before disaster struck.
"Heeseung?" No response. Your stomach dropped because he only ignored you when something was truly wrong.
Slowly, he approached. Then held out an envelope. Your blood ran cold. The letter. Lady Lee's letter, "Oh." The single word escaped before you could stop it.
Heeseung's jaw tightened, "She sent this to you." Not a question. A statement.
You swallowed, "Yes."
"When?"
"Three days ago." The silence that followed felt unbearable. Students passed nearby. Birds sang. The world continued turning. Yet somehow everything felt frozen.
"You didn't tell me." You stared at the ground because he wasn't wrong. You hadn't told him. Partly because you didn't want to worry him. Partly because you knew exactly how he would react. And judging by his expression—
You had been right, "I handled it."
"No," his voice cut through the air. Sharp. Precise. “You shouldn't have needed to." The anger beneath the words startled you. Not because it was directed at you. Because it wasn't. Every ounce of it was aimed elsewhere.
At Lady Lee. At the expectations surrounding him. At every person who believed they had the right to decide your worth, "(Y/N)."
You looked up. His eyes softened immediately. Just for you. Only for you. "You should never have had to read that." Something tightened painfully in your chest. Because nobody had said that. Not your father. Not your brothers. Not even yourself.
Everyone had focused on the insult. The injustice. The anger. Only Heeseung focused on the hurt. The fact that someone had deliberately tried to make you feel lesser. And he hated it. You could see it. You could feel it.
His anger wasn't pride. It wasn't possessiveness. It was heartbreak. For you. And somehow that made everything worse. Because suddenly you wanted to cry. Which was ridiculous. You never cried. Almost never.
Yet Heeseung looked at you as though the letter had wounded him personally. As though your pain belonged to him too. Without thinking, you reached for his hand. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours. Natural. Effortless. As though they'd been doing it forever.
The realization sent heat rushing to your face. Heeseung smiled slightly. The first genuine smile all day, "There you are."
"What?"
"I've been looking for that smile."
You scoffed quietly and the moment shattered. Thankfully. Because if he kept looking at you like that—You might've forgotten how to speak entirely.
─ · ✿ · ─
Unfortunately, someone else witnessed the interaction. Lady Lee. Again.The woman seemed to appear whenever she was least wanted. Which was always. She had arrived at the academy to attend a noble council meeting.
Instead, she found herself standing in a stone corridor overlooking the gardens. Watching. And what she saw horrified her. Not because you were holding hands. Not because Heeseung looked happy.
But because he looked devoted. Completely devoted. The sort of devotion people wrote songs about. The sort of devotion that ignored reason. Ignored status. Ignored logic. Ignored consequences.
The sort of devotion that could not be controlled. And Lady Lee despised anything she could not control.
─ · ✿ · ─
The rumors exploded by week's end. They spread through Decelis Academy like wildfire. The blacksmith's daughter. The lord's son. The impossible romance.
Students whispered during lessons. During meals. During training sessions.
Everywhere. Most were supportive. Some were curious. A few were cruel. One particularly foolish noble girl approached you during lunch.Her smile was sweet. Artificially sweet. The kind that usually preceded unpleasantness, "You must feel very fortunate."
You looked up from your book, "What?"
"Lord Heeseung," she laughed lightly, "As a commoner, opportunities like this don't come often."
The table went silent. Completely silent. You recognized the trap immediately. Unfortunately, so did everyone else. Including Heeseung. Who happened to be sitting directly beside you with his arm around your shoulders.
The girl has made a mistake. A terrible mistake.
Because now the noble girl had purposely insulted someone Heeseung cared about and he was already angry.
The combination was unfortunate. For her. "What exactly do you mean by that?" The question sounded polite. Almost gentle.
The girl relaxed.bAnother mistake, "I only mean she should know her place."
The dining hall froze. Completely froze. Hundreds of students stared. Waiting. Watching. Heeseung slowly set down his fork. Then stood.The movement alone made the girl pale because suddenly she realized something.
The problem wasn't that a noble was courting a blacksmith's daughter. The problem was that the noble in question was Lee Heeseung.
And Lee Heeseung looked ready to start a war, "Her place?" His voice was terrifyingly calm. The girl swallowed. No response. Heeseung stepped forward. Just once. Yet somehow it felt threatening. "If you ever speak about her like that again—"
"Heeseung," Your voice interrupted him. Immediately. Instantly. His attention shifted. The anger disappeared.
Not completely but enough. The transformation stunned everyone. One moment he looked furious. The next he looked at you. And softened. As though the world itself revolved around your opinion.The entire dining hall noticed- every single person. The silence became deafening. You suddenly wished for death. Or invisibility.
Either would suffice. "Heeseung," You squeezed his hand gently, "Sit down."
He obeyed immediately. The dining hall collectively lost its mind. Because apparently watching one of the academy's most respected nobles obey a blacksmith's daughter without hesitation was shocking.
Personally, you thought everyone was overreacting. Heeseung disagreed, "You could tell me to jump into the Han River."
You stared, "What?"
"I probably would."
"That's ridiculous."
His smile returned, "There it is again."
You kicked him under the table and he looked delighted.
─ · ✿ · ─
Several days later, Heeseung visited your home for the first time. In retrospect, nothing good could have come from this.
The signs were obvious. Your father spent three hours preparing. Your brothers spent two. Nobody explained why, which somehow made everything worse.
When Heeseung arrived at the house, everyone was waiting.
Your father.
Seo-jun.
Min-hyeok.
Tae-rin.
Ha-jun.
All standing together. Watching. Like executioners.
"Oh."Heeseung stopped walking. Reasonable. Very reasonable. Your father smiled. The smile was terrifying.
"Welcome."
Heeseung bowed respectfully."Sir."
"Come inside." The smile remained. Still terrifying. You considered warning him. Unfortunately, it was already too late. He had entered the house. There was no escape now. The interrogation lasted three hours.
Three.
Entire.
Hours.
By the end, even Heeseung looked exhausted. Your father had questioned everything. His intentions. His future. His studies. His finances. His character. His plans. His feelings.
The weather. Probably. You couldn't remember anymore.
At one point Seo-jun demanded to know how many books Heeseung had read. At another point Min-hyeok somehow started discussing swordsmanship. Tae-rin wanted to know whether Heeseung could repair a wagon. Ha-jun simply asked increasingly bizarre questions for entertainment.
The entire experience felt surreal. Yet somehow, Heeseung never complained. Not once.Not even when your father asked the most important question of all, “Why her?"
The room fell silent. You froze. Everyone did. Even Ha-jun, which was rare. Extremely rare.
Heeseung looked toward you. Then smiled softly and answered, “Because she's her."
Silence. Absolute silence. Your heart stopped. Completely stopped. Your father stared. Seo-jun stared. Everyone stared. Heeseung didn't seem to notice. Or care. Because he continued.
"She's kind." Your face burned. "She's stubborn." Your face burned more. "She's brave." The room disappeared. "She's smarter than most nobles I've met." You considered jumping through a window. “She's honest." Death would be preferable. "And because I love who I become when I'm with her."
The silence afterward felt endless. No one moved. No one spoke. No one breathed. Then your father looked away. Quickly. Suspiciously quickly. As though hiding something. Seo-jun suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. Min-hyeok cleared his throat. Tae-rin rubbed his eyes. Ha-jun looked emotional- which was horrifying. Because if Ha-jun became emotional- the world was ending.
You looked down immediately because your own eyes suddenly felt suspiciously wet. And you absolutely refused to cry in front of everyone. Especially not because of Lee Heeseung. Especially not because he loved you.
─ · ✿ · ─
The problem with Lee Heeseung was that once he decided something- nothing could stop him. Not his friends. Not your brothers. Not the academy. And certainly not his mother.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Heeseung had decided he loved you. Which meant the entire kingdom was about to suffer the consequences.
─ · ✿ · ─
Lady Lee summoned him again three days after his visit to your family's forge. This time, Heeseung arrived already irritated. A dangerous sign. Because normally Heeseung was patient. Reasonable. Diplomatic.
Today he was none of those things.
The moment he entered the sitting room, Lady Lee dismissed the servants. The doors shut. Silence settled. Then the argument began. "You visited her home."
Not a greeting. Not a question. An accusation.
"Yes," Heeseung shrugged.
Lady Lee inhaled sharply, "As if they are your equals."
The words landed like a slap.Heeseung's expression darkened immediately, "They are."
"No."
"They are."
"Heeseung—"
"No." The interruption shocked her. Again.
Recently, her son had become increasingly difficult to control. Increasingly willing to challenge her. Increasingly willing to choose you. Every single time. And she hated it. "You are embarrassing this family."
The statement hung between them. Cold. Cruel. Deliberate. For a moment Heeseung simply stared. Then he laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was absurd. "Embarrassing?" his voice was dangerously quiet, "You think loving someone is embarrassing?"
"I think forgetting your responsibilities is embarrassing." Something snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough. The patience he'd spent months maintaining finally disappeared.
"You want to know what's embarrassing?" Lady Lee froze, because her son looked angry. Truly angry. The kind of anger that rarely surfaced. The kind that made even grown men nervous.
"I've spent years doing everything you've asked," his voice shook. Not from fear- from fury. "I studied what you wanted." Silence. "I behaved how you wanted." More silence. "I became the son you wanted." Lady Lee said nothing because she knew it was true. "And now." His jaw clenched. "You've decided the one thing I want isn't acceptable."
The room felt suffocating. Heavy. Painfully heavy. For the first time, Lady Lee saw something she'd never expected. Resentment. Years of it. Buried beneath obedience. Buried beneath politeness. Buried beneath duty. All finally surfacing.
And somehow- it was your fault. At least in her eyes. Because before you, Heeseung had accepted everything. Before you, he'd listened. Before you, he'd obeyed. Then you arrived. And suddenly he was fighting back. Suddenly he was choosing himself. Suddenly he was happy.
And Lady Lee despised the fact that happiness had made him stronger.
─ · ✿ · ─
You had no idea any of this was happening. Instead, you were attempting to survive another day at Decelis Academy. A difficult task. Mostly because your relationship was no longer a secret. At all. Not even slightly. The academy had become unbearable.
Everywhere you went, people stared. Whispered. Gossiped. Speculated. It was exhausting. You were halfway through lunch when Sunoo suddenly appeared beside you. Without warning. Like a particularly annoying ghost.
"(Y/N)."
You nearly dropped your spoon, "What?"
Sunoo grinned. "Do you know what Heeseung did yesterday?" The answer was immediately concerning.
"No."
Sunoo looked delighted which made it worse, "He threatened a duke's son."
You choked, "What?"
Across the table, Jake nodded. "Twice."
"TWICE?"
"Technically three times," Jay corrected. You stared. Sunghoon looked embarrassed. Jungwon looked tired. Riki looked fascinated. The usual.
"What happened?"
Jake pointed toward Heeseung, who was currently reading a book several tables away. As though he hadn't apparently threatened multiple nobles. The liar.
"The duke's son called you a gold digger."
The dining hall immediately became quiet. Again. You hated when that happened. Because it usually meant trouble. And trouble frequently involved Heeseung. "Oh."
Jake nodded, "That was our reaction too." You looked toward Heeseung. He still hadn't looked up from his book. The picture of innocence. Fraudulent innocence. The worst kind.
"What exactly did he say?"
The six boys exchanged looks. Then Sunghoon sighed, "Heeseung informed him that if he ever insulted you again-"
Jake interrupted, "He'd throw him through a window."
You stared. Sunoo continued, "Then through another window."
You blinked. Riki nodded seriously, "There were several windows involved."
The silence lasted five seconds. Then, "He wouldn't actually do that." The six boys looked at each other. Nobody answered. Your stomach dropped."Oh God."
─ · ✿ · ─
The academy's Spring Festival arrived two weeks later. Traditionally, it was one of the most anticipated events of the year. Students dressed elegantly. Musicians performed. Nobles socialized. Future political alliances formed. And young people found excuses to dance together. You hated it already. Your brothers were visiting.
Lady Lee would obviously attend.
Half the nobility would be present. Nothing good could possibly happen, which meant disaster was inevitable. Heeseung disagreed because he was excited. Extremely excited. Suspiciously excited.
The realization should have worried you sooner.
─ · ✿ · ─
The festival began at sunset. Lanterns illuminated every pathway, music echoed through the academy grounds, students filled the gardens, laughter drifted through the evening air.
Beautiful. Elegant. Dangerous. You adjusted your dress nervously. Immediately regretting it because dresses attracted attention. Attention attracted people. People asked questions. You hated questions.
"(Y/N)." You turned and forgot how to breathe. Entirely.
Because Heeseung was standing there looking unfairly handsome. Completely unfairly. It should have been illegal. Actually illegal.
His dark formal suit fit him perfectly, his hair was neatly styled, his expression softened the moment he saw you.
Then completely disappeared. He stared. And stared. And continued staring. Your face warmed instantly.
"Heeseung." No response. "Heeseung." Still nothing. Finally, Jake appeared. Looked at Heeseung. Then at you. Then sighed, "He's broken again."
The others arrived immediately. Of course they did. Jay took one look at Heeseung's expression, and agreed, "Completely broken."
Sunghoon nodded, "Beyond repair."
Sunoo looked entertained, "As expected."
Jungwon pinched the bridge of his nose. Riki looked thoughtful, "I think he's in love."
You wanted to disappear. Immediately. Forever.
Meanwhile, Heeseung finally remembered how to speak. Barely, "You look beautiful." Silence. Complete silence.
Even his friends stopped talking. Your heart stuttered. Then stopped entirely because he wasn't teasing. Wasn't flirting. Wasn't joking. He meant it. Entirely. And the sincerity in his voice nearly destroyed you, "Oh."
Brilliant response. Truly. A masterpiece. Heeseung smiled. The soft smile. The dangerous smile. The one reserved only for you. The one that made your heartbeat impossible, "You always do."
Your death became imminent.
─ · ✿ · ─
The dancing began shortly afterward. You had hoped to avoid it. A foolish hope. A hopeless hope because Heeseung found you almost immediately. Then held out his hand. The gesture was simple. Yet somehow it felt enormous. Terrifying. Important.
Every noble custom suddenly became relevant. Every watching eye suddenly mattered. The entire world narrowed. Only him. Only you. Only this moment.
"May I have this dance?" his voice was quiet. Gentle. Yours. Always yours.
The realization terrified you because somewhere along the way- he had become home.
You placed your hand in his, "Yes." The smile that followed nearly blinded you.
Together, you stepped onto the dance floor. The music swelled. The crowd disappeared. The world faded. Only Heeseung remained. His hand resting carefully at your waist- your fingers in his. His eyes fixed entirely on you- as though nothing else existed. As though nobody else existed. For several moments neither spoke. Neither needed to.
Then: "I'm going to marry you someday."
You nearly tripped, "Heeseung!"
"What?"
You stared in horror. He looked confused- genuinely confused. The audacity. The absolute audacity. "You cannot say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because-" Words failed. Completely. Heeseung looked pleased, which was suspicious. Very suspicious. Then he leaned slightly closer. Only enough for you to hear, "I mean it."
Your heart stopped. Again. This was becoming a problem. A serious problem because he sounded completely serious. Not hopeful. Not dreamy. Certain. As though he'd already decided. As though the future itself had been settled.
And somehow- part of you wanted to believe him.
─ · ✿ · ─
Unfortunately, someone else heard.
Lady Lee.
Standing across the hall. Watching. Always watching. And for the first time- fear entered her heart. Because she finally understood. This wasn't infatuation. Wasn't youthful attraction. Wasn't a phase.
Her son loved you. Entirely. Completely. Irrevocably. And the terrifying part? You loved him too. So, naturally- she needed a better way to destroy that.
─ · ✿ · ─
The problem with fate was that it never cared about anyone's plans- not yours, not Heeseung's.
And certainly not Lady Lee's.
Because only three days after the Spring Festival, a storm descended upon Decelis Academy unlike anything seen in years. The sky darkened before noon. Thunder shook the mountains. Rain battered ancient stone walls.
Students rushed indoors. Lessons were cancelled. Hallways filled with confusion. And by evening, nobody was permitted to leave their assigned dormitory wing.
Unfortunately, you were nowhere near yours.
---
"This is your fault."
Heeseung looked offended, "My fault?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"You wanted to walk through the gardens."
"You agreed."
"That isn't the point."
"It feels like the point."
You glared, he smiled. That infuriating man had the audacity to smile. Even now. Even while rain hammered against glass windows. Even while the academy staff attempted to organize hundreds of stranded students.
Even while you were both trapped in the administrative wing- too far from your dormitory.
"This is bad."
"It's not bad."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"Heeseung."
"(Y/N)."
You narrowed your eyes. He looked pleased with himself. Again. You hated when he looked pleased with himself, mostly because he was usually about to say something outrageous, which meant you were never prepared.
"We're dry."
"Yes."
"We're safe."
"Mhm."
"We're together."
You immediately looked away. A mistake.Because his grin widened, "Oh, there it is."
"What?"
"The blushing."
"I am not blushing."
"You absolutely are."
You were. Unfortunately.
─ · ✿ · ─
The academy staff eventually found a temporary solution. A terrible solution. An absolutely horrifying solution, which was how you found yourself standing beside Heeseung while an exhausted professor explained the situation, "We've run out of rooms." Silence.
"What?"
The professor sighed, "The lower dormitories flooded."
"Okay..."
"The guest wing is full."
"Oh."
"The faculty quarters are full."
"Oh."
The professor looked increasingly tired, "So you'll be sharing one of the study suites until morning."
The world stopped. Entirely.
You stared. Heeseung stared. The professor continued speaking. Neither of you heard a word because one sentence was repeating inside your mind.
Sharing. One. Room.
"Oh no."
The professor left. Immediately. Probably because he valued his own survival. A wise decision. Very wise.
You and Heeseung remained standing there. Motionless, neither speaking, neither breathing. The silence became unbearable. Then: "This is fine."
You looked at him. Heeseung looked back. Neither of you believed that. At all.
─ · ✿ · ─
The study suite was surprisingly large. A fireplace. Several bookshelves. A sofa. A desk. Two armchairs. One large window overlooking the storm. Comfortable. Private. Far too private.You hated it immediately. Mostly because Heeseung seemed entirely unaffected. At first. Then you noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he kept adjusting his sleeves, the way he avoided looking directly at you.
Interesting. Very interesting.Because Lee Heeseung was nervous and you'd never seen that before. Not truly. Not like this.
The realization was oddly comforting. Good. He deserved it.
─ · ✿ · ─
Hours passed. Rain continued outside. Thunder echoed through the mountains. Inside, the fire crackled softly.
You sat in one armchair. Heeseung sat in the other. A respectable distance apart. Neither of you acknowledged how aware you were of each other's presence.Not once. Not verbally. At least.Until Heeseung ruined the peace, "Can I ask you something?"
You looked up from your book. He was watching the flames.
"What?"
His expression softened, "When did you start liking me?"
The question nearly killed you. Brutally. Mercilessly. You considered pretending not to hear. Unfortunately, he was patient. Annoyingly patient.
So eventually you answered, "I don't know." A lie. A complete lie. You knew exactly when- the library, the study sessions, the way he remembered everything, the way he listened, the way he cared.
You remembered all of it. And apparently Heeseung did too- because he smiled, "You're lying."
Your jaw dropped. The audacity- again, "You asked a question."
"And you didn't answer it."
"I did."
"No, you didn't."
You wanted to throw a book at him but, instead, you hugged it tighter. A much more mature response. Probably.
─ · ✿ · ─
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, which somehow made it worse- because being comfortable with him had become dangerously easy. Dangerously natural.
You watched rain slide down the window. He watched you. The realization arrived suddenly. Without warning.
And when it did- you couldn't ignore it- no matter how hard you tried. You loved him.
The thought struck like lightning. Not because it was new but because it wasn't. Deep down, you'd known for weeks. Months, perhaps. You just hadn't said it. Hadn't allowed yourself to say it because saying it made it real. Terrifyingly real.
And Heeseung... He loved you too. Enough to fight his mother. Enough to challenge nobles. Enough to risk his future. Enough to choose you. Every single time. Your chest tightened painfully because no one had ever chosen you like that before.
─ · ✿ · ─
"(Y/N)." You looked up almost immediately because something in his voice sounded different. Heeseung wasn't smiling anymore, wasn't teasing, wasn't joking.
His gaze held yours. Steady. Certain. And suddenly the room felt much smaller. "What is it?"
For a moment, he said nothing. Then quietly, "No matter what happens..." Your breath caught. "No matter what my mother does." Silence. "No matter what anyone says." The storm raged outside. Inside, however, only his voice existed, "I am not leaving."
Your heart shattered because he meant it. Every word. Every promise. Every impossible vow. He meant all of it. And somehow- that frightened you more than anything.
Because what if he lost everything? What if loving you cost him too much? What if- "What if I ask you to?" The question escaped before you could stop it.
Immediately, regret followed. Heeseung stared. Then stood slowly, crossing the room until he stopped beside your chair. Close. Too close to be innocent. Just enough.
Carefully, he placed his hand on your cheek, moving forward as his breath ghosted over your lips. Leaning in, he pressed a heavy kiss to your lips. A kiss that held too much pent up tension and too much heat, and far too much love.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, still carefully cradling your face with his large palm as the other slid over your hip. You breathed into his mouth, your hands coming to rest over his shoulders as you melted into the kiss.
Heeseung pulled back slightly, his forehead pressing to yours as he began unbuttoning your uniform shirt. When it was done all the way, he did his own, pulling both of them off both of you and throwing them into the corner of the room with a muffled thud.
Discarding the rest of your clothes, he pushed you back gently into the soft plush of the mattress, coming to giver over you as your naked bodies tangled together in the heat of the kiss.
“Do you want this?” Heeseung whispered, his lips trailing down your chin and to your neck, sucking lightly on the skin there, nipping a few times but soothing it with worshipping kisses and licks.
You nodded wordlessly, your arms wrapping around his neck as you arched into his touch.
“Words, my love, I need words,” he muttered, the sound vibrating through your body and sending searing heat straight to your core.
“Please, Hee,” you whined quietly, the flickering candles set around the room framing your feverish expression with a soft, warm light. The thunder cracked outside, making you jolt and press against him once more, feeling his growing hard-on.
You glanced up through your lashes to where he had changed positions. With a single view of your doe eyes staring at him, he groaned, the noise cutting through your thoughts and adding to your arousal.
Without warning, Heeseung dropped half his weight onto your body, crashing his lips onto yours as his hand cupped your small chest, thumb flicking over your nipple. You moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer towards you while grinding on his thigh.
He dipped down, parting from your mouth to rest between your thighs, face-to-face with your slick pussy. He pressed a kiss to the throbbing mound, then licked a broad stripe up the middle. You arched off the bed, as the obscene wet noises of Heeseung making out with your dripping cunt filling the room.
You reached down, threading your fingers through his hair and pushing him further down until he was nose deep inside you, smelling the slick arousal that was gathering there.
He moaned around your entrance, moving his hand to push inside you, scissoring your gummy walls next to his tongue. Quickening his pace, Heeseung pumped his tongue and fingers together inside and out of you, trying to get you to your high as quick as possible.
You whined loudly, followed by another whine, and another, and another, until Heeseung spoke, “Cum for me, princess, please cum for me.”
With one final noise, the coil setting low in your stomach snapped, sending gushing liquid down your thighs and Heeseung’s chin. He didn’t waste a bit of it, licking every last drop until only his spit remained on your legs and pussy.
You panted quietly, pulling him up by his shoulder till he was face-to-face with you, “My turn,” you whispered into his ear, rolling both of you until you were sat on top of him.
Heeseung looked up at you, eyes filled with adoration as he followed your movements until you were seated between his thighs. “(Y/n), you don’t have to-“ he started.
“I want to,” you cut him off, your hand wrapping around the base of his flushed red cock. He inhaled sharply at the contact, hips shifting slightly before you pressed your forearm down on his hipbone, “Stay still.”
Carefully, you took him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around his leaking tip, the salty taste of precum and sweat melting on your tongue. Heeseung let out a content sigh, his head dropping back onto the pillows behind him.
Taking him deeper, your nose pressed flush against his pelvis, you swallowed around him, your throat squeezing his length lightly. “Oh my god,” he arched slightly, fingers slipping into your hair as you swallowed again.
You looked up at him through your lashes, gagging deliciously when his cock hit the back of your throat, to which he moaned again- louder this time. Pulling your mouth off him completely, a string of spit connecting your lips to his tip, you wrapped both hands around his length and squeezed, “(Y/n)-“ Heeseung gasped, his grip on the bed sheets beside him turning his knuckles white.
Outside, the thunder from the storm cracked, but you were too focused on the pleasure to notice. Taking him back into your mouth again, you pushed all the way down, so he hit the back of your throat repeatedly.
He groaned, lifting one hand to bite on the skin there to keep his noises quiet. “Don’t, Hee, I want to hear you when you come,” you mumbled as you pulled off and peppered kisses on his thighs.
You licked a long stripe up the underside of his cock, from base to tip, pressing a soft kiss to the slit at the top. Surprisingly, that made him come, the white liquid coating your cheek and nose and mouth. Looking up innocently, you made eye contact and Heeseung groaned again, more of the liquid squirting out again onto you.
When he was done, Heeseung pulled you up till you were laid next to him, his hand on your breast and his other on your ass, while he wiped his cum off your face and licked it off his finger.
“You’re such a pervert,” you scoffed, laughing slightly, but still obeyed when he lifted his finger to your mouth, sucking on it until it was clean.
“Shhh, sweetheart, I’m going to make you feel so good,” Heeseung held your jaw, pulling you into a dizzying kiss while slipping his hand down between you to rub over your clit. You whimpered into his mouth, bucking into his hand as he smirked at your reaction.
“Needy, are we, doll?” he teased, rubbing over your pussy in tight circles while his hand dropped from your jaw to your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple.
“H-hee,” you protested, trying to get some more pressure that he wasn’t giving you, “don’t, ah, t-tease…”
Heeseung chuckled quietly, pulling his hand back as he pushed your body onto the bed and got on top of you, “Sorry, angel, I couldn’t help myself, I’ll take good care of you,” he muttered against your neck, before nipping the skin there.
You could feel his hard cock pressing against your entrance, and his hips moving back and forth so it was rubbing against you but not entering yet. “Heeseung, please,” you pleaded, eyes closing briefly to hold back a whine as he teased you.
“Okay, baby,” he smiled, pulling his hips back and lining himself up with your entrance. With one rock of his hips, he pushed inside, the stretch burning gloriously as you both moaned loudly.
“Fuck- oh my god,” Heeseung groaned.
“Shit-“ you gasped, hands flying to his shoulder as your nails dug into the skin there to ground yourself.
“Baby, you feel so perfect, squeezing me so tight,” he whispered, pressing his lips to yours.
He pulled his hips back, only to snap them back in just as fast, causing you to moan into his mouth. Taking the opportunity, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, the wet muscle sliding against yours.
He moved back and forth inside you, stretching you out completely with his girth. Pulling his mouth back, a string of saliva connected your lips, and you moaned again- louder this time. As you did, Heeseung spat into your mouth, “Swallow,” he growled.
You complied, too pleased to even care that he had just done was so perverted that it was actually insane.
Heeseung looked down between your bodies, watching his cock slide in and out of you easily from the messes you had both created before, “That’s it,” he eased back inside of you again, “Take it like a good girl, my good girl.”
Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as your face painted a picture of pure, fucked-out pleasure, “You gonna come, angel?” he whispered, “For me?”
You nodded, opening your eyes again and staring into his, “…p-please…”
He smirked, biting his lip as he reached between your bodies and began rubbing small circles on your clit. “Hee-“ you whimpered, the dual pressure too much and building up pressure in your lower belly again.
“Good girl,” he praised, rubbing harder as he slammed his cock into your pussy, “Come for me. Now. Again. All over my cock.”
With a drawn-out moan, you arched off the bed, warm liquid dripping out of you and onto his cock, “Fuck-“ you yelped as you came hard.
“Shit, baby, you’re squeezing me so much, can I come inside, yeah?” Heeseung cursed, rubbing your clit harder- to which you nodded and fluttered around him. He came heavily, the orgasm crashing down on both of you as he pumped inside of you to mix your fluids, “Fuuuuckk, you feel too good, milking me like this…” he growled as he leaned down and hit down on your neck, sucking on the skin.
Breathing heavily, he hoisted your leg up onto his hip, fully prepared for round two, but you rested a hand on his cheek, making him pause, “I don’t think I can move much, I won’t be any good,” you whispered, embarrassed that you couldn’t help him.
“My poor baby,” Heeseung pouted, dropping your leg back onto the bed and cradling your cheeks, “How about we cuddle-fuck? You know, spooning? You can be my pillow-princess,” he kissed you gently, watching the way your eyes lit up and chuckling.
As soon as you got into position, your back to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, he pushed inside you again, moving his hips at a steady pace. He moved his hand down to your lower abdomen, feeling the bulge there every time he pushed back in.
“Feel that? That’s how deep I am, right inside you, fucking you senseless, doll,” he growled and you whimpered breathlessly, your hands cradling his over your stomach.
Heeseung kept the slow pace, moving behind you gently, careful not to disturb you as he chased his own pleasure while you fell asleep in his arms. He lifted his leg over yours, pulling your whole body flush against his as he whispered sweet praises at how amazing you were into your hair.
“My perfect angel, letting me do this,” he mumbled as he kissed down the back of your neck and to your shoulder, leaving wet trails as he did. He thrust inside of you again, the bedsheets tangling between your legs as you woke up slightly, jostled awake by the pleasure once again.
You gasped quietly, your back giving a small arch against him as his tip hit your cervix once more, “Hee,” you leaned back onto his chest, your head on his shoulder as you spoke, “you’re too good, ah, at this….”
“Only for you my love,” he breathed against you, you sweaty skin pressing tight her in every way, it got to the point that you believed he would actually crawl into your skin if possible, “I only do anything for you…”
You felt the coil in your stomach pull tight again, giving a clear sign you were approaching you high again. Still reeling from the last orgasm, you moaned half-silently.
“My perfect girl,” Heeseung pressed a kiss to your shoulder, thrusting into you one more time until the coil snapped inside you. Liquid gushed between you two and onto the bedsheets, soaking the mattress as well as your thighs.
He looked at you in awe, eyes gleaming with adoration as he pushed in and out of you, chasing his own release. The overstimulation was perfect, giving you more cum to release as he modded your gummy walls around his cock.
Heeseung came with a quiet groan, pressing his face into your neck as he spilled out inside of you, liquid releasing more and more until you had milked him dry and both of you were empty of nothing but love and pleasure.
Pulling back slightly, he answered- his voice was gentle but firm, "I won't leave you if you ask me to."
Your heart nearly stopped. Again. This was becoming a serious health concern, "You don't mean that."
"I do."
"Heeseung—"
"I love you." Silence. Absolute silence. The words settled between you. Heavy. Real. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Outside, thunder shook the mountains. Inside, the world changed because this time- neither of you pretended not to hear it, neither of you looked away.
And for the first time since this impossible train wreck of a story began, you realized that perhaps true love was stronger than fear. Stronger than status. Stronger than expectations. Perhaps even stronger than Lady Lee.
And somewhere far below the academy walls- Lady Lee was already preparing her next move. The cruelest one yet. One that threatened to separate you and Heeseung forever.
─ · ✿ · ─
The first sign that something was wrong was the silence. Not the comfortable silence that existed between you and Heeseung. Not the kind that came with shared books, stolen smiles, or lingering glances.A different silence. A frightening one.
The kind that settled over a room before disaster arrived. The kind your father always recognized immediately. The kind your brothers hated. The kind that made people uneasy without understanding why.
And unfortunately- that silence arrived in the form of a letter. Again. Only this time it wasn't addressed to you- it was addressed to your father.
─ · ✿ · ─
He read it once, then twice, then a third time. His expression became harder with every line. You were sitting across from him in the dining table. Immediately, your stomach twisted. "Dad?" No answer, "Dad." Still nothing. The silence stretched.
Then slowly, he handed you the letter. Your eyes moved across the page.And your heart dropped because Lady Lee had escalated. Drastically. The letter was polite. Respectful. Elegant. Which somehow made it worse.
She wasn't threatening. She wasn't insulting. She wasn't demanding. Instead- she was offering money. A lot of money. Enough money to change your family's life forever. Enough to expand the workshop. Enough to buy land. Enough to ensure comfort for generations.In exchange for one thing. You. Or rather- your absence.
Your hands began to tremble. She wanted your father to convince you to end things with Heeseung. Permanently. A price.She had placed a price on your love. As though it could be purchased. As though you could be purchased.
Your vision blurred. For a moment you couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move. Then suddenly- the letter disappeared from your line of sight.
Your father had snatched it from your hands and the next second it was in the fireplace. Burning. Gone. Destroyed.
You gasped, "Dad—"
"I don't care if she offered the royal treasury," his voice shook. Not from fear- but from anger. The kind of anger that made grown men dangerous, "My daughter's love isn't for sale."
Something inside your chest broke because your father didn't hesitate. Didn't consider it. Didn't even think about it. He simply burned the letter. As though the very suggestion disgusted him.Your eyes filled again, "Dad." His expression softened.
"Oh sweetheart." And that somehow made everything worse because now you really might cry.
─ · ✿ · ─
Unfortunately, Lady Lee wasn't finished- not even close. Because while she was attempting to buy your absence- Lord Lee was finally becoming involved.And unlike his wife- he was far more dangerous because Lord Lee rarely interfered. Rarely raised his voice. Rarely involved himself in family matters. Which meant when he did- people listened.
Even Lady Lee. Even Heeseung. Especially Heeseung.
─ · ✿ · ─
Heeseung was summoned home three days later.
The message contained no explanation- only a request. Yet somehow he already knew. The moment he entered his family's estate, he knew.
The servants looked nervous, the atmosphere felt heavy, and his father was waiting.
That alone was enough.
Because Lord Lee never waited for anyone. Not even his sons. Yet there he sat, inside the family study. Hands folded. Expression unreadable. Watching.
"Heeseung."
"Father."
The door closed behind him and silence followed. Long. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then finally- Lord Lee spoke, "I hear you've been causing problems."
Straight to the point. As always. Heeseung remained standing, "I disagree."
A slight eyebrow raise. Interesting. "I see." More silence. Then Lord Lee spoke again, "The blacksmith's daughter."
There it was. The real reason. The actual reason. The only reason.
"She has a name." A mistake. Perhaps. Yet Heeseung didn't regret it. Not even slightly. The silence that followed felt endless. Then his father sighed. A tired sigh. An almost disappointed sigh. And somehow that hurt more than anger would have.
"Heeseung," The use of his name was rare, which only made it worse, "You are making this difficult."
His hands clenched, "By loving someone?"
"By refusing reality." The words struck hard because Lord Lee wasn't cruel. Never cruel. Just practical. Painfully practical. And practicality was often more damaging than cruelty.
"Reality?" Heeseung laughed. A short, bitter one, "You mean status."
"I mean consequences." The room became very quiet because both men understood exactly what was being said. Lord Lee leaned forward, "The world is not kind." Neither spoke, "It never has been." Silence, "It never will be."
More silence. Until he spoke again, "If you continue this relationship, people will use it against you."
Against him. Against you. Against everyone. Political rivals. Noble families. Future opportunities. Everything.
Lord Lee wasn't lying and that was the problem. He was telling the truth. And Heeseung hated it.
─ · ✿ · ─
Meanwhile, you were completely unaware of any of this because you were too busy sneaking around with Heeseung. Entirely his fault. Mostly.
─ · ✿ · ─
It began with notes. Small folded messages hidden inside books, inside desks, inside library shelves. Everywhere.
You found one tucked between pages of a history text. That was considerably suspicious. Especially because the handwriting was familiar.
𝑴𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔. ♡
You scoffed, then groaned, then went anyway. A terrible decision. An absolutely terrible decision because Heeseung was waiting.
And unfortunately- the moment he saw you, he smiled, which ruined any chance of remaining annoyed, "You came."
"You knew I would."
"I hoped."
"Liar."
His smile widened, "You know me too well, angel."
You rolled your eyes at the nickname but the realization was oddly comforting, you did know him, better than most people. Perhaps better than anyone.
That mattered. A lot.
─ · ✿ · ─
The hidden garden became yours. A tiny forgotten corner behind ancient stone walls. Nobody visited. Nobody interrupted. Nobody watched.It felt impossible. A place existing outside the rest of the world. Outside expectations. Outside family names. Outside duty.
Just you. And him. The first kiss happened there. Properly happened. Not accidental. Not interrupted. Not rushed. Just real.
You had been arguing- again- because apparently neither of you knew how to behave normally, "Heeseung."
"What?"
"You are impossible."
"I've heard that."
"Repeatedly."
"Usually from you."
You opened your mouth, fully prepared to continue. Then stopped because he was smiling. That smile. The one that always ruined your train of thought. The one that made coherent thinking difficult. The one reserved entirely for you.
And suddenly- you forgot what you were saying. Heeseung noticed immediately- of course he did. He always noticed. Everything. His expression softened, then softened further.
Until neither of you were speaking. The air felt different. Warmer. Closer. Your heartbeat became impossible. His wasn't much better.
And when he stepped forward- you didn't step away. Not once. His hand lifted- carefully- as though you might disappear.
As though you were something precious. Something fragile. Something worth protecting.
The thought nearly broke your heart.He rested his gently against yours and for one quiet, still moment, everything stopped. The world. The academy. The rumors. His family. The future. Everything.
Only this remained. Only him. Only you. His voice was barely a whisper, "I love you."
The words still affected you. Every single time. Without fail. So before fear could stop you, before doubt could interfere, before the world could intrude- you kissed him.
Soft. Brief. Perfect.
His breath caught as soon as you pulled back and so did yours. Somehow- the second kiss was even worse because now neither of you could pretend. Not anymore.
─ · ✿ · ─
For a while things felt almost normal. They were the happiest weeks either of you had had. Shared lunches. Hidden notes. Stolen moments. Secret meetings. Quiet walks. Too many kisses- never enough kisses.
The kind of happiness that felt borrowed and temporary- fragile, even.The kind that usually existed right before tragedy and tragedy was coming fast.
─ · ✿ · ─
It arrived in the form of another meeting. This time involving both of Heeseung's parents. And the consequences were devastating.
Because together, Lady Lee and Lord Lee were unstoppable. One ruled through emotion. The other through logic.
One applied pressure. The other applied reality.
Together they cornered him. Piece by piece. Argument by argument. Fear by fear. Until finally Lord Lee spoke the words that changed everything.
"If you truly love her," silence, "Then let her go."
Heeseung's mouth opened- yet no words escaped his lips. His father continued, "Eventually this family will destroy her."
The room froze, every breath, every thought, every heartbeat.
Stopped.
And the worst part? For the first time- Heeseung wasn't certain his father was wrong
─ · ✿ · ─
The realisation haunted him. For days. Then weeks. Every insult directed toward you. Every rumor. Every whisper. Every cruel comment. Every attack. Every scheme. Every threat.
He saw all of it.
Terrible questions began growing inside him.
What if loving you wasn't protecting you?
What if it was hurting you?
What if he was the reason Lady Lee kept targeting you?
What if he was the reason your family kept suffering?
What if-
The thoughts destroyed him slowly and brutally. You noticed. Of course you noticed. Because you always noticed.
The smiles became rarer. The laughter quieter. The stolen moments shorter. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
And no matter how many times you asked-Heeseung wouldn't tell you.
─ · ✿ · ─
The truth broke through one evening in your hidden garden- the place that belonged only to the two of you, the place where everything had begun, the place where everything would end.
At least for now. You knew immediately. The moment you saw him because Heeseung looked heartbroken.
Completely heartbroken. Your stomach dropped, "Heeseung." No smile. No teasing. No warmth. Only pain.
You couldn't breathe, "What happened?"
His eyes closed briefly as though the question hurt.
He looked at you and the devastation there shattered your heart because you had never seen him look at you like that before.Like someone saying goodbye.
The realization hit you so hard that for a moment you genuinely forgot how to breathe. The hidden garden suddenly felt colder. Smaller. Wrong.
Nothing had changed. The stone walls still stood around you. The flowers still climbed the ancient arches. The evening breeze still rustled through the trees. Yet somehow everything felt different. Because Heeseung was looking at you as though his heart was breaking.
And yours was beginning to break too. "Heeseung." Your voice came out smaller than intended. His jaw tightened immediately. As though hearing you say his name hurt. As though everything hurt.
The sight terrified you. Because Lee Heeseung was many things. Stubborn. Protective. Infuriating.
Romantic. Ridiculously dramatic.
But he was never weak. Never uncertain. Never the person standing in front of you now. “What happened?" The question came again. Softer this time. Almost pleading.
For several moments he didn't answer. Simply stared. As though trying to memorize your face. Your smile. Your eyes. The features everyone so greatly described as the ‘Moon goddess reincarnated’. Every detail. The realization made your stomach twist violently.
"Heeseung."
His eyes closed, then opened again.
And when he finally spoke, his voice sounded broken. "We need to stop."
The world ended. Not literally. The kingdom remained intact. The stars remained overhead. The garden remained standing. Yet your world ended. The silence that followed felt endless.
You stared, certain you had misheard or your mind had invented the words.
Because they made no sense. Not from him. Not from Heeseung. Not after everything. "What?"
His throat moved, a difficult swallow,"We need to end this."
The second blow landed harder. Far harder. Because now there was no misunderstanding. No confusion. No mistake. He was saying it. Actually saying it. And suddenly the garden became difficult to see.
Your eyes were burning, "No." The word escaped automatically, without thought, without hesitation.
Simply no. Heeseung visibly flinched. As though the single syllable had physically hurt him, "(Y/N)—"
"No." Again. Stronger. Fiercer. Because this couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Three weeks ago he had promised he wasn't leaving.
Three weeks ago he'd stood beside the fireplace during the storm and sworn he wasn't going anywhere. Three weeks ago he'd looked at you like you were his future. And now-
Now he was trying to walk away. "No." Your voice cracked. The sound stunned both of you. Because you never cried. Yet tears were already gathering. Already threatening. Already impossible to stop.
Heeseung looked devastated. Completely devastated. For some messed up reason, that made everything worse.
Because if he didn't want this- if he'd fallen out of love- you could hate him, you could be angry, you could survive. But he looked heartbroken. As heartbroken as you felt.
Which meant something else was happening. Something terrible. "Tell me the truth." Silence. "Heeseung." Nothing. "Tell me the truth."
His hands clenched. Then unclenched. Then clenched again. Until finally, the truth emerged. "My parents are right." The words sounded poisonous. As though he hated them. As though they were destroying him.
You inhaled sharply, "What?"
His laugh was bitter, broken,"They'll never stop."
Your heartbeat slowed painfully, "Lady Lee—"
"My father too." The words stunned you because Lord Lee joining the battle felt worse. Much worse. You'd expected Lady Lee. Not him. Never him. "My father thinks they'll destroy you."
Silence, "My mother thinks you'll ruin me," more silence, "And every day they find another way to make your life harder."
You opened your mouth and immediately closed it because he wasn't wrong. The rumors. The whispers. The letters. The insults. The pressure.
All of it had become worse. Much worse. Yet- "So what?"
The question escaped instantly. Without thought. Heeseung looked shocked.
"So what?" your voice shook but you continued, "They've hated me from the beginning," you paused, "So what?"
"(Y/N)."
"No," your tears finally escaped. One. Then another. Then another. You hated it. Absolutely hated it. Yet couldn't stop, "Since when do you care what they think?"
His expression shattered because that wasn't the problem. Not really. He knew it.
So did you.
Because the answer arrived. Slowly. Painfully. Like a knife. He didn't care what happened to him. He cared what happened to you. The realization nearly destroyed you, "Oh."
His eyes closed. As though he'd been caught. As though the truth itself hurt. And suddenly everything made sense. The distance. The sadness. The silence. The shorter meetings. The haunted expression. All of it.
He wasn't protecting himself. He was trying to protect you. You hated it. You hated it so much. "You're an idiot."
The insult escaped through tears. Heeseung laughed. A strangled sound. Half laugh. Half heartbreak, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I know."
"You don't get to decide that."
His eyes opened slowly, "Maybe I do."
"No."
"(Y/N)—"
"No."
You stepped closer and closer until only a small distance remained. His breath caught. Yours did too. Neither moved. Neither looked away. "I love you."
The confession escaped before you could stop it. The first time you'd said it. Actually said it. Out loud. The first time. And perhaps the worst possible moment because Heeseung looked as though his entire world had just collapsed.
His eyes filled instantly. The sight broke your heart because he looked happy and devastated at the same time.
Like someone receiving everything they'd ever wanted. And losing it. Simultaneously. You reached for him. Without thinking. Without permission. Without hesitation.
And the moment your hand touched his face- something inside him finally broke.
He stepped forward, closing the remaining distance. And kissed you. Not desperate. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just heartbreakingly gentle. The sort of kiss that felt like a goodbye. The sort that lingered. The sort people remembered forever.
Your fingers tightened against his coat. His hand found yours. Holding it. As though he couldn't bear to let go. As though letting go might destroy him. Perhaps it would. Perhaps it already had.
When the kiss ended neither of you moved. Foreheads resting together. Breathing uneven. Eyes closed. The garden silent around you.
"I love you too," his voice cracked. The words nearly killed you because you knew. Of course you knew.
Yet hearing them now hurt more than anything.
"I always will."
Your chest tightened painfully.
"No."
His eyes opened. Confused. You forced yourself to continue. Because somebody had to say it. Somebody had to be brave. Even if it wasn't him. Even if it wasn't you. Even if neither of you survived it.
"No."
The second time sounded stronger. Steadier. "If we're ending this," his face went white, "If that's really what you're choosing," silence, "Then don't tell me you'll always love me."
Your words shook yet you continued, "Because I won't survive hearing that." The truth hung between you. Raw. Terrible. Honest.
And for the first time all evening- Heeseung cried. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just one tear. Then another. Then another. And suddenly you couldn't remember ever seeing him cry before. Not once. Not ever, which somehow made this infinitely worse.
Because if Lee Heeseung was crying, then this was real. Actually real. And neither of you wanted it. Not really. Not at all. Somehow it was happening anyway.
The garden felt colder. The night darker. The future impossible. Eventually Heeseung stepped back. The movement almost made you reach for him. Almost. But you didn't.
Because if you touched him again- you would beg. And you refused to beg someone who loved you. Even if it hurt. Even if it killed you. You refused.
So instead; you stood there and watched the boy you loved break his own heart and then yours at the same time.
When he finally turned away, neither of you stopped him because neither of you knew how.
Summary: Jake a cruel prince cursed to become a monster finds shelter in the woods of a healer who refuses to fear him and in the space between survival and something warmer, discovers for the first time what it costs to be truly human. But the Witch who built his curse was a jealous architect, and she always intended for love to be the most lethal thing he ever found.
Warnings: Blonde Hair Jake ahahah/Dark Fantasy / Lycan Mythology / Cursed Royalty, Slow Burn Romance, Tragedy, Forced Proximity, Political Corruption & Systemic Oppression, Grief & Loss, Parental Death (referenced), Suicide (referenced, past), Blood & Graphic Injury, Predatory Behavior (non-romantic, curse-related), Morally Grey to Morally Complex Male Lead, Power Imbalance (gradual dismantling of), Full Moon & Blood Moon Transformation Sequences, Body Horror (transformation described in detail), Emotional Devastation (you were warned). Smut M/F (Jake x Y/N), Loss of Control, Possessive Behavior, Dom Jake , Marking / Claiming (Lycan Bond), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Dirty Talk, Edging, Multiple Orgasms, Size Difference.
A/N: IM BACKKKKKK😋 yay I finally got this fic done I was going to do a series which I still am but not rn. This is the first part to it, I’ll just add it to the series list later😭😭 as I promised Jake fic was coming and im working on another very long fic probably multiple parts to it bc I love the idea and the world building of it 👀 so plz be patient with me!! But I hope you like this one! First time doing a bit of dark fantasy so yea- ANYWAYS please Like, Comment and Reblog!! They are very much appreciated🥰
[Masterlist]
The Kingdom of Aethelgard did not believe in the fragility of soft colors or gentle light. It was a fortress-realm carved from the bones of the earth, an architectural monument to endurance and absolute, suffocating authority. Its towering walls were hewn from jagged, unpolished black obsidian; its heavy, groaning doors were built of petrified, dark brown ironwood; and the banners that snapped violently in the relentless winter wind were a deep, oxidized crimson—the exact shade of dried, unwashed blood.
Black, brown, and red. They were the colors of scorched earth, of dirt, and of total dominance.
And in the heart of this dark, brutalist monolith lived the kingdom’s singular, blinding anomaly.
Prince Jake awoke on the morning before his twenty-first birthday. The heavy, dark brown velvet curtains surrounding his massive four-poster bed were drawn tight, sealing in a heat so oppressive it would have made a commoner faint. The hearth across his expansive bedchamber roared, feeding on precious, dry logs while the outer wards of the city below slowly starved and froze in the grip of a generational winter.
Jake pushed the heavy, black bear-fur blankets down to his waist and sat up, running a perfectly manicured hand through his hair. In a royal court filled with men and women who mirrored the dark, brooding architecture of their kingdom, Jake had been born with hair the color of spun gold. It fell in soft, feathered waves around a face carved with impossible, angelic precision. His eyes were a clear, luminous amber, framed by thick lashes. By all natural metrics, he possessed a sweet, puppy-like beauty that made people instinctively want to trust him, to protect him, and to worship him.
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, his bare feet touching the heated, dark mahogany floorboards.
"Enter," he called out. His voice was naturally warm, a soft, melodic baritone that sounded like a gentle invitation rather than a royal command.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and a procession of valets shuffled into the room. They wore the liveries of the castle staff: coarse brown wool tunics trimmed with black thread. The winter outside was a nightmare, and the chill clung to their clothes, warring with the furnace-like heat of Jake’s room.
"Good morning, my Prince," the head valet, a trembling young man named Elian, whispered. He carried a silver basin of steaming, rose-scented water. His knuckles were white from the cold of the servant's corridors.
"Good morning, Elian," Jake murmured, offering a soft, breathtaking smile that crinkled the corners of his amber eyes. He looked like the very picture of innocence, a benevolent son of the gods waking to greet the day.
He allowed the servants to strip him of his nightclothes and bathe his skin. As they worked, Jake observed them in the towering, silver-backed mirror. He watched the way they handled him with terrifying reverence. He knew exactly what they saw: a sweet, gentle boy burdened by the harshness of his father’s kingdom.
Jake weaponized that perception flawlessly, but beneath the golden surface, he felt nothing but a crawling, profound disgust. He hated the weakness of the peasantry. He hated the dirt under their fingernails, the pathetic desperation in their voices, and the way they tracked the scent of poverty into his immaculate sanctuary. They were nothing but raw materials to him, fuel to keep the citadel burning.
As Elian stepped forward to help Jake into his undershirt, the boy’s freezing, calloused fingers accidentally brushed against the warm skin of Jake’s collarbone. The boy gasped, dropping the linen shirt in pure terror. He fell to his knees instantly, pressing his forehead against the mahogany floor.
"Forgive me, sire!" the boy practically sobbed, his voice cracking. "I am clumsy. The cold in the servant's quarters... my hands are stiff. I beg your mercy."
Jake looked down at the trembling heap of brown wool. Internally, his stomach turned with revulsion at the boy's sniveling weakness. But his father, King Aldric, had taught him the mechanics of power long ago. Fear keeps a blade at a man’s throat, but love makes a man hand you the blade and bare his own neck. Let them see the shepherd.
Jake’s expression shifted instantly. The cold calculation vanished, replaced by an expression of profound, aching empathy. He knelt on the floor, ignoring the way the hard wood pressed into his knees, and placed a warm, gentle hand on the boy’s shaking shoulder.
"Hey," Jake said softly, his voice thick with tender concern. "Look at me."
Elian slowly raised his head, tears tracking through the soot on his cheeks. Jake offered him a smile so sweet, so full of radiant forgiveness, that it seemed to illuminate the dark room.
"You have nothing to fear from me," Jake whispered, his amber eyes wide and puppy-like. "The winter is cruel to us all. Stand up. It was only a touch, my friend. You are forgiven."
The boy wept openly, overwhelmed by the Prince’s angelic mercy, kissing the back of Jake's hand before scrambling to his feet. "You are too good for this world, my Prince. The gods bless you."
Jake stood, his gentle smile never wavering as they finished dressing him in his morning sparring leathers—a fitted, dark brown gambeson laced with black cord, paired with a heavy crimson cloak draped over one shoulder.
"You may go," Jake said softly, dismissing them with a warm nod.
The moment the heavy ironwood door clicked shut behind them, Jake’s smile evaporated. The warmth vanished from his eyes, leaving behind a blank, terrifying void. He walked over to his washbasin, picked up a bar of lye soap, and began to violently scrub the hand the servant boy had kissed. He scrubbed until the skin was raw and pink, washing away the invisible stain of the lower class.
"Kael," Jake said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion, not bothering to turn around as his armored lieutenant stepped out from the shadows of the antechamber.
"Yes, sire?" the guard asked, standing at attention in his blackened steel plate.
"The valet. Elian," Jake ordered, drying his hands on a silk towel, his golden hair catching the light of the fire. "Have him reassigned to the northern gate watch by midday. Strip him of his citadel cloaks. He complained of the cold in the castle. Let him experience the true winter."
The northern gate was a death sentence. It was fully exposed to the blizzards, and guards posted there rarely survived the week without losing digits to frostbite, if they survived at all.
"At once, my Prince," Kael said, bowing his head, fully accustomed to the whiplash of the Prince's dual nature.
Jake adjusted the collar of his gambeson in the mirror. He looked beautiful. He looked innocent. He looked perfectly ready for the day.
The training yard of Aethelgard was located in the lower bailey, enclosed by towering walls of black stone that effectively trapped the bitter cold. The ground was hard-packed earth, frozen solid and dusted with a thin layer of crystalline snow.
When Jake descended the steps, the yard fell instantly silent. A dozen knights, clad in heavy brown leather and crimson tabards, ceased their sparring and bowed deeply. Jake ignored them, walking with a light, graceful step that stood in stark contrast to the heavy, brutalist aesthetic of the military men.
He approached the weapon rack, selecting a heavy, unsharpened broadsword of dark iron. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the satisfying pull of the dense muscle beneath his leathers.
"Gareth," Jake called out, his voice cutting clearly through the freezing air, dropping the sweet, melodic tone he used for the court.
Sir Gareth, the Captain of the Guard, stepped out from the armory overhang. He was a massive, grizzled veteran, his face a map of pale scars, his dark hair greying at the temples. Gareth was one of the few living souls in Aethelgard who had known Jake since he was a child, and the only man Jake held any genuine respect for. Gareth had not coddled him; Gareth had taught him how to break a man's knee, how to slice an artery, and how to survive the lethal politics of his father's court.
"Late this morning, cub," Gareth grunted, pulling his own iron broadsword from the rack. "The heat of your chambers making you soft?"
"Just conserving my energy to put you in the dirt, Captain," Jake shot back, a genuine, dark smirk touching his lips. With Gareth, the angelic facade was entirely absent. There was no need for the shepherd’s mask here.
They took their stances in the center of the yard. The moment the bout began, the air rang with the brutal, concussive crack of iron meeting iron.
Jake fought the way he ruled his inner circle: flawlessly, aggressively, and with calculated cruelty. He lunged, his golden hair whipping around his face as he drove Gareth backward. The older knight parried a heavy downward strike, stepping inside Jake's guard and driving an armored shoulder directly into the Prince’s chest.
Jake stumbled back, his boots skidding on the frost. He didn't hesitate. He used the momentum to spin, bringing the pommel of his sword crashing down on Gareth’s armored wrist. The knight grunted in pain, his grip faltering. Before Gareth could recover, Jake swept his leg, hooking the older man’s ankle and sending him crashing into the frozen dirt with a heavy thud.
The tip of Jake’s iron sword hovered an inch from Gareth’s throat. Jake’s breathing was perfectly even, his amber eyes cold and sharp as a hawk's.
Gareth looked up at the tip of the blade, then up at the Prince's impassive face. The old knight let out a barking laugh, his breath pluming in the icy air. "Flawless footwork. But you fight with a bitter head today, Jake. You're tense."
Jake lowered the sword, offering a hand to pull the massive knight to his feet. It was a gesture of respect, not mercy. "My father's banquet is tonight. I have to sit at the high table and play the sweet, blushing virgin for the Valorian princess while listening to merchants whine about the cold."
"And that bothers you?" Gareth asked, dusting the snow from his brown leathers, a knowing glint in his eye.
"It bothers me that I have to waste my evening pretending to care about her father's trade routes," Jake muttered, tossing his practice sword back onto the rack. "I should just take the eastern rivers by force and be done with it. The political theater is exhausting."
Gareth leaned against the weapon rack, looking at the young prince. Gareth knew the truth of what lived beneath the golden hair and the angelic face. He knew Jake was a monster, cold and entirely detached from human suffering, but he was Aethelgard's monster.
"You've survived twenty-one years of playing your father's game, lad," Gareth said, his voice dropping to a low, gruff rumble. "You can survive one more banquet. Just remember to keep your teeth hidden until the trap snaps shut."
Jake looked out over the frozen yard, a cruel, satisfied smile curving his lips. "They never see the teeth, Gareth. Not until it's much too late."
The Great Hall of Aethelgard was a cavernous expanse of obsidian pillars and dark wood. Huge banners of crimson silk hung from the rafters, absorbing the light of the roaring hearths.
Jake slipped into the hall quietly, taking his place on a carved ironwood chair situated to the right of the massive iron throne. He crossed his legs, resting his chin on his hand, seamlessly sliding back into the picture of a dutiful, attentive, and gentle son.
King Aldric sat on the throne, a terrifying monolith draped in the heavy brown furs of a dire bear, a crown of jagged black iron resting on his brow. The King was currently listening to a delegation of merchants from the lower wards. The men were shivering violently, their clothes threadbare, their lips tinged with blue.
"Your Grace," the lead merchant pleaded, his voice echoing off the dark stones, raw with desperation. "We ask only for a temporary lifting of the grain tax. The outer wards have exhausted their winter stores. People are eating shoe leather to survive. The children are dying in the snow."
Jake watched his father closely. He saw the microscopic tightening of Aldric's jaw—the utter, sociopathic disdain for the weakness standing before him. But Aldric was a master of the game.
The King stood up, his heavy furs dragging across the floor. He stepped down from the dais and approached the merchants. He reached out, taking the shivering man’s filthy hands in his own bare, ringed hands.
"My brother," the King said, his voice thick with a profound, theatrical grief that sounded horrifyingly real. "The Crown bleeds when Aethelgard bleeds. Do you think I sleep warmly knowing my people suffer?"
The merchant looked up, tears springing to his eyes, hope blossoming like a fragile flower in the dead of winter. "Then... you will lift the tax, Your Grace?"
"I will do better," the King decreed, his voice booming with magnanimous warmth. "I shall open the lower granaries. A ration of flour for every family in the outer wards, in honor of my son’s coming-of-age tomorrow."
The merchants wept. They fell to their knees on the hard obsidian floor, kissing the King’s boots, praising his mercy. They left the hall with tears of joy freezing on their cheeks, entirely devoted to their savior.
When the heavy oak doors closed, sealing the hall in silence, the King’s posture shifted. The benevolent father of the realm vanished in an instant. Aldric turned back to his advisors, his face hardening into a scowl of pure, reptilian contempt. "Take the flour from the reserves we confiscated from the northern traitors," Aldric ordered the Master of Coin, his voice cold and flat. "Mix it with sawdust to stretch the yield. And double the tax on firewood. If they have free bread, they can afford to pay for the heat to bake it." Jake sat motionless, watching the exchange. He felt a surge of dark admiration. This was the architecture of Aethelgard. This was the legacy he was set to inherit. Total control, wrapped in the illusion of grace.
Aldric turned his dark, calculating eyes to Jake. "You observe quietly today, my son."
"I am taking notes, Father," Jake replied, his voice soft, offering his dad a sweet, respectful smile that mirrored the King's own deception.
The King walked up the steps, standing over Jake. He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing against Jake’s golden hair, a gesture that was meant to be affectionate but felt entirely possessive. "Tomorrow is your twenty-first birthday. The Royal Hunt. You will ride into the deep woods alone, and you will bring back a kill. You will prove to this realm that you are not just a pretty face, but an apex predator."
"I will not fail," Jake said earnestly, meeting his father's gaze without blinking."I know you won't," Aldric said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You have the face of an angel, Jake. It is a weapon sharper than iron. They look at you and they see a sweet, golden boy who will save them from my cruelty. Let them believe it. Smile at them. Play the gentle puppy. And then, when their bellies are full of sawdust and they are thanking you for it, you bleed them dry." Jake’s amber eyes gleamed with cold understanding. "Yes, Father."
"Tonight is your banquet. Princess Elara of Valoria will be seated beside you. Her father controls the eastern rivers. I want you to secure her affections by the time the dessert is served. Am I understood?"
Jake tilted his head, letting his golden hair fall perfectly across his forehead. He deployed the sweet, innocent, devastating smile his father demanded. "Of course. She will hand us the rivers gladly, and thank me for taking them." The sun set early, plunging the kingdom into a freezing, starless night. But inside the Great Hall, it was a suffocating summer.
The eve of the Prince’s birthday was a staggering spectacle of hoarding. Thousands of beeswax candles burned in massive black iron chandeliers, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the dark wood and crimson banners. The tables groaned beneath the weight of excess: entire roasted boars glazed in dark honey, towering pies filled with pigeon and imported spices, swans decorated in their own feathers, and rivers of deep red wine that stained the lips of the nobility. Jake sat at the high table, dressed in a sharply tailored doublet of oxblood velvet, intricately embroidered with black thread. He was the focal point of the room. Every lord, lady, and servant could not tear their eyes away from the golden prince who sat amongst the dark, brooding lords of Aethelgard like a captured, celestial star.
He played his part to perfection.He laughed softly at the jokes of the drunken lords. He offered sweet, shy smiles to the ladies who curtsied before him. But internally, the noise was grating on his nerves. The smell of roasting meat, unwashed bodies, and heavy perfumes made him want to drive his dagger into the mahogany table. He despised them all.
To his right sat Princess Elara. She was wrapped in dark red silk, her soft skin standing out in the dim lighting.
"You barely touch your wine, Prince Jake," Elara noted softly, leaning closer. The scent of her expensive jasmine perfume wafted over him, cloying and desperate.Jake turned to her. He let his shoulders slump just a fraction, a micro-expression of exhaustion that he knew her romantic, foolish heart would latch onto. He looked down at his silver goblet, letting out a soft, beautiful sigh."Forgive me, Princess," Jake murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timber meant only for her ears. "The wine is excellent. But my mind is... heavy tonight."
Elara’s eyes widened, her maternal instincts immediately hooked by his vulnerability. "Is something wrong? On the eve of your manhood?"
Jake looked up at her through his thick lashes, his amber eyes pooling with a fabricated, tragic sadness that veiled his true, bitter boredom. He reached out, his long fingers gently resting near hers on the table.
"Tomorrow, I ride into the deep woods for the Rite of the Hunt," Jake said, his voice a soft, melodic whisper. "I must go alone, without guards, into the frozen wilds. Everyone in this room expects a conquering hero. They see a prince." He looked away, staring into the roaring hearth as if burdened by the sheer weight of his existence. "But sometimes, Elara... I wish I were just a man. Free from the bloodshed. Free from the expectations of the crown."
It was a brilliant, manipulative lie, weaponizing her own naive fantasies against her.
Elara melted completely. She reached out, placing her soft, warm hand over his. "You have such a gentle soul, Jake. The realm is blessed to have a prince with such a tender heart. You will be a wonderful, merciful king."
Jake turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with hers. He offered her a breathtaking, warm smile, mentally securing the eastern trade routes and feeling absolutely nothing but cold victory. "Your words give me strength, Princess."
As the banquet raged on, the music growing louder and the lords growing drunker, Jake politely excused himself. He played the part of the nervous boy preparing for a great trial, bowing gracefully and leaving the hall amidst a chorus of adoring cheers.
But the moment he stepped out of the Great Hall and the heavy ironwood doors sealed the noise behind him, the sweet smile fell from his face like dead weight. His amber eyes went flat and predatory.
He walked through the silent, torch-lit corridors of the citadel, climbing the winding stairs of the highest tower to his private balcony.
He pushed open the glass doors and stepped out into the biting, sub-zero wind. The cold hit him like a physical blow, tearing at his golden hair and his oxblood velvet doublet. It was freezing, but for the first time all day, Jake could actually breathe.
He stood at the edge of the stone balustrade, resting his hands on the frozen black iron railing. Below him, the outer wards of Aethelgard were a sea of absolute, crushing darkness. There were no fires burning in the hovels. The people were eating sawdust, just as his father commanded.
He lifted his gaze, looking past the city, out toward the jagged, terrifying expanse of the deep woods. The ancient forest was a mass of black and brown, swallowed by the night, utterly indifferent to the politics of kings and princes.
Tomorrow, he would ride into those woods alone. He would slaughter a beast, bathe his hands in its blood, and return to claim his throne.
Jake leaned against the railing, his jaw clenching as a slow, arrogant smirk spread across his angelic face. He did not know that the woods were waiting for him. And he did not know that by this time tomorrow night, the gilded cage he ruled would be shattered, and the true monster within him would finally be forced into the light.
The dawn of Prince Jake’s twenty-first year did not arrive with the celebrated warmth of a summer festival; it bled into the horizon like a fresh, dark bruise. The sky above the obsidian towers of Aethelgard was a suffocating expanse of iron-grey, heavy with the promise of a blizzard that would undoubtedly claim another hundred lives in the outer wards before nightfall. But inside the citadel’s highest tier, the morning was marked only by the quiet, meticulous preparation for the Rite of the Hunt.
Jake stood in the center of the armory, his arms outstretched as his squires strapped him into his hunting leathers. There would be no velvet today, no silks or delicate silver embroidery. The Rite demanded utility, though even Aethelgard’s utility was a display of dominant wealth. He wore a heavy gambeson of dark brown, boiled leather, reinforced with blackened steel rivets at the joints. A thick, crimson wool cloak was fastened to his broad shoulders with a heavy iron clasp forged in the shape of a wolf’s head. He was twenty-one today. He was a man by the laws of the realm, the undisputed heir to the iron throne, and a god to the starving masses trembling below his balcony.
He looked at his reflection in the polished surface of a broadshield resting against the stone wall. His golden hair, usually styled in soft, feathered waves to project his angelic innocence, was tied back severely with a leather cord at the nape of his neck. Without the soft framing of his hair, the sharp, aristocratic cruelty of his jawline and the predatory stillness in his amber eyes were suddenly, terrifyingly pronounced.
"Your bow, my Prince," a squire murmured, his head bowed low as he presented a weapon carved from a single piece of ancient, petrified yew.
Jake took it, his gloved hand wrapping around the grip. The wood was cold and heavy, a lethal extension of his own will. He slung the quiver of black-fletched, iron-tipped arrows over his shoulder and strapped a long, serrated hunting dagger to his thigh.He walked out into the biting cold of the upper courtyard. The wind immediately tore at his crimson cloak, howling around the black stone turrets, but Jake did not shiver. A prince of Aethelgard did not surrender to the elements; he conquered them.
Waiting for him on the frost-covered cobblestones was Ruin. The destrier was a monster of a horse, bred from northern war-stock, its coat as black as pitch and its eyes rolling with aggressive, pent-up energy. The beast stamped a massive, iron-shod hoof, blowing thick plumes of white vapor from its flared nostrils. It took two armored stable hands pulling desperately on the iron bit to keep the animal still.King Aldric stood on the raised dais overlooking the yard, wrapped in the heavy brown furs of a dire bear. The King’s dark eyes locked onto his son. There were no warm birthday greetings, no paternal embraces. There was only the cold, unyielding expectation of the Crown.
"You ride alone," the King’s voice boomed, echoing off the obsidian walls. "You take no guards. You take no hounds. You enter the deep woods, and you bring back the blood of the wild. Show them that the heir of Aethelgard needs no army to bring this world to its knees."
"I will bring you a carcass, Father," Jake replied, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly over the wind.
Jake stepped up to the massive destrier, grabbing the pommel and swinging himself into the saddle with a singular, fluid motion. Ruin instantly reared back, fighting the sudden weight, but Jake savagely hauled on the reins, driving his knees into the horse’s flanks until the beast submitted with a sharp, angry whinny. "Open the gates!" the Captain of the Guard bellowed. The heavy ironwood portcullis groaned, the massive chains shrieking in protest as they hauled the spiked iron upward. Beyond the gate lay the bridge over the frozen moat, and beyond that, the sprawling, dead expanse of the deep woods.
Jake spurred Ruin forward. The heavy clack-clack-clack of the destrier’s hooves on the frozen stone bridge sounded like the beating of a slow, iron heart.
As he crossed the threshold of the citadel, leaving the protection of the black walls behind, the true hostility of the generational winter hit him. The temperature plummeted. The wind shrieked across the open plains, driving microscopic shards of ice against his exposed cheeks. Yet, as he rode past the outer wards, past the dilapidated, soot-stained hovels of the peasantry, Jake felt nothing but a cold, simmering superiority.
The commoners had gathered at the edges of the frozen mud road to watch him pass. They were hollow-eyed, their lips tinged blue, wrapped in filthy rags. As his massive black horse thundered past, they fell to their knees in the snow, pressing their foreheads to the dirt in a wave of desperate reverence. They thought he was their golden shepherd, riding out to secure the favor of the gods for their dying crops.
Jake didn't even look down at them. He kept his amber eyes fixed on the treeline ahead. The deep woods of Aethelgard were not a forest; they were a fortress of ancient, untamed hostility. As Jake guided Ruin beneath the canopy of towering, skeletal pines, the shrieking wind of the plains was instantly choked off, replaced by a silence so absolute and heavy it felt like a physical weight pressing against his eardrums.
The trees grew unnaturally close together, their twisted, dark brown branches interlocking overhead to block out the bruised grey sky. The snow here was pristine, undisturbed, and terrifyingly deep. There were no tracks. There was no birdsong. The air smelled of sharp pine resin, ancient frost, and a deep, unsettling decay.He rode for hours, plunging deeper into the uncharted territories where even his father’s vanguard refused to patrol. The cold seeped through the thick leather of his gambeson, gnawing at his joints, but Jake welcomed the discomfort. It sharpened his focus. It reminded him that he was alive, and that he was entirely untouchable.But as the hours dragged on, a quiet, irritated boredom began to replace his predatory focus.The woods were dead. The winter had driven the stags south and frozen the boars in their dens. He had ridden for half the day and hadn't seen so much as a snow hare. The Rite of the Hunt demanded blood, and nature was boldly refusing to provide it.
Suddenly, Ruin stopped dead.The massive destrier planted its front hooves deep in the snow, its head jerking upward. The horse let out a high-pitched, panicked snort, its ears pinning flat against its skull. The muscles in the beast’s thick neck trembled violently beneath Jake’s leather-gloved hands.
"Steady," Jake commanded, his voice a low, harsh rasp in the suffocating silence. He tightened his grip on the reins, his eyes scanning the dense thicket of frosted brambles ahead.
Ruin took a frantic, shuddering step backward, tossing his head and fighting the iron bit.Jake drew his yew bow from his shoulder in one smooth motion, notching a black-fletched arrow to the string. If it was a dire bear, he would put a shaft of iron through its eye and be back at the citadel in time for his banquet.He drove his spurs sharply into Ruin’s flanks, forcing the terrified horse through the thicket and into a wide, snow-drowned clearing.Jake pulled the bowstring taut, the leather groaning, his amber eyes narrowed and searching for the massive, hulking shape of a predator.But there was no bear. There was no stag.
Standing in the absolute dead center of the frozen clearing, blocking the only traversable path forward, was a woman.Jake slowly lowered his bow, the tension in his shoulders converting instantly from adrenaline to profound, disgusted annoyance.
She was an affront to the pristine, deadly isolation of his hunt. She was ancient, her spine bent and twisted at an agonizing angle, forcing her to lean her entire, frail weight onto a gnarled, blackened staff of rotting wood. She wore a chaotic assembly of filthy, threadbare rags that offered absolutely no insulation against the deadly cold. Her skin was a ghastly, translucent grey, pulled tight over her skeletal face, and as she lifted her chin toward him, Jake saw that her eyes were completely clouded over with milky, thick cataracts.She was blind. She was freezing. And she was standing in the path of the Crown Prince.Jake rested the bow across the pommel of his saddle, looking down at the pathetic creature from his elevated perch. He did not feel an ounce of the shepherd’s fabricated pity. There was no audience here. There were no lords to impress with his benevolence. Here, in the absolute isolation of the deep woods, he could finally be exactly what he was."You have wandered far from the dying wards, old mother," Jake called out. His voice was smooth, melodic, and laced with an icy, lethal condescension. "This forest belongs to the King. The path is closed today."
The old woman did not flinch at the sound of the destrier’s snorting, nor did she bow. She slowly turned her head, her milky, blind eyes tracking the sound of his voice with unnatural precision. She seemed to look right through the dark leather and the golden hair, staring directly into the hollow, pitch-black center of his chest."My Prince," she croaked. Her voice was the sound of a rusted blade scraping against a tombstone—dry, ancient, and grating. "Have mercy on a dying soul. The earth is hard as iron, and the wheat refuses to grow. The rivers are choked with ice. I have not eaten in seven days."She raised a trembling, skeletal hand, reaching out toward the massive black horse. "Please... a crust of bread. A scrap of dried meat from your saddlebags. The cold is eating the marrow from my bones."Jake stared at the outstretched hand. The sheer, staggering audacity of the request made a cold, cruel smirk touch the corners of his lips. She wasn't begging like a peasant should. She was demanding resources from him as if her suffering somehow entitled her to his wealth.
He leaned forward over the saddle, the crimson wool of his cloak pooling around him."Bread?" Jake murmured, his voice sweet, soft, and entirely poisonous. "You drag your filth into my woods, interrupt the sacred Rite of my bloodline, and demand the food from my stores?"
"The kingdom flourishes in the warmth of your citadel, while the roots of the earth rot in the cold," the old woman rasped, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her wooden staff. "You are to be King. It is your duty to provide for the soil that birthed you."
Jake let out a soft, beautiful laugh. It was a terrifying sound, utterly devoid of humanity, echoing off the frozen pines."You misunderstand the natural order of the world, hag," Jake sneered, his amber eyes going completely dead. "My duty is to the strong. The Crown does not bleed for parasites that suck at the edges of our walls. If the cold is killing you, then the gods have deemed you useless. I suggest you lie down in the snow and die quietly. You are making an unsightly mess of my hunting grounds."
The old woman did not lower her hand. The violent shivering in her frail body suddenly ceased entirely."You look upon starvation and feel nothing but pride," she whispered, her voice losing its rasp, deepening into a strange, multi-layered resonance."I look upon a pest," Jake corrected sharply. His patience was gone. He raised his yew bow, pulling the thick string back with a smooth, practiced exertion of muscle until the fletching of the arrow brushed his cheek. He aimed the heavy, iron broadhead directly at the center of her sunken chest. "I came to these woods to kill a beast, but pest control will have to suffice. May the dirt find you more useful than my kingdom did."
He released the string.
The thwack of the bowstring echoed like a gunshot. The arrow whispered through the freezing air, driven with enough lethal force to punch straight through a boar’s skull.
It never found its mark. A mere foot away from the old woman’s chest, the arrow struck an invisible, solid wall of air. It stopped dead in its flight, suspended in the space between them, vibrating violently.
Jake froze. The arrogant smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, electric spike of genuine terror. Before his eyes, the iron-tipped arrow began to glow with a sickly, violet light. In an instant, the wood and iron combusted, turning into a shower of brilliant, purple ash that drifted harmlessly into the snow. Ruin shrieked. The massive destrier reared up on its hind legs, kicking violently at the air, driven mad by a sudden, unseen pressure in the clearing. Jake savagely hauled on the reins, fighting with all his immense strength to keep the horse from bolting, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, panicked rhythm.
"The weak do not demand from the strong," the old woman repeated.
But it was no longer the voice of a dying hag. It was a booming, percussive echo that vibrated in Jake’s molars, shook the heavy snow from the surrounding pine branches, and made the ground beneath the horse's hooves tremble.
She slammed the base of her wooden staff into the frozen earth.
The air in the clearing violently, sickeningly shifted. The crisp, oppressive scent of pine and snow was instantly eradicated, swallowed whole by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and the heavy, suffocating stench of an open, rotting grave.The old woman’s hunched spine snapped straight with a series of loud, percussive cracks that sounded like breaking timber. The rotting, threadbare rags clinging to her frame began to melt and writhe, transforming into a living, shifting cloak of midnight-black feathers. Her skeletal face smoothed out, becoming an ageless mask of terrible, ancient authority.And her eyes—the milky, blind cataracts burned away in a flash of violet fire, revealing pools of liquid, glowing silver that locked onto Jake with the weight of a collapsing star. "You are a boy forged in deceit, wrapping your rot in silk," the Witch declared, her voice echoing from the ancient trees themselves, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. She glided across the snow, her bare feet not leaving a single indentation in the powder, stopping directly beside the panicked, foaming destrier. Jake dropped his bow. He reached down for the serrated hunting dagger strapped to his thigh, his mind screaming at him to fight, to kill the threat. But his hand never reached the hilt.
A heavy, paralyzing weight slammed down on him from above. It felt as though the atmospheric pressure in the clearing had increased a hundredfold. His muscles locked instantly in place. He was trapped, frozen in the saddle, entirely helpless for the first time in his sheltered, gilded life.
"You hold yourself above humanity because of your golden face," the Witch hissed, looking up at him. The silver light from her eyes illuminated the terror finally breaking through his arrogant mask. "You weaponize your beauty. You look upon starvation and offer a gentle smile while you press an iron boot to their necks. You play the shepherd, Prince Jake, but you harbor the heart of a ravenous, unfeeling beast."
"W-wait," Jake choked out, the word tearing past his paralyzed vocal cords, sounding small and pathetic."Let us see how long your arrogance survives when your outside matches the monstrosity on your inside," the Witch decreed, raising her hand.She extended a single, elongated finger, the nail sharp and blackened. She reached up and tapped the dark leather of his gambeson, directly over his wildly beating heart.
The agony was instantaneous, absolute, and beyond the realm of human comprehension.It did not feel like a spell. It felt like a biological violation. It felt as though she had reached a hand straight through his ribcage, seized his beating heart in an iron grip, and poured boiling, liquid acid directly into his ventricles.
Jake’s magical paralysis broke in a violent snap. He threw his head back, his golden hair whipping through the air, and tore his own throat open with a blood-curdling, agonizing scream that echoed for miles across the dead canopy."On the night of the blood moon, the beast you harbor within shall fully consume the prince!" she chanted, stepping back as the violet magic flared, wrapping around Jake’s thrashing body. "Your golden hair, your angelic face, your divine right—all of it shall be stripped away. You shall become the monster your kingdom fears. A Lycan. An outcast. Hunted, reviled, and despised."
"Stop!" Jake gasped, choking on his own saliva as a mouthful of hot, metallic blood bubbled over his lips.
A horrific, tearing sensation erupted in his shoulders and along his spine. His bones felt as though they were melting, softening, lengthening, breaking, and reforming in a torturous, rapid evolution. His skin felt like it was on fire, a literal furnace igniting in his core, burning so hot that the snow falling around him instantly hissed into steam before it could touch his leathers."There is only one salvation for a heart of ice," the Witch said, her physical form beginning to dissolve into a violent, swirling vortex of violet ash and black feathers that caught the winter wind. "You must find one who can look upon the monster, and love the man beneath it without condition. But the curse is a jealous architect, golden prince. To find your cure is to seal your doom. Happy hunting."
The magic released its hold on the clearing in a concussive, deafening shockwave that flattened the surrounding snowdrifts.
Ruin shrieked in pure, primal terror. The unmistakable, overpowering scent of an apex predator had suddenly erupted from the rider on his back. The massive black horse went completely feral, bucking violently, kicking its heavy hind legs high into the freezing air in a desperate bid to dislodge the monster it was carrying.
Jake, blinded by the red haze of pain, his nervous system completely overwhelmed by the horrific shifting of his own skeleton, couldn't hold onto the reins. His grip failed. He was launched violently from the saddle.
He tumbled through the freezing air, the crimson wool of his cloak snapping around him, before crashing heavily into a brutal drift of snow and jagged ice at the base of a massive, hollowed-out oak tree.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a sharp gasp. He lay there, his vision swimming with dark, encroaching shadows and flashes of violet light. Above the ringing in his ears, he heard the frantic, galloping hooves of his horse fleeing back toward the plains, taking with it his only lifeline to the citadel.The heat radiating from his core was catastrophic. The freezing snow beneath him began to instantly melt, turning into slush and mud, hissing violently against his dark leather gambeson.
He couldn't breathe. Every inhale was a jagged, rattling pull of air that sounded too deep, too guttural to be human.
Jake dragged his heavy, trembling hand out of the snow, driven by the desperate instinct to push himself up, to demand his guards, to demand his father. He looked down at his hand. The heavy, reinforced riding leather of his glove was tearing at the seams, the thick thread snapping as the hand inside rapidly stretched and widened. Beneath the ruined fabric, his skin was flushed a deep, feverish red. And as he watched in paralyzed, helpless horror, his manicured fingernails darkened. They thickened, lengthening and curving into jagged, vicious, bone-white claws.
A raw, animalistic sob tore from his chest, mutating halfway up his throat into a terrifying, deep-chested snarl.The pain reached a critical threshold, a blinding white crescendo that shattered his consciousness. His golden eyes rolled back in his head. The frozen canopy above him spun violently, fading into a suffocating, absolute darkness.
The golden prince of Aethelgard collapsed into the melting snow, completely unconscious, as the beast beneath his skin finally began to breathe.
The cold did not merely exist in the outer woods; it was a living, ravenous entity that inhabited your cottage alongside you. It slipped through the microscopic, frozen cracks in the wattle and daub, curled around the heavy, petrified ironwood beams of the low ceiling, and settled deep into the marrow of your bones before your eyes even fluttered open.You woke to the suffocating, heavy silence of the deep woods. For a long, agonizing moment, you simply lay beneath the crushing weight of your patchwork rabbit furs, watching your breath materialize into thick, white plumes in the freezing air of the cabin. The only warmth in the entire room came from the small, vibrant orange tabby cat curled tightly against your ribs. The cat was a vibrating furnace of soft fur and low, rhythmic purrs, a tiny anchor of life in a room that felt dangerously close to a tomb.
You gently shifted your weight, mindful of the cat, and looked across the small, single-room sanctuary. The hearth had burned down to a pile of fragile, skeletal grey ash. Only a single, stubborn ember glowed weakly in its center, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching frost that was already beginning to lace the inside of your single glass windowpane.If you did not feed the fire, it would die. And if the fire died, you and your cat would follow shortly after.You threw the heavy furs back. The sudden, violent loss of trapped body heat made your jaw lock and your teeth click together instantly. You swung your legs over the edge of the narrow, rough-hewn wooden cot, bracing yourself. The moment your bare left foot brushed the freezing floorboards, a sickening, sharp spike of pain shot straight up your calf, settling deep and hot in your knee joint.You bit the inside of your cheek until the sharp, metallic tang of copper flooded your mouth, swallowing the groan that tried to claw its way up your throat. Three days ago, while digging through the frozen underbrush near the eastern ravine for the dormant, blood-red roots of the nettle plant, a patch of black ice hidden beneath the powder had sent you tumbling down the rocky embankment. The jagged gash along your ankle had been deep enough to scrape the white of the bone, but the severe, agonizing sprain that accompanied the tear was the true nightmare.
You had dragged yourself back to the cottage on your hands and knees, stitched the torn flesh yourself using boiled silk thread and a curved bone needle, and packed the angry wound with a fiery, stinging poultice of crushed yarrow and dried comfrey. But the winter offered no grace period for healing. The natural order of the deep woods was uncompromising: adapt, move, or become carrion for the scavengers.
You reached down, your fingers stiff and clumsy from the chill, and wrapped a thick strip of boiled wool tightly around the swollen, discolored joint, pulling it violently taut to restrict the inflammation. The fabric was rough, smelling faintly of old woodsmoke and crushed pine needles. Survival in the shadow of Aethelgard was never a graceful endeavor. It was a brutal, daily exercise in pure, unadulterated spite.
You were twenty-three years old. By the meticulously recorded tax laws and census rolls of King Aldric’s golden citadel, you were supposed to be a memory. A casualty of the margins.You pulled a heavy, coarse woolen tunic over your head, shivering as the freezing fabric settled against your bare skin. You limped heavily toward the scarred wooden table in the center of the room, pulling a heavy stone mortar and pestle toward you.The air in the cottage was permanently thick with the heavy, earthy, medicinal spice of drying herbs. Bundles of deadly nightshade, wolfsbane, foxglove, and sweet-briar hung upside down from the low rafters like strange, withered bats. The wooden shelves lining the walls were cluttered with glass vials, ceramic pots of rendering animal fats, and tightly corked tinctures of ghost-mushroom.
You were a healer. Under the laws of the Crown, it was a treasonous offense punishable by the gallows.
The King required all apothecaries to be licensed, heavily taxed, and confined within the towering obsidian walls of the citadel, ensuring that only the wealthy could afford the luxury of surviving a winter fever. But out here, in the freezing shadows of the kingdom's periphery, the abandoned peasantry did not care about the King’s wax seals or his mandates. Just two nights ago, a desperate, severely frostbitten tenant farmer had knocked frantically on your hidden door. He had traded half a sack of unbleached flour—likely stolen from his own lord's granary at the risk of losing his hands—for a single jar of your ghost-mushroom salve to save his youngest daughter's blackened, dying fingers.You were the ghost of the woods. You kept the forgotten people alive when the golden throne left them to rot.You poured a handful of dried willow bark into the stone mortar, the rhythmic crk-crk-crk of the heavy pestle grounding you in the present. You needed to prepare a fever-reducing tincture. The current cold snap would inevitably bring lung-rot to the lower wards soon, and the desperate would come knocking in the dead of night.But as you ground the rough bark into a fine, pale dust, the ghosts of Aethelgard crept into the corners of your vision. They always did when the cold was at its absolute worst, when the silence of the woods left too much room for memory.
You remembered the smell of the rich, dark soil on your father’s calloused hands. He had been a man who belonged entirely to the earth, a gentle farmer who knew the rhythm of the seasons better than he knew the King’s brutal laws. He had taught you how to read the moss on the trees, how to coax life from stubborn, rocky dirt. But King Aldric’s endless, ravenous territorial wars on the northern borders required endless meat for the grinder. The Crown did not care for farmers. It only cared for expansion.
When you were just a kid, they had come. Armored men with iron pikes, riding heavy destriers, bearing sealed parchment. They tore him from the wheat fields while your mother screamed from the porch. He was handed a rusted, heavy pike and marched into the slaughterhouse of the vanguard. He had died in a nameless, frozen trench, his blood turning to ice in the mud, all so the King could draw a new, arbitrary line on a map and claim a barren hill.But the Crown’s cruelty was comprehensive; it was a vast, systemic architecture designed to break the very foundation of a family. It did not stop at the taking of blood.You stopped grinding the willow bark, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the heavy stone pestle.The King's magistrates had arrived at your family's grieving farm a mere month after the death notice. You remembered them vividly. They were wrapped in heavy, oxblood velvet cloaks, smelling of expensive jasmine oils and bureaucratic sympathy. They spoke in winding, labyrinthine circles of “widow’s tithes,” “war-time debt,” and “estate restructuring.” Your mother, hollowed out by grief and unable to read the sprawling, arrogant calligraphy of the nobility, had trusted the King’s men. They had offered her a gentle, sorrowful smile, placed a feather quill in her trembling hand, and promised that the Crown would always look after its war widows.
With a single stroke of ink, she had unwittingly signed away the farm, the livestock, and the very roof over your heads to pay the fabricated back-taxes for the war that had just slaughtered her husband.
The realization of the deception had not broken her slowly; it had shattered her all at once. The Crown had taken her love, and then it had taken her sanctuary.
You were fifteen years old when you walked into the drafty, empty barn, your hands numb from the morning frost, to find her swaying gently from the heavy oak rafters. Her neck was broken, her eyes staring blankly at the dirt floor she no longer owned.
She had left you with nothing but the coarse clothes on your back, an orphaned title, and a crushing, suffocating hatred for the golden citadel that gleamed mockingly on the horizon.So, you had fled. You ran past the outer boundaries, plunging deep into the untamed, ancient woods where the King’s pampered guards were too superstitious and cowardly to patrol. You taught yourself the language of the forest. You learned that boiling willow bark stripped a fever, that foxglove could steady a failing heart, and that crushed ghost-mushroom could numb the horrific pain of a back-alley amputation. You forged yourself into a weapon of survival.You blinked away the dark memory, your jaw clenching so hard your teeth ached. You looked toward the corner of the room.The woodpile was terrifyingly low. There were perhaps three small, dry logs left. Enough for the afternoon, but nowhere near enough to survive the night.The mathematics of winter were entirely uncompromising. If you stayed inside to protect your torn ankle, the fire would die by dusk. Without the fire to ward off the sub-zero temperatures, the frost would creep into the cabin, freeze the water in your ceramic jugs, stop your heart, and you would simply never wake up.
You looked down at your foot, the thick woolen bandages already stained a faint, rusty brown from the exertion of merely standing at the table. You let out a slow, ragged exhale, your breath pluming in the freezing cabin. The orange tabby cat let out a soft meow, rubbing its warm head against your uninjured ankle.
"I know," you whispered to the cat, your voice hoarse from disuse. "Spite. It's all we have." You pushed yourself away from the table. You pulled on a second pair of thick woolen socks, gritting your teeth against the sickening throb in your joint. You strapped your heavy, fur-lined leather boots over your calves, lacing them brutally tight to act as a crude splint. You threw a heavy, boiled-wool cloak over your shoulders, the dark fabric sweeping the floorboards, and strapped your iron skinning knife to your thigh. It was a heavy, utilitarian blade, designed for dressing game, but it had tasted the blood of desperate poachers more than once.You grabbed your woven gathering basket, slinging the leather strap diagonally over your chest, and picked up a walking stick carved from a sturdy hickory branch.Stepping up to the heavy oak door, you unlatched the iron bolt. The moment you pulled it open, the winter screamed into the cabin.The wind was a physical, violent blow, tearing at your cowl and throwing a handful of icy powder across your floorboards. You pulled the thick wool up to obscure your face, leaned heavily on your walking stick, and stepped out into the blinding white maelstrom.The forest was a cathedral of ice.
The ancient, towering pines groaned under the immense weight of the snow, their dark branches interlocked like skeletal fingers blocking out the weak, iron-grey sky. Every step you took was an ordeal. The snow was knee-deep, acting as a freezing, heavy resistance against your shins. You could not walk normally; you had to drag your injured leg forward, carving a slow, painful trench through the powder.
The pain in your ankle was immediate and blinding. It radiated up your calf, settling deep in your hip like a hot iron spike. But you forced your mind to disconnect from the physical vessel. You locked your jaw, focusing your narrowed eyes on the frozen underbrush. You scanned the blinding landscape for fallen, dead branches that weren't completely saturated with moisture.You limped deeper into the uncharted territory, moving further from the safety of your camouflaged door than you usually dared during a storm. The wind howled through the hollowed trunks, a haunting, high-pitched shriek that sounded exactly like the wailing of the King’s forgotten victims.You gripped the leather strap of your basket, your knuckles white inside your thick mittens, driven purely by the sheer, unyielding refusal to let Aethelgard outlive you. You were out to gather wood. You were out to survive just one more day in defiance of a world that demanded your death.An hour passed. The basket on your back grew marginally heavier with damp, frozen kindling, but it wasn't enough to sustain a blaze through the night.You paused near a dense thicket of frosted brambles, leaning heavily against the rough bark of a frozen elm to catch your breath. Your lungs burned, the icy air scraping against your throat like crushed glass. You closed your eyes for a brief second, allowing yourself to feel the absolute, crushing exhaustion.
Crack.
The sound was sharp, incredibly heavy, and entirely unnatural. It wasn't the agonizing groan of a frozen tree branch succumbing to the weight of the snow. It sounded like something massive had just violently shifted in the brush.
Your eyes snapped open. You froze, your breathing halting instantly. In the deep woods, sound was currency, and you had just been alerted to a presence.
Your right hand instinctively dropped to your thigh. The thick, damp leather of your mitten wrapped around the familiar, comforting grip of your iron skinning knife. You drew it silently. The woods around you were deadly quiet, the falling snow absorbing all ambient noise, making the sudden silence feel heavy and suffocating.
You scanned the blinding white landscape, your eyes narrowing against the harsh glare of the frost. About fifty yards off the faint, winding deer trail you had been following, at the base of a massive, hollowed-out oak tree, there was a glaring anomaly in the snow. It was a crater.It looked as though something incredibly heavy had been dropped from a great height, violently displacing the powder. But what made your breath catch in your throat was the texture of the snow around it. It wasn't pristine, fluffy powder. It was melted. The edges of the crater were a glassy, icy slush, as though a sudden, explosive burst of immense, localized heat had scorched the earth before the winter air had rapidly frozen it again. The faint, sharp scent of ozone and burnt pine needles hung strangely in the freezing air.You tightened your grip on the hickory walking stick. Every survival instinct you possessed screamed at you to turn around. A violent displacement of snow in the deep woods usually meant a predator’s den, or worse, a territorial dispute between things that viewed humans as easy prey.But curiosity, paired with the desperate need to know if the perimeter of your gathering territory had been breached, urged you forward.
Ignoring the screaming protest of your injured foot, you crept forward, your boots crunching softly in the icy crust. You kept low, using the frozen, dark trunks of the pines for cover.As you crested the lip of the snowdrift and looked down into the melted crater, your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it ached.
It was a man.
He was curled onto his side, his knees drawn slightly toward his chest in a fetal position. But the most jarring, immediate realization that sent a spike of absolute bewilderment through your mind was his state of dress.
He was completely, utterly naked.There was no shredded clothing scattered in the snow. There was no discarded armor, no boots, no torn cloaks. It was as if his garments had been vaporized off his body by whatever catastrophic force had created the melted crater around him.
He’s dead, you thought instantly, a cold knot forming in your stomach. It was a simple, undeniable fact of the woods. No human being could survive in this sub-zero temperature without heavy furs for more than twenty minutes, let alone stripped bare against the frozen earth.You cautiously slid down the bank of the snowdrift, your iron knife still drawn and held at the ready, the blade gleaming a dull, lethal grey against the white landscape.As you drew closer, the details of him began to resolve, and they fiercely defied all logic. He was not an emaciated, starving peasant who had wandered into the woods in a fit of madness. He was muscled, his physique dense, broad, and powerful. He bore the kind of lethal, sculpted definition that came from a lifetime of combat and endless rations of meat, not the slow starvation of the lower wards.His hair was a shock of dark, matted gold, a color so rare and brilliant it contrasted violently with the pale, dirty snow beneath him. It fell over his face, obscuring his features. You didn't recognize him. You had lived in exile since you were fifteen; the faces of the high lords and the royal court were nothing but abstract concepts to you. To your eyes, he was simply a stranger—perhaps a wealthy knight or a northern mercenary who had crossed the wrong witch or fallen victim to a bandit trap.
But it was his skin that made you stop dead in your tracks.
It wasn't the mottled, translucent blue of a frozen corpse. It wasn't the waxy, pale white of death. His skin was flushed. It was a deep, vibrant pink, seemingly completely unaffected by the freezing air whipping around him.
You knelt beside him in the slush, the cold biting into your knees through your woolen skirts. You reached out with your left hand, peeling off your heavy leather mitten with your teeth and spitting it into the snow. Hesitantly, your hand trembling slightly, you reached out to press your bare fingertips against the side of his neck, searching for the faint, thready pulse of a dying man.You gasped, violently jerking your hand back.
He was burning.It wasn't just the warmth of a living body fighting off hypothermia; he was radiating heat like a stoked iron forge. The snow directly beneath his broad shoulders was actively melting, turning into a puddle of icy mud that steamed faintly in the winter air. His skin was fever-hot, almost painfully scorching to the touch.
As you stared at him, utterly bewildered, you noticed the movement. His chest rose. It was a deep, steady, and incredibly heavy breath. He wasn't just alive; he was breathing with the rhythmic, powerful, unbothered cadence of a sleeping animal.
You leaned in closer, the healer’s analytical instinct overriding your profound confusion and mounting fear.There were marks on him. Faint, jagged, pink lines crisscrossed his broad chest and the dense muscle of his forearms. They looked like massive lacerations, the kind of lethal, tearing wounds inflicted by the claws of a dire bear.
But they were... moving.
You stopped breathing entirely. The skin was actively knitting together right before your eyes. You watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a deep gouge near his collarbone literally sealed itself shut, the raw tissue weaving together like microscopic threads, leaving behind only a thin, shiny silver scar that immediately began to fade into his flushed skin.A chill that had absolutely nothing to do with the winter air walked slowly up your spine.What in the names of the old gods was this? It wasn't human. No man healed like that. No man generated enough body heat to melt a snowbank in the dead of a generational winter. Was he a demon? A creature of blood magic summoned from the rot of the deep woods? A cursed thing cast out by the citadel? You slowly stood up, backing away, your boots slipping in the slush. You should drive your heavy iron knife directly into his throat right now. Whatever he was, he was an anomaly, and anomalies in the deep woods were universally lethal. When he woke up, his first instinct might be to kill you. The smartest, safest thing to do was to turn around, walk back to your cottage, bar the door, and let the winter try to finish whatever catastrophic magic had left him in this state.You looked down at your woven gathering basket. If you didn't gather wood, your hearth would die. Your poultices would freeze. The tabby cat waiting for you by the ashes would freeze. You had your own survival to worry about.
You looked back down at the man. The wind shifted his golden hair, revealing his face.
Despite the dirt, the faint scars, and the feral, terrifying nature of his condition, he was breathtakingly handsome. He had a sharp, aristocratic jawline, high cheekbones, and full lips slightly parted as he breathed out a thick cloud of steam. He looked like an arrogant, beautiful fallen star that had crashed violently into the mud.
Let him die, the cynical, hardened survivor inside you whispered. He is a monster. He is not your burden.
But then, he shifted in his sleep. A soft, agonizing groan slipped past his chapped lips. It was a sound of such profound, vulnerable suffering that it cut straight through the icy, bitter armor you had spent years building around your heart. He sounded entirely broken. He didn't sound like a demon or a supernatural threat. He sounded exactly like the desperate, dying peasants you patched up in the dark.He sounded tragically human.You stared at him for a long, quiet moment, the wind howling around the crater, whipping your dark cloak around your ankles."Damn it all," you cursed aloud, your breath pluming in the freezing air.You jammed your iron hunting knife back into its leather sheath with a frustrated, definitive shing. You grabbed your woven gathering basket, full of the few precious, dry logs you had managed to find over the last hour, and unceremoniously dumped them out. The wood scattered, burying itself uselessly in the deep snowdrifts."You had better be worth the frostbite, golden boy," you grumbled through chattering teeth, stepping down into the melted crater.You grabbed his thick arms. His skin was searingly hot against the cold leather of your remaining glove. He was impossibly heavy—his muscles felt as dense as lead—but as you hauled him upward, hoisting his upper body against your chest, the supernatural heat radiating from him seeped through your heavy woolen tunic. It was a terrifying, comforting warmth that immediately stopped your shivering.You gritted your teeth, bracing your injured ankle against the snow, and began the agonizing, impossible task of dragging the burning stranger home.
The journey back to your cottage was not a rescue; it was a descent into a specific, agonizing hell.
The distance between the hollowed-out oak tree and your camouflaged door was perhaps less than a mile, but the deep woods warped time and space. The snow, heavy and wet, acted like freezing quicksand, violently resisting every inch of progress. You had your arms wrapped under his arms, locking your hands over his broad chest. You dragged him backward, step by excruciating step, your boots carving a deep, ugly trench through the pristine powder.
He was impossibly heavy. It felt as though you were trying to drag a statue cast from solid lead rather than a man of flesh and blood. Every time you shifted your weight, the torn ligaments in your left ankle screamed in protest, sending blinding, white-hot flares of pain shooting straight up into your hip.
"Keep moving," you rasped to yourself, the words tearing out of your throat in a cloud of white vapor. "Don't stop. Don't let them win."
The only thing keeping you from succumbing to the lethal drop in temperature was the stranger himself. The unnatural, furnace-like heat radiating from his bare skin bled right through your heavy woolen tunic. It was a terrifying, suffocating warmth, smelling faintly of ozone, sweat, and the sharp scent of pine needles. He was a living hearth fire in the dead of the frost, and you clung to him with the desperate pragmatism of a survivor. Your vision began to swim with black spots. The skeletal branches of the pines overhead spun lazily in your periphery. You tripped over a hidden, snow-drowned root, collapsing backward into a drift. The stranger’s massive, dead weight slumped over your legs, pinning you to the freezing earth.
You lay there for a long, quiet moment, staring up at the bruising, iron-grey sky. The exhaustion was absolute. It seeped into your marrow, whispering seductive promises of peace. If you simply closed your eyes, the pain in your ankle would stop. The bitter, endless struggle against the King's winter would finally be over.
But then, the stranger shifted against your legs. A deep, guttural sound rumbled in his chest—a vibration that felt less like a human groan and more like the low, warning growl of a territorial predator. The sheer alienness of the sound snapped you violently back to reality. The instinct to survive, forged in the ashes of your mother's suicide and the cruelty of the citadel, flared to life. Spite.
With a feral, ragged shout, you shoved his heavy torso off your legs. You scrambled to your knees, ignoring the sickening pop in your ankle, and grabbed him beneath the arms once more. You hauled him the rest of the way on nothing but pure, adrenaline-fueled stubbornness.
By the time the thatched, snow-covered roof of your cottage came into view, your lungs felt as though they were filled with crushed glass. You dragged him up the small incline, kicked the heavy oak door open with your good foot, and hauled him over the threshold. You pulled him onto the rough-hewn floorboards and immediately dropped his arms. You collapsed beside him, your back hitting the floor, your chest heaving violently as you gasped for the stagnant, freezing air of the cabin. For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the ragged, desperate rasp of your breathing, contrasting sharply with the slow, impossibly deep, rhythmic breaths of the naked stranger.
"Meow." You turned your head lazily against the floorboards. Your orange tabby cat was standing on the edge of the scarred wooden table. But the cat was not acting normally. Its back was arched into a rigid crescent, its fur standing perfectly on end, making it look twice its size. Its ears were pinned flat against its skull, and it was staring down at the unconscious man with wide, dilated eyes, emitting a low, continuous hiss. Animals in the deep woods possessed a sixth sense for danger that humans had long ago bred out of themselves. The cat did not see a vulnerable, naked man bleeding on the floor. The cat saw an apex predator. "It's alright, Barnaby," you wheezed, forcing yourself to sit up. "He's just... a very heavy idiot who forgot his coat." The cat did not break its stare, slowly backing away until it practically melted into the shadows of the highest shelf.
The biting cold of the room forced you to move. If you didn't stoke the fire immediately, your herculean effort would have been for nothing. You dragged yourself across the floorboards, your hands shaking violently from muscle fatigue as you grabbed your flint and steel. You struck the metal against the stone over and over, your movements clumsy, until a brilliant spark finally caught the dry moss in the center of the ash. You blew on it gently, coaxing the tiny, fragile orange glow until it greedily caught the splinters of kindling, illuminating the small room in dancing, warm light. You fed it the last three precious logs you possessed, watching the flames roar to life.
Only then did you turn your attention back to the anomaly lying on your floor.
In the warm light of the hearth, the sheer, imposing scale of him was even more apparent. He took up a massive amount of space in your small sanctuary. You crawled over to him, your injured leg dragging uselessly behind you. You grabbed the thick, patchwork quilt of rabbit furs from your cot and threw it over his lower half, offering him a scrap of dignity you doubted he deserved, while also shielding yourself from the glaring reality of his nakedness. Now that you were no longer fighting for your life in a blizzard, you could properly examine him. You knelt beside his shoulders. His golden hair was damp with melted snow and sweat, clinging to his forehead. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles jumping beneath his flushed skin.
You reached out, hovering your hand an inch above his chest. The heat radiating off him was staggering. It wasn't the clammy, shivering heat of a winter fever; it was a dry, baking intensity. You looked closer at the faint, silver lines crisscrossing his collarbone and ribs. They were entirely healed. Whatever had torn his flesh open out in the woods had been repaired by his own impossible biology in a matter of minutes.
You dipped a clean linen cloth into a ceramic bowl of water, wringing it out. Cautiously, you pressed the damp cloth against his forehead to wipe away the dirt and grime. The moment the cold water touched his burning skin, the stranger’s body violently reacted. His eyes did not flutter open; they snapped open, wide and alert, completely devoid of the usual groggy disorientation of a waking man.
You froze, the damp cloth suspended in your hand.
His eyes were a clear, luminous amber. But in the flickering light of the hearth, the pupils were blown wide, and for a terrifying, microscopic fraction of a second, you could have sworn they flashed with a brilliant, inhuman gold.
He didn't speak. He moved with a sudden, terrifying blur of speed that your human eyes could barely track. One second he was lying flat on his back; the next, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist with a grip like a vise of solid iron. He violently twisted your arm, using your own momentum to flip your positions.
You hit the floorboards hard on your back, the breath knocked completely out of your lungs. Before you could even process the impact, he was looming over you, straddling your hips, his heavy, burning weight pinning you to the floor. His free hand shot to your throat, his long, aristocratic fingers pressing firmly against your windpipe.
"Where am I?" he demanded. His voice was a low, melodic baritone, but it was laced with a chilling, absolute authority. It was not the voice of a panicked victim. It was the voice of a man who was entirely accustomed to holding the power of life and death in his hands. You stared up at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. His amber eyes were scanning your face, searching for recognition, searching for a threat. His chest heaved above yours, radiating that suffocating, furnace-like heat.
He is a lord, you realized instantly. The arrogant tilt of his chin, the flawless perfection of his features, the immediate assumption of violence to secure dominance—he reeked of the citadel. You had dragged a piece of the rot into your home. But you were not a trembling servant of Aethelgard. You were a survivor of the deep woods. And you were profoundly, aggressively out of patience.
You didn't thrash. You didn't claw at the hand on your throat. Instead, you let your expression go completely, terrifyingly blank. You met his intense, predatory stare with a look of absolute, icy spite. "You are currently bleeding your impossible body heat all over my clean floorboards," you rasped, your voice steady despite the pressure on your windpipe. "And if you don't take your hand off my throat in the next three seconds, I am going to take the skinning knife strapped to my thigh and bury it directly into your femoral artery. You might heal fast, golden boy, but you will still bleed out before you reach the door."
Jake froze.
The absolute lack of fear in your eyes threw him. In his twenty-one years of existence, no one—not the nobility, not the servants, not even the battle-hardened knights of his father's vanguard—had ever spoken to him with such utter, unimpressed contempt. He was the Crown Prince of Aethelgard. He was a god.
But as his amber eyes darted around the room, taking in the drying herbs, the rough-hewn walls, and the complete lack of royal insignias, the horrific reality of his situation crashed down upon him. He remembered the Witch. He remembered the blinding, agonizing pain in his chest. He remembered the feeling of his bones stretching, his fingernails elongating into claws. He looked down at the hand wrapped around your throat. He expected to see a monster's appendage. Instead, he saw his own hand—human, flawless, albeit dirt-stained. The curse had not made the transformation permanent; it was tied to the blood moon. He was still human. For now.But he was completely naked, miles from the safety of his citadel, trapped in a peasant's hovel, and entirely stripped of his royal authority. If he told this wild, angry girl that he was Prince Jake, she would likely slit his throat while he slept and sell his golden hair to a merchant for a year's supply of flour. He was the son of the King who had starved the outer wards. He was enemy number one.
He had to play the game. He had to be the shepherd. Jake immediately released your throat. He rolled off you, pulling the patchwork rabbit furs tightly around his waist to preserve his modesty, and scrambled backward until his spine hit the wooden leg of the table.He let out a ragged, perfectly crafted gasp of manufactured panic, bringing a trembling hand to his forehead. He allowed his broad shoulders to slump, transforming his posture from that of a lethal predator to a confused, deeply traumatized victim."I... I apologize," Jake stammered, his voice softening, taking on that sweet, puppy-like vulnerability he used to manipulate the court ladies. He looked at you through his thick lashes, his amber eyes pooling with feigned terror. "I don't... I don't know what came over me. The last thing I remember... there were wolves. A pack of them. They attacked my horse. I thought you were one of them." You sat up slowly, rubbing the faint red marks on your throat. You didn't buy a single word of his performance.You had lived with desperate people for years. You knew what true panic looked like. True panic was messy. True panic didn't execute a flawless, trained martial arts takedown in the blink of an eye.
"Wolves," you repeated flatly, your voice dripping with cynical disbelief.
"Yes," Jake nodded earnestly, pulling the furs tighter around himself, shivering slightly—a brilliant piece of acting considering his body temperature was easily a hundred and four degrees. "They tore me from the saddle. I ran, but they caught me. They tore my clothes... they..." He looked down at his bare, unblemished chest, feigning confusion. "I was bleeding. I swear I was bleeding."
"You were," you said coldly, pushing yourself up until you were leaning against the edge of your cot. You crossed your arms over your chest. "I saw the lacerations. I also saw them stitch themselves back together like magic. Normal men don't heal like that. Normal men don't melt snowbanks with their bare skin. So, let's drop the theatrical act. What are you? A blood-mage? A demon summoned by some idiot cult in the lower wards?" Jake’s heart hammered against his ribs. She was sharp. Much sharper than the dim-witted nobility he was used to lying to. She had seen him healing. If she connected the rapid regeneration to the folklore of the deep woods, she would realize he was cursed."I am neither," Jake said, his voice careful and slow, like a man picking his way across thin ice. He leaned his head back against the table leg, closing his eyes as if fighting off a wave of dizziness. "My name is Jake. I was riding north when the storm hit. My horse threw me. I hit the ground hard and I don't remember much after that." It was a thin lie. Barely a scaffold. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. "You hit the ground," you repeated. "Yes."
"And the heat?" A pause. "I run hot. It's a condition. Northern bloodlines sometimes—"
"And the healing?" His jaw tightened fractionally. "I don't know what you think you saw."
"I know exactly what I saw," you said, your voice quiet and entirely without drama. "I watched a wound seal itself shut in under a minute. I have been a healer for eight years. I know what a healing wound looks like, and I know what that was not." You held his gaze steadily. "I'm not asking you to explain it right now. I'm telling you that I am not going to pretend I didn't see it, and I would strongly recommend that you stop treating me like I'm stupid." The silence that followed was long and weighted. Jake looked at you. The performance flickered behind his amber eyes — he was calculating, measuring, deciding how much truth was safe to spend. "I won't lie to you again," he said finally. It cost him something to say it. You could see that clearly. "Good," you replied. You pushed yourself up from the floor, grabbed the heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and pulled out the dead farmer's clothes. You tossed them at his face. "Put those on. And don't lie to me again.” Jake caught them effortlessly, his reflexes impossibly fast, though he quickly masked it by fumbling with the fabric.
You turned your back to him to afford him a shred of privacy, limping back toward the hearth to check a pot of melting snow. "They belonged to a man who was actually worth the air he breathed, so try not to ruin them. And if you try to jump me again while my back is turned, I will throw my boiling tea directly into your face. Understood?" Behind you, Jake stared at your back. His jaw clenched tight, a flash of genuine, arrogant fury burning in his amber eyes. How dare she speak to the future King of Aethelgard like this? He wanted to step forward, wrap his hand around her throat again, and remind her of her place in the dirt.
But he took a slow, deep breath, forcing the beast down. He was a master of the game. He would play the role of the humble, grateful mercenary until he found a way to break the Witch's curse. And to do that, he needed shelter. He needed this bitter, sharp-tongued healer.
"I understand," Jake said softly, his voice returning to that sweet, melodic timbre. He stood up, his massive, sculpted frame making the small cabin feel claustrophobic, and pulled the coarse woolen trousers on. They were tight across his thick thighs, and the linen shirt strained tightly against his broad shoulders, but they offered a layer of normalcy.He walked slowly toward the fire, stopping a respectful distance away from you."Thank you," Jake murmured, looking down at his bare feet, the picture of humbled grace. "For saving me. I know I am an uninvited burden. May I ask the name of my savior?"You turned around, a ceramic mug of hot willow-bark tea in your hands. You looked him up and down. Even dressed in the scratchy, oversized clothes of a dead farmer, he looked entirely out of place. He possessed a terrifying, magnetic beauty that made the very air around him feel charged.
"You can call me your only chance of surviving the week," you said flatly, taking a slow sip of the bitter tea. "And you are a burden. You're going to chop my firewood to pay off your debt, mercenary. Assuming your delicate hands can handle an axe."
Jake offered a soft, self-deprecating smile, though internally, the golden prince was seething at the prospect of manual labor. "I am stronger than I look. I will earn my keep."He looked toward the small window, where the bruised grey sky was rapidly darkening into a pitch-black, starless night. The curse was dormant, for now. The moon tonight was only a sliver. But as he stood in the warmth of the outcast's sanctuary, smelling the drying herbs and the faint, coppery scent of the blood on her bandages, the beast beneath his skin shifted.
It was awake. It was watching her. And it was waiting for the moon to grow.
The dead man’s clothes were an agonizing, tactile nightmare. Prince Jake of Aethelgard sat on the rough, splintering floorboards near the hearth, his long legs drawn up defensively, the patchwork rabbit furs pooled around his waist. The coarse, unbleached wool of the borrowed trousers scratched relentlessly against his hyper-sensitized skin, and the oversized linen shirt smelled faintly of stale sweat, damp earth, and the undeniable rot of poverty. It was the scent of the lower wards. It was the scent of the people he had spent his entire life stepping over.
Every instinct bred into him screamed to tear the filthy garments off, to demand his silks, to summon his guards and have this miserable, insolent girl whipped for daring to speak to him as an equal. But he was a prisoner of geography and circumstance.
Jake watched you through the veil of his golden bangs. You were seated on the edge of the narrow cot across the small cabin, your face pale and tight with exhaustion, unlacing your heavy leather boots to inspect your injured ankle. The room was claustrophobic, heavy with the suffocating, medicinal stench of drying wolfsbane and crushed willow. In the shadows above, that wretched orange feline watched him with wide, unblinking, predatory eyes. He needed to plot his extraction. To do that, he needed data.
Where exactly am I? Jake thought, his jaw clenching as a fresh wave of unnatural, searing heat radiated from his core. The Witch’s curse was a humming, vibrant current beneath his skin, keeping his body temperature at a terrifying, feverish high. I rode north-west from the citadel for 2 hours. If Ruin fled straight back along the trail, the vanguard will track his hoofprints to the clearing. But the snow is heavy. The tracks will fill by dawn. He needed a map. He needed to know the nearest landmark, the nearest outpost. Once he had his bearings, he could wait for this peasant girl to sleep, steal whatever meager rations she had hoarded, take her heavy winter cloak, and leave her to freeze while he made his way back to the iron gates of Aethelgard.
"You're staring, mercenary," you rasped, not looking up from your ankle. The boiled wool bandages were stained a fresh, dark crimson. Jake’s amber eyes snapped into focus. The arrogant prince flared to the surface, completely unbidden. He let out a soft, derisive scoff. "I was merely marveling at the squalor," Jake said, the venom dripping from his melodic voice before he could stop it. "Do you intentionally cultivate this level of filth, or is it simply a natural byproduct of living like a feral animal in the dirt?" You stopped unlacing your boot. The silence in the cabin stretched, heavy and dangerous, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire. You slowly lifted your head. Your eyes were dark, flat, and entirely devoid of intimidation.
"The squalor," you repeated, your voice a dangerous, quiet whisper. "Right."
You pushed yourself up from the cot, entirely ignoring the agonizing pop of your swollen joint. You reached the scarred wooden table in two limping strides, grabbed a heavy, wooden bucket filled with melting snow, and turned back toward him.
"Catch," you deadpanned.
You didn't toss it. You hurled the bucket directly at his chest.
Jake’s newly enhanced reflexes flared. He caught the heavy wooden bucket effortlessly mid-air before it could shatter against his ribs, but the momentum sloshed a gallon of freezing, half-melted snow and icy water directly over his head and down the front of his borrowed shirt. The shock of the freezing water hitting his scorching skin produced an audible hiss of steam.Jake gasped, his golden hair plastered to his forehead, icy water dripping from his nose and chin. The sheer audacity of the act left him temporarily speechless. His amber eyes wide, he stared at you as the beast beneath his skin roared, demanding violence. His elongated canines ground together behind his closed lips. "You insolent little—" Jake began, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden bucket hard enough to make the wood splinter and crack under his thumbs. "Finish that sentence," you interrupted, pulling the heavy iron skinning knife from the sheath at your thigh and slamming the point of the blade directly into the wooden table. It embedded with a solid thwack, vibrating in the wood. "Go on. Finish it. And then I will drag you back out into the blizzard by your golden hair and let the wolves finish what they started."
Jake stared at the quivering iron blade. He looked at your face. There was no hesitation in your posture. You were a creature forged by the harshness of the outer woods; you had nothing left to lose, which made you incredibly dangerous.
The Prince's internal calculus shifted rapidly.She has the shelter. She has the food. She knows the woods.
If he killed her now, he would have no guide. If he killed her, he would be alone in a cursed forest with a monster waking up in his blood. His father’s lessons echoed in his mind, clear and sharp as ringing steel: Never let them see the wolf. Play the shepherd until the trap snaps shut. Jake closed his eyes. He forced his breathing to slow, burying the arrogant, furious royal deep beneath the surface. He felt the tension drain from his shoulders, a deliberate, masterful physical manipulation. When he opened his eyes again, the cold, predatory gleam was gone. Instead, they pooled with a soft, manufactured shame. He lowered his head, letting his wet, golden hair fall across his face in a picture of utter vulnerability. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the sound of a man completely broken by his circumstances.
"You are right," Jake whispered, his voice cracking perfectly on the last syllable.
You narrowed your eyes, your hand still resting near the hilt of the embedded knife. "Excuse me?" Jake slowly set the cracked wooden bucket on the floorboards. He looked up at you through his wet lashes, his amber eyes wide and painfully sincere. The transition was so flawless, so terrifyingly abrupt, that it gave you mental whiplash. "I am... I am so sorry," Jake murmured, bringing a trembling hand to his forehead, leaning his weight back against the wall as if he could barely hold himself up. "That was inexcusable. My pride is bruised, my body feels as though it is burning from the inside out, and I am terrified." He paused, letting a strategic, self-deprecating smile touch his lips. "I am a soldier used to being strong. Now, I am sitting in a puddle of water, wearing a dead man's clothes, entirely reliant on the mercy of a stranger. I lashed out. I took my fear out on the only person who showed me kindness. Please... forgive me." You stared at him, analyzing the subtle shift in his posture, the soft curve of his brow, the absolute sincerity radiating from his melodic voice. It was a flawless performance. It was the exact performance that had secured trade routes and unquestioning loyalty back in the citadel.
But you had survived this long because you trusted actions, not apologies.
"Save the pretty speeches, mercenary," you said, though the aggressive edge had noticeably dulled from your voice. You pulled the knife from the table and slid it back into its sheath. "Fear doesn't give you the right to be a tyrant in my house. My roof, my rules."
"Your rules," Jake agreed softly, nodding his head in subservience, while internally, he promised himself he would burn this wretched cabin to the ground the moment he no longer needed it. "What would you have me do?"
"You're going to dry off," you commanded, limping back to your cot and sitting heavily. "And then, since you clearly have enough energy to complain about my housekeeping, you are going to chop the rest of the wood in the corner so we don't freeze to death by midnight. Can your noble, northern hands handle an axe?"
"I will manage," Jake said smoothly, offering a weak, grateful smile. "Thank you. Truly."
The tension in the cabin shifted from overtly hostile to a quiet, thick wariness.
While you tended to your ankle, spreading a fresh layer of the stinging comfrey poultice over the torn flesh, Jake stripped off the wet linen shirt. He did it slowly, acutely aware of your eyes darting toward him.
As he knelt by the hearth to dry the fabric, he felt the first true, terrifying tremor of the Witch’s magic. It started as a dull ache at the base of his spine, a deep, heavy pressure in the marrow of his bones. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw locking tight to silence the groan in his throat. His senses, already heightened from his elite military training, began to unnaturally expand.With his eyes closed, the small cabin suddenly exploded into a cacophony of overwhelming sensory input. He could hear the wind outside, not just as a howling mass, but breaking down into individual currents rushing through the pine needles. He could hear the faint, rapid thump-thump-thump of the cat's heartbeat in the rafters. And worse, he could hear your heartbeat across the room—a steady, rhythmic drum that pushed rich, hot blood through your veins.
The scent of the room changed. The overwhelming smell of the medicinal herbs faded into the background, replaced by a hyper-specific, terrifyingly detailed olfactory map. He could smell the sharp, metallic tang of the fresh blood on your ankle. He could smell the salt of your sweat. He could smell the faint, bitter adrenaline pumping through your system. It smelled... appetizing.
Jake’s eyes snapped open in absolute horror. His stomach cramped, a violent, ravenous hunger clawing at his insides. It wasn't the hunger for roasted boar or spiced pigeon from his father's banquets. It was a raw, primal demand for fresh, tearing meat.
No, he panicked internally, his fingers digging into his own kneecaps. I am Prince Jake of Aethelgard. I am a man. I am a soon to be King.
He forced the rising beast down, locking it in the darkest, deepest cage of his mind. He shoved the horrific hunger aside, wrapping himself in the iron-clad discipline that Gareth had beaten into him in the training yards. He would not lose his mind. He would not become a monster in front of a peasant. He draped the wet linen shirt over a chair near the fire and stood up, his bare chest gleaming in the hearth light. He spotted the small iron hand-axe resting near the meager pile of unchopped wood.
"Allow me to earn my keep," Jake said softly, keeping his voice perfectly even, betraying none of the internal psychological warfare tearing his mind apart.
He picked up the axe. To his dense, newly strengthened Lycan muscles, the iron tool felt as light as a feather. He set a log on the chopping block and brought the axe down.
Crack.
The wood split perfectly in two with a sound like a gunshot. He moved with a terrifying, fluid efficiency, fueled by the desperate need to channel the beast's energy into something mundane. The repetitive motion grounded him. Strike. Split. Stack. Strike. Split. Stack.
From the cot, you watched him work.You had expected the golden boy to struggle, to complain about blisters or the heavy iron. Instead, he moved with the lethal, mechanical precision of an executioner. The muscles in his broad back flexed and shifted beneath his flushed skin, the faint, silver scars rippling with every swing. He chopped a week's worth of kindling in less than ten minutes, barely breaking a sweat, his breathing entirely untaxed. He is dangerous, you thought, pulling the heavy rabbit furs up to your chin. He is a liar, he is arrogant, and he is infinitely more powerful than he is letting on.But as you watched the flames of the hearth leap higher, feeding on the wood he had just split, the freezing chill finally retreated from the edges of the room. The cabin grew warm. Safe.Jake set the axe down, wiping a stray lock of golden hair from his forehead. He looked over at you, his amber eyes soft, playing the role of the diligent, grateful survivor to perfection.
"Is this sufficient?" he asked softly, gesturing to the neatly stacked pile of wood.
"It will do," you murmured, your eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. The adrenaline of the rescue was finally crashing, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness. "You can sleep by the hearth. It’s the warmest spot in the room."
"Thank you," Jake replied, lowering himself gracefully onto the floorboards, pulling the heavy woolen cloak around his shoulders.
He watched you settle into the cot, your breathing eventually slowing as exhaustion pulled you under. The moment you were asleep, the sweet, puppy-dog mask vanished entirely. Jake’s features hardened into a mask of cold, predatory calculation. He stared at the flames, feeling the unnatural heat of his own blood, listening to the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of the human across the room.
He was trapped in the periphery. He was cursed by a Witch, housing a monster beneath his skin. But he was still the Prince of Aethelgard. He would play the sweet, grateful shepherd for as long as it took to extract the geographical information he needed.And then, he would leave her to the wolves.
The passage of time in the deep woods was not measured by the tolling of the citadel’s silver bells, but by the agonizing, repetitive rhythm of survival.
For three days, Prince Jake of Aethelgard lived a life of absolute, degrading squalor.
The mornings began in the freezing darkness, long before the anemic winter sun breached the canopy. Jake would wake on the hard, rough-hewn floorboards, his body tangled in the heavy woolen cloak, his spine aching from the lack of a feather mattress. The indignity of it burned like acid in his throat. He was a god among men, destined to wear a crown of black iron, and yet here he was, sleeping like a feral dog at the foot of a peasant’s cot.
Every time you spoke to him, it took a monumental, agonizing exertion of willpower for Jake not to cross the room and snap your neck.
"The fire is dying, mercenary," you would rasp, your voice thick with sleep and the bitter exhaustion of your healing injuries. "Fetch more wood. And check the snares on the eastern ridge while you're out there. If you want to eat, you work."
He would lower his head, letting his golden hair shield the lethal, predatory fury in his amber eyes. "Of course," he would murmur, his voice a perfect, melodic simulation of humble gratitude. "Right away."
But the moment he stepped out of the heavy oak door and the biting winter wind hit his face, the shepherd’s mask dissolved.
Jake stood in the snow behind the cottage, the iron hand-axe gripped in his hand. He placed a thick, frozen log of pine onto the chopping block. He didn't just swing the axe; he brought it down with the full, devastating force of his unnatural, shifting biology.
Crack.
The wood practically exploded, splitting into uneven shards that flew into the snowbanks. Jake breathed heavily, his chest heaving beneath the oversized linen shirt. He imagined the log was his father's throne. He imagined it was the Witch's skull.
Most often, he imagined it was you.
He despised you with a cold, pristine clarity. He hated your sharp, unimpressed tone. He hated the way you looked at him without an ounce of reverence or fear. You treated him like a stray cur you had reluctantly brought in from the storm, ordering him to haul buckets of melting snow, to mend the leaking thatch of the roof, and to scrub the blood-stained floorboards after you changed your bandages.
I will burn this wretched hovel to the ashes, Jake thought, bringing the axe down again, cleaving another log in two. When the vanguard finds me, I will have the guards drag her by her hair to the citadel. I will let her freeze in the black cells, and I will personally watch the life leave those defiant eyes.
The fantasy of your execution was the only thing keeping his temper in check.
But as he swung the axe, the horrifying reality of the Witch’s curse made itself known. The physical exertion should have left him panting, his muscles burning with lactic acid, the skin of his palms blistering from the rough wooden handle of the axe. But Jake felt nothing but an endless, terrifying well of explosive energy.
He looked down at his hands. The callouses he was beginning to form were already shedding, the skin regenerating rapidly to remain smooth and flawless. But worse, as his anger spiked, he watched in paralyzed horror as the tips of his fingers began to darken. His fingernails were thickening, growing rigid and pointed, shifting into jagged, bone-white claws.
A low, guttural snarl vibrated in his chest—a sound he couldn't stop.
Panic seized him. He dropped the axe into the snow and buried his hands in his armpits, squeezing his fists tightly until the dark magic receded and the claws painfully retracted back into his nail beds. His gums throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, his canines feeling suddenly too sharp, too long for his mouth.
The beast was not dormant. It was awake, pacing just beneath the surface of his skin, feeding on his fury.
He had to control it. He had to play the docile mercenary. If you saw his eyes flash gold, or caught sight of his claws, you would know exactly what he was. You would slip foxglove into his stew or drive that iron skinning knife through his heart while he slept.
Jake took a slow, jagged breath, composing his features back into the sweet, vulnerable boy. He gathered the chopped wood into his arms, carrying an impossible load that would have broken a normal man's back, and carried it inside.
If the days were an exercise in suffocating humility, the nights were a psychological warzone.
It was midnight. The cabin was sealed tight against a raging blizzard, the wind howling a mournful dirge outside the thick walls. You were asleep on the narrow cot, your breathing slow and even, completely oblivious to the apex predator lying just ten feet away.
Jake lay on his side near the roaring hearth, completely still. He couldn't sleep. The curse kept his blood running at a feverish, blistering temperature, and his newly heightened senses made the small cabin feel like an echo chamber. He could hear the blood rushing through your veins. He could smell the clean, sharp scent of your skin beneath the medicinal herbs.
"Meow."
Jake’s amber eyes slid open, glowing faintly in the firelight.
Across the room, perched high on the back of a heavy wooden chair, was the orange tabby cat. The beast—Barnaby, you had called him—was resting on the furniture in a domestic posture, but his eyes were wide, unblinking, and locked directly onto Jake.
The cat knew. It had known since the moment Jake was dragged across the threshold.
Jake slowly sat up, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared at the tabby. The silence stretched between them, heavy and hostile.
For a moment, Jake let the iron grip on his control slip. He allowed the Lycan to rise to the surface. His amber eyes flared a brilliant, luminescent gold in the shadows. He bared his teeth, revealing canines that had elongated slightly, and let out a sound so low it was entirely sub-audible—a frequency of pure, territorial dominance that vibrated through the floorboards.
The orange tabby cat did not run. It did not hiss. Instead, Barnaby simply opened his mouth, yawning widely, showing his own tiny, needle-like teeth, before resting his chin back on his paws, entirely unbothered but eternally vigilant.
Jake’s jaw clenched. Even the vermin in this house mock me.
He turned his gaze away from the cat and looked at you. The heavy furs had slipped down to your waist, revealing the thick woolen bandages wrapped securely around your left ankle.
Jake tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It would be so incredibly easy. He could cross the room before you even drew a breath. He could silence your sharp tongue forever. His fingers twitched, the phantom sensation of claws pressing against his skin.
No,he ordered himself, forcing the golden light to fade from his eyes. She is the map. She is the survival tool. Use the tool, then discard it.
The true revelation came on the fourth evening.
The blizzard had finally broken, leaving the deep woods suffocating under three feet of fresh, undisturbed powder. Jake was sitting at the scarred wooden table, meticulously sharpening your iron skinning knife with a whetstone. It was a chore you had assigned him, and he performed it with deadly, mechanical precision, the rhythmic shhhh-clack of the metal soothing his frayed nerves.
You were standing by the hearth, a heavy iron pot suspended over the flames. You were preparing a meager stew from the supplies you had managed to scrounge from the root cellar.
It was day eleven when Jake made you laugh for the first time. It was entirely accidental, which was probably why it worked. You had sent him to check the root cellar inventory while you changed your ankle dressing, a task you had assigned him primarily to have him on the other side of the room while you dealt with the worst of the pain without an audience. You heard him moving around below the hatch, the scrape of ceramic crocks being shifted and examined. "There are seven turnips," Jake called up, his voice carrying the particular tone of a man trying very hard to sound neutral about something that was bothering him considerably. "I know," you called back, pressing the yarrow poultice against the raw skin and locking your jaw against the sting. "And a quantity of dried fish that I would describe as—" a pause — "aggressively optimistic."
"Also aware." Another pause. "There are no onions."
"Correct."
"You threw the last of them in the fire four days ago."
"I did."
"We are facing genuine caloric scarcity," Jake said, his voice taking on the measured gravity of a man who had spent his life in war councils, "and your primary nutritional strategy has been to eliminate entire food groups based on personal preference." You finished tying off the bandage. You sat back, pressing your lips together. "The onions were making the broth bitter," you said. "The onions were making the broth food," Jake replied, emerging from the root cellar hatch with an expression of such profound, aristocratic bewilderment that it sat entirely wrong on his face — a face built for cold authority and devastating beauty, now arranged in the genuine, helpless confusion of a man confronting a turnip shortage caused entirely by his host's culinary opinions. The laugh came out of you before you could stop it. It wasn't a polite sound. It was a short, sharp, completely undignified burst of genuine amusement that surprised you both equally. Jake stared at you. You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth, composing yourself rapidly. "We'll manage," you said, your voice still slightly unsteady. He continued staring for a moment longer, something shifting behind his amber eyes — a brief, unguarded softness that he tucked away almost immediately. "I will find onions," Jake announced, with the grave, solemn conviction of a man declaring war. "You absolutely will not," you told him.
"I saw wild onion grass on the eastern slope last week. Frozen, but viable if—"
"You are not trekking a mile through knee-deep powder to dig up frozen onion grass."
"You threw away our last food source because you found it aesthetically disagreeable," Jake said, with immense dignity. "I feel that the onion grass expedition is the least I can do."
"Sit down," you said. But you were still almost smiling, and he could see it, and the insufferable almost-smile on his own face told you that he could. He sat down. The warmth of it — small, accidental, entirely unplanned — settled in the cabin like a third presence. Neither of you named it. Neither of you looked directly at it. But it was there, quiet and unhurried and considerably more dangerous than either of you had the vocabulary to address. Outside, the moon was growing. "You're cutting the vegetables terribly small," Jake noted softly, maintaining his sweet, conversational tone. "Are we rationing?"
"I am picking out the wild red onions," you replied flatly, using a wooden spoon to fish out several dark, crescent-shaped slices of the root from the boiling broth, flicking them unceremoniously into the fire where they hissed and popped.
Jake raised a golden eyebrow, genuinely bewildered. "You are starving in the deep woods, and you are discarding perfectly good food?"
"I despise red onions," you said, your tone brokering absolutely no argument, stirring the pot with a stubborn finality. "They ruin the broth. If we are going to freeze to death by the end of the week, I refuse to do it with the taste of sulfur in my mouth. You will eat what I serve, mercenary, or you can go hunt a rabbit in the snow yourself." Jake swallowed the venomous retort that immediately sprang to his tongue. He offered a soft, amused smile. "Your hospitality is unmatched. I eagerly await the onion-less stew." Before you could respond, three sharp, frantic knocks echoed against the heavy oak door. The domestic tension shattered instantly. You dropped the wooden spoon, your hand flying to the dagger you kept at your hip. Jake’s muscles locked, the whetstone stopping mid-scrape. In the deep woods, a knock after nightfall was rarely a friendly neighbor. It was usually the King’s vanguard, or bandits. You gestured for Jake to stay silent, pressing a finger to your lips. You limped toward the door, peering through a small, carved knot in the heavy wood. The tension left your shoulders. You unlatched the heavy iron bolt and pulled the door open, letting a rush of freezing air into the cabin. Standing on the threshold was a young woman, shivering violently beneath a threadbare shawl. Her lips were tinged blue, and her eyes were wide with terror. "Y/N," the woman gasped, her voice trembling. "Please. The fever... it’s taken my husband’s lungs. He’s coughing blood. The citadel apothecaries turned us away because we couldn't pay the silver tax."
Jake sat perfectly still at the table, his amber eyes tracking the interaction. He pulled the hood of his cloak up slightly, obscuring his golden hair in the shadows.
"Come inside, quickly," you said, pulling the woman out of the wind and shutting the door. You didn't waste time with pleasantries. You limped directly to the wooden shelves lining the far wall, your hands moving with practiced efficiency. You grabbed a dark glass vial sealed with wax and a bundle of dried, grey leaves.
"Boil the sweet-briar leaves in water and make him inhale the steam," you instructed, your voice low and urgent, devoid of the bitter sarcasm you reserved for Jake. "When his chest loosens, give him three drops of this tincture under his tongue. No more than three, or it will stop his heart. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the woman sobbed, clutching the medicine to her chest like a holy relic. She reached into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out a small, tarnished copper coin and a handful of dried barley. "It’s... it’s all we have. I’m sorry."
You looked at the pathetic payment. You pushed her hand back gently. "Keep the barley for the broth. Give me the copper. Now go, before the snow covers your tracks."
The woman kissed your hand—a gesture of profound reverence that made Jake’s stomach twist—and slipped back out into the freezing night. You bolted the door behind her, leaning your forehead against the wood for a tired moment before limping back to the cooking pot.
Jake watched you in the dim light of the fire.
The pieces clicked together in his brilliant, calculating mind. The glass vials. The drying herbs. The midnight transactions.
You weren't just a bitter outcast surviving in the woods. You were an unlicensed apothecary.
According to the High Decrees of King Aldric—laws that Jake had memorized and enforced—the distribution of unregulated medicine was considered theft from the Crown's royal apothecaries. It was a high crime. It was treason. The penalty was death by hanging in the lower bailey.
A slow, chilling smile spread across Jake’s face in the shadows.
He didn't just have a reason to hate you anymore. He had a legal mandate to destroy you. You were a criminal, harboring the King's stolen resources, operating a treasonous enterprise right under his nose. The moment he returned to Aethelgard, he wouldn't even have to invent a charge to have you executed. He could simply send the vanguard to arrest you for treason. He could watch you hang from his private balcony and know that justice had been served.
Suddenly, the humiliation of chopping wood and scrubbing floors didn't sting quite as much. It was merely the price of gathering intelligence.
"You play a dangerous game, healer," Jake noted softly, his voice cutting through the silence of the cabin.
You stiffened, turning around to face him. "If you breathe a word of what you just saw to the King's guards, I will gut you before they can draw their swords."
"My lips are sealed," Jake promised, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. He offered you his sweetest, most angelic smile. "I am merely a mercenary. The laws of Aethelgard mean nothing to me. But you have a kind heart, risking your life for the peasantry. It is... admirable."
He delivered the lie with such flawless, breathtaking sincerity that it almost sounded like a prayer.
"They have nothing," you said bitterly, turning back to the fire. "The Crown bleeds them dry and leaves them to rot in the winter. Someone has to keep them breathing."
Not for long, Jake thought, his amber eyes dropping to the freshly sharpened iron blade on the table. Not for long.
The forced domesticity ground on, wearing Jake's control dangerously thin.
By the 14th day, the unnatural heat radiating from his core had escalated from a constant fever to a searing inferno. He felt as though his veins were filled with liquid fire. He began sleeping on the floorboards as far away from the hearth as possible, kicking off the rabbit furs and lying in the freezing drafts near the door, desperately trying to cool the Lycan blood boiling beneath his skin.
His senses were completely out of control.
When you accidentally nicked your finger with the paring knife while peeling a shriveled tuber, the scent of the single drop of blood hit Jake like a physical blow.
He was standing across the room, patching a hole in the wattle wall. The moment the copper scent breached the air, his vision swam with red. His muscles locked. A terrifying, overwhelming surge of predatory hunger slammed into his chest, so violent that he staggered forward, his hand bracing against the wooden beam to keep from falling.
Prey, the beast whispered in his mind. Fresh, prey.
"Damn it," you hissed softly, putting your bleeding finger in your mouth to staunch the flow.
Jake turned his head toward you. He couldn't help it. His amber eyes had completely vanished, replaced entirely by glowing, luminous gold. His jaw slacked, a low, wet growl vibrating deep in his throat. He took a single, heavy step toward you, his fingernails lengthening instantly, tearing right through the sleeves of the borrowed linen shirt as he reached out.
He wanted to taste it. He needed to taste it.
You turned around, reaching for a clean rag. Your eyes met his across the dim room.
You froze.
You saw the golden light in his eyes. You saw the terrifying, inhuman posture—shoulders hunched, muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring, radiating absolute violence. You saw the dark claws emerging from his fingertips. "Jake?" you breathed, the rag slipping from your fingers. The sound of his name, spoken in your raspy, human voice, acted like a bucket of freezing water over his head. Jake gasped, violently wrenching control back from the monster. He slammed his eyes shut, turning his face to the wall. He drove his rapidly shifting hands deep into his armpits, digging his claws into his own ribs to hide them, fighting down the horrific transformation with everything he had. "I'm fine," Jake choked out. His voice was a mangled, terrifying rasp. He cleared his throat violently, forcing the melodic baritone back into place. "I just... I stood up too fast." When he opened his eyes and turned back around, the golden light was gone. His eyes were amber, wide, and appropriately apologetic. He kept his hands hidden beneath his arms. You stared at him for a long moment. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. Your instincts were screaming at you — a primal alarm bell ringing somewhere deep and animal. Something is wrong with him. Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong with him. But he was hunched over, sweating, wearing a dead man's oversized shirt. He looked wrecked. He looked human. You let out a slow breath. Your hand dropped away from your dagger. "Sit down," you said quietly. Not an order this time. Something closer to a concession. "Before you fall down."
"Yes," Jake whispered, sinking back to the floorboards. He rested his head against the wall, his chest heaving. His hands, hidden in his armpits, were still trembling. That was too close. Far too close. He looked over at you, watching you stir the pot over the fire. You hadn't named what you had seen. You hadn't reached for the knife. But you weren't fooled either — he could see it in the careful, measured way you were now moving around the cabin. You were filing it away. You were watching him differently.That was its own kind of danger. He pressed his jaw shut and stared at the floorboards. The moon was waxing. He could feel it in his blood like a tide turning, slow and inevitable and entirely indifferent to his plans.
Sixteen days in the deep woods did not merely pass; they ground down the soul like a heavy millstone crushing dried wheat.
For Prince Jake of Aethelgard, the passage of two weeks and some was a systematic, agonizing dismantling of his reality. The citadel, with its roaring obsidian hearths, silk sheets, and groveling courtiers, began to feel like a fever dream. The only truth left in his world was the suffocating, herbal stench of your cabin, the relentless, shrieking howl of the winter winds, and the terrifying, violent thrum of the curse multiplying in his bloodstream.
He stood outside in the knee-deep powder, a heavy iron wood-splitting maul resting against his shoulder. He wore the dead farmer’s coarse woolen trousers and the oversized linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows despite the sub-zero temperature. His golden hair, once washed daily in rosewater and brushed to a soft, angelic shine, was now a tangled, dark-blonde mane tied brutally back at the nape of his neck with a strip of cured leather.
He brought the heavy iron maul down on a thick stump of petrified oak.
CRACK.
The oak exploded. It didn’t just split; it splintered violently, raining shards of frozen wood across the snowdrifts.
Jake stood over the ruined block, his chest heaving, his breath pluming in thick, heavy clouds. He looked down at his hands. The thick, hickory handle of the maul was groaning under his grip. His knuckles were white, the veins in his forearms bulging against the linen sleeves.
The physical symptoms of the Witch’s curse were no longer a subtle, creeping dread. They were an occupying force.
His core temperature had risen to a sustained, terrifying inferno. He had not shivered once in fourteen days. The snow beneath his boots actively melted into a slushy puddle wherever he stood for too long. His hearing had sharpened to a sickening degree; he could hear the distinct, agonizing scrape of the ice crystals forming on the thatched roof above, and worse, he could hear the exact, rhythmic thump-thump of your heartbeat moving around inside the cabin.
But the most dangerous symptom was the hunger.
It was a hollow, scraping void in his stomach that the meager bowls of root stew and dried barley simply could not fill. His Lycan biology was demanding immense, staggering amounts of calories to fuel its rapid cellular regeneration and unnatural heat. He was starving, and the beast beneath his skin was growing restless, pacing against the cage of his ribs, demanding fresh, hot meat.
Jake closed his eyes, his jaw locking so hard his teeth audibly ground together. He forced his breathing to slow, burying the predatory urge beneath years of absolute, princely discipline.
He gathered the split wood, stacking an impossible, back-breaking load into his arms, and turned toward the cabin.
Inside, you were seated at the scarred wooden table, meticulously grinding dried foxglove leaves into a fine powder.
Your ankle was healing—the swelling had finally subsided to a dull, manageable ache—but the forced proximity with the golden stranger was testing the absolute limits of your sanity.
The door pushed open, letting in a swirl of violently cold air, followed by Jake. He ducked his head to clear the low ironwood frame, turning sideways to maneuver his broad shoulders and the massive load of firewood through the entrance. He dropped the wood into the stone bin beside the hearth with a heavy, reverberating crash.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, the pestle continuing its rhythmic grinding.
He was a terrible, beautiful liar.
For two weeks, he had played the role of the humble, grateful northern mercenary flawlessly. He spoke to you with a soft, melodic deference. He never complained about the squalor, the cold, or the tasteless rations. He anticipated your needs, fetching water before you asked, reinforcing the drafty windows with packed mud, and executing every chore with a quiet, lethal efficiency.
It was entirely unnatural.
Men who looked like him—men with high-born jawlines, skin that healed like magic, and the inherent, arrogant grace of a predator—did not submit so easily. You knew he was calculating his every move. You saw the microscopic tightening of his jaw when you ordered him to scrub the floors. You noticed the way his amber eyes occasionally went flat and dead, staring into the fire as if he were plotting the collapse of an empire.
But you didn't press him. You didn't care about his secrets. In the brutal mathematics of the winter, he was a massive asset. He was an engine of survival, generating heat and performing the heavy labor your injured body could not.
"The wind is picking up again," Jake murmured, dusting the snow from his sleeves. His voice was that familiar, sweet baritone. "The western ridge looks completely whited out."
"Then we stay inside," you replied without looking up. "I checked the snares this morning before you woke. We have a hare."
Jake’s posture shifted instantly. He turned toward the table, his amber eyes locking onto the small, frozen carcass of a winter hare resting on a piece of oiled parchment near your mortar.
The moment his eyes registered the meat, you saw the micro-expression. It was a flash of pure, unadulterated famine. His pupils dilated violently, swallowing the amber irises until his eyes were almost entirely pitch black. His nostrils flared, pulling in the scent of the frozen blood.
"I can... I can dress it," Jake offered. His voice was slightly hoarse, tight with a sudden, barely concealed desperation. "Your hands are covered in foxglove. It's toxic if it gets into the meat."
You stopped grinding. You looked at your dust-coated fingers, then up at him. You knew how to clean your hands, but the raw, strange intensity in his gaze made you pause.
"Fine," you said, gesturing to the hare and the small, razor-sharp paring knife resting beside it. "Don't puncture the gallbladder. It ruins the meat."
Jake stepped up to the table. He didn't walk; he practically glided, his eyes entirely fixated on the carcass.
He picked up the small knife. His hands, usually so steady and precise, were trembling faintly. He made the first incision, dragging the blade down the belly of the hare to part the frozen fur.
As the skin parted and the dark, red muscle and frozen blood were exposed to the air, the scent hit him.
To you, it smelled like raw, metallic game. To the Lycan rapidly consuming Jake’s humanity, it smelled like absolute salvation.
Jake let out a sharp, ragged gasp. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly onto the wooden floorboards. He didn't reach down to retrieve it. Instead, his large hands clamped directly onto the carcass.
You watched, frozen in your seat, as the facade of the golden prince finally, catastrophically shattered.
Jake’s breathing mutated into a horrific, deep-chested rasp. His hands gripped the hare, and as he began to physically tear the skin away from the muscle, his fingernails darkened. You saw it happen in real-time. The human nails thickened, lengthening and curving into jagged, bone-white claws that effortlessly sliced through the frozen sinew and bone.
"Jake," you said sharply, the alarm finally breaching your voice.
He didn't hear you. He was gone.
He brought the raw, bloody carcass up toward his face, his jaw unhinging slightly. His golden hair fell forward, but you could see his eyes. They were no longer amber. They were a brilliant, terrifying, luminescent gold, glowing in the dim light of the cabin with an ancient, predatory fire. He let out a low, wet snarl that vibrated the ceramic bowls on your shelves.
He was going to eat it raw. He was going to tear into the frozen meat like a feral beast.
Fear—cold, primal, and absolute—spiked in your chest. The anomaly you had dragged from the snow was finally showing its teeth, and the sheer, physical reality of the monster standing in your kitchen was paralyzing.
But the fear was immediately chased by a surge of pure, territorial spite. This was your sanctuary. That was your food. And you refused to let a cursed stray ruin your only protein for the week.
You didn't reach for your dagger. Drawing a weapon on an apex predator was an invitation for a slaughter.
Instead, you stood up. You closed the distance between you, entirely ignoring the screaming survival instincts begging you to run.
You reached out, your bare hands slamming down over his massive, clawed hands, physically arresting his movement just inches before his elongated canines could sink into the raw meat.
"Stop," you commanded.
Your voice wasn't a scream. It wasn't a plea. It was a cold, flat, absolute decree. It was the voice of a healer who had ordered desperate, violent men to hold still while she sawed through their infected limbs.
The heat radiating off his skin was agonizing. It felt like grabbing a hot iron stove. But you didn't flinch. You dug your fingers into the dense, burning muscle of his wrists, locking your grip.
Jake froze.
The beast inside him raged, a chaotic storm of hunger and violence, roaring at the sheer audacity of the fragile human prey touching him, challenging him. His head snapped toward you. His glowing, golden eyes locked onto yours. The intelligence in them was completely eclipsed by a feral, hungry void. He bared his teeth, leaning down, his face inches from yours. He could snap your neck with a twitch of his wrist.
"Look at me," you ordered, your dark eyes boring directly into his glowing golden ones. You didn't blink. You didn't cower. "You are not an animal. You are in my house. And if you ruin this meat by tearing it apart like a rabid dog, we both starve. Drop it."
The standoff was terrifying. The silence in the cabin was so heavy it felt like water filling your lungs. You could feel the violent trembling in his arms, the sheer, muscular force of the Lycan warring against your pathetic human grip.
But as he stared into your eyes, searching for the scent of terror, he found nothing. He found only an icy, immovable wall of resilience.
He had expected you to scream. He had expected you to run, triggering his predator drive to hunt and kill. But your absolute, clinical lack of fear short-circuited the beast's logic. You weren't acting like prey. You were acting like the master of the territory.
Slowly, agonizingly, the golden fire in his eyes began to flicker.
The Prince trapped inside the monster seized the momentary confusion. Jake fought his way back to the surface, clawing his way through the red haze of the curse, using your steady, fearless voice as a tether to his humanity.
He squeezed his eyes shut. A choked, agonizing sob tore from his throat.
When he opened his eyes again, the gold was gone. The soft, terrified amber had returned. He looked down at his hands, his chest heaving. The claws were retracting, shrinking painfully back into his nail beds, leaving his human fingers stained with the hare's blood.
He dropped the carcass back onto the parchment as if it burned him.
Jake stumbled backward, tearing himself out of your grip. He hit the opposite wall of the cabin, his back sliding down the rough timber until he hit the floorboards. He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his blood-stained hands in his golden hair, shaking violently. "I'm sorry," Jake gasped, the facade of the composed mercenary completely annihilated. His voice was broken, raw with genuine, unadulterated horror. "I didn't... I didn't mean to. The smell... I couldn't stop it."
He waited for the screaming. He waited for you to grab the iron skinning knife and demand he leave. He was a monster. He had just shown you exactly what he was.
But the screaming never came. You stood by the table, looking at the bloody hare, and then looking at the massive, terrifying man curled into a ball on your floor. Your hands were trembling slightly from the adrenaline drop, but you forced them steady.
You walked over to the wooden bucket, dipped a clean linen rag into the water, and limped across the room. You stopped in front of him. You didn't kneel. You tossed the damp rag, letting it land squarely on his knee.
"Clean your hands," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "And then wash the blood off the floorboards. I'll finish the hare." Jake stared at your back for a long moment. He waited for the accusation. For the knife. For you to name what you had just seen. You said nothing. You simply began making clean, precise cuts to the hare's hide. He picked up the rag. He scrubbed the blood from his fingers in silence. That night, after the stew was eaten and the fire had settled low, you lay awake in the dark long after his breathing had slowed. You stared at the ceiling, turning over everything you had observed since the moment you dragged him from the snow. The heat. The healing. The eyes. You had a word for it forming in the back of your mind, pressing against your teeth. You didn't say it out loud. But you kept the knife under your pillow. And you watched him more carefully after that. That night, the dynamic in the small cabin irrevocably shifted. The hostility and the thick, paranoid wariness that had defined the first two weeks dissolved into a quiet, heavily guarded truce. They were no longer a reluctant host and an unwanted burden; they were two outcasts sharing a fragile sanctuary against a hostile world. After dinner, the cabin grew quiet. The wind had died down, leaving a profound, eerie silence outside. You were sitting on the edge of your cot, using a bone needle and thick thread to mend a tear in your heavy woolen cloak. Jake was sitting on the floor near the hearth, using his hunting dagger to whittle a piece of pine into a new handle for the damaged wood-splitting maul.
The orange tabby cat, Barnaby, hopped down from the high shelf. He padded silently across the floorboards, completely ignoring you, and approached Jake.
Jake froze, his knife pausing mid-scrape.
The cat sat down three feet away from the Lycan, wrapped its tail around its paws, and stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
Jake stared back. He didn't bare his teeth. He didn't let the golden light flash in his eyes. He simply watched the small, orange creature, entirely unsure of what to do.
"He likes the heat," you said quietly, not looking up from your mending. "He usually sleeps as close to the fire as he can get without singeing his whiskers. But since you got here, you're the warmest thing in the room."
Jake looked down at his own body, acutely aware of the unnatural furnace burning in his chest. "I suppose I am."
Slowly, carefully, Jake extended a single, calloused hand toward the cat. He kept his fingers relaxed, keeping his claws locked firmly beneath the skin.
Barnaby sniffed the air, leaning forward slightly. The cat took a deliberate step forward, then another, until it was close enough to press its small, cold wet nose against Jake’s knuckles.
Jake held his breath.
The cat let out a soft, vibrating purr, turning its head to aggressively rub its cheek against Jake’s hand, demanding attention.
A sudden, unfamiliar tightness gripped Jake’s chest. It wasn't the panic of the curse, or the rage of the Prince. It was a strange, delicate pang of emotion. He turned his hand over, gently scratching the cat behind the ears. Barnaby immediately collapsed onto his side, leaning his entire weight against Jake’s thigh, purring like a small engine.
Jake looked across the room at you. You were still focused on your sewing, the firelight casting long shadows against the walls.
"Thank you," Jake said softly into the quiet room.
You paused, your needle suspended in the fabric. "For what?"
"For not throwing me out into the snow," Jake replied, his amber eyes locked onto your face. "For looking at me and not seeing a monster."
You tied off the thread, biting the excess string with your teeth, and set the cloak aside. You looked at him. The golden boy, the terrifying predator, sitting on your floor petting a stray cat.
"I see the monster, Jake," you said, your voice gentle but brutally honest. "I just chose to see the man holding the leash, too. Don't make me regret it."
Jake swallowed hard, the weight of your words settling deep into his bones. "I won't."
He looked away, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. For the first time since the Witch had shattered his life, Prince Jake of Aethelgard did not long for the obsidian walls of his citadel. He did not think about the throne, or his cruel father, or the velvet cloaks he had lost.
He listened to the crackle of the fire, the purring of the cat, and the steady, grounding rhythm of your heartbeat across the room.
But outside, high above the frozen, skeletal canopy of the deep woods, the clouds briefly parted. The silver light of a waxing moon, just days away from being full, poured through the frost-covered windowpane, casting a pale, cold beam across the floorboards.
Jake felt the deep, agonizing ache in his marrow flare to life, a stark, terrifying
reminder that his peace was temporary. The beast was contained for tonight, tethered by a fragile, newly formed trust. But the moon was growing, the curse was absolute, and the true test of his humanity was rapidly, inevitably approaching.
The full moon rose on the twenty-first night.
Jake felt it before he saw it.
He had been awake since the second hour past midnight, lying on the floorboards with his spine rigid and his jaw locked, and at first he had told himself it was the hunger again — the hollow, scraping Lycan hunger that the meager cabin rations could never fully address. But this was different from the hunger. This was directional. This was a pull, like a fishhook set somewhere beneath his sternum, tugging with slow, increasing insistence toward something outside the cabin walls.
He lay still and tried to identify it. He had become, over three weeks of forced cohabitation with the curse, something of an expert in cataloguing his own symptoms. The heat that never left his core. The hearing that had sharpened past usefulness into something closer to torment. The way his eyes caught the firelight differently now, throwing it back in a way that sometimes made you go very still when you thought he wasn't looking.
But this was none of those things. This was new.
This was the moon.
He felt the exact moment it crested the treeline. He couldn't have explained how he knew — he was inside, behind three feet of wattle and daub and heavy thatch — but the knowledge arrived with the physical certainty of a blade finding a gap in armor. Something in his blood simply recognized it. Rose toward it, the way a drowning man's hands rise toward the surface without conscious instruction.
And with that recognition came the fear.
He had been unconscious for the first transformation. He remembered the Witch's clearing, the violet fire, the agonizing sensation of his own skeleton betraying him — and then nothing. He had woken up naked in the snow with no memory of the hours between. He didn't know what he had done. He didn't know what he was capable of. He didn't know if there would be anything left of him on the other side of whatever the full moon was about to demand.
He only knew that you were asleep ten feet away.
And that was enough to get him off the floor.
He moved with exquisite, terrified care. Every instinct in his Lycan blood was screaming at him to move fast, to run, to answer the pull before it answered itself — but he forced himself to go slowly, to lift the iron bolt on the door with both hands to muffle the scrape of metal, to ease it open one inch at a time. Your breathing didn't change. Barnaby didn't stir.
He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
The winter hit him with scent rather than cold — he hadn't felt the cold in weeks. Pine resin and frost and frozen earth and the distant musky trail of a stag on the eastern ridge. The sharp clean ozone of ice forming on the river. And behind him, threading through the gap in the door before it clicked shut, the specific warm human scent of you that his Lycan senses had catalogued so thoroughly over three weeks that he could have identified it in a blizzard at a hundred yards.
He turned away from it. He walked into the trees.
He didn't know how far he walked. Distance felt different at night, in the full weight of whatever was building in his blood. The moon above the canopy was enormous — he could feel it even through the interlocking branches, a pressure against the top of his skull, a gravitational insistence that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with the Witch's architecture sitting in the marrow of his bones.He found a clearing by accident, stumbling through a ring of silver birches into a wide, open hollow where the snow lay undisturbed and the moon poured down without obstruction. He stopped in the center of it and looked up.The light hit his eyes.Something in his chest lurched so violently he staggered.He caught himself. He planted his feet in the snow and breathed — slow, deliberate, from the belly, the way Gareth had drilled into him a thousand times in the training yard. He focused on the specific cold of the air against his face, the texture of the snow compressing under his boots, anything physical and present and human.He didn't know what was coming. That was the worst of it. The not knowing. He had faced war councils and assassination attempts and the lethal social architecture of his father's court, and he had always walked into those rooms knowing the terrain. Knowing the exits. Knowing exactly what weapon he was carrying and precisely when to use it.He had nothing here. No map, no strategy, no precedent. Just the moon and the pull and the terrifying sense that whatever had taken him the first time — whatever had stripped him of his clothes and his consciousness and deposited him in a melted crater in the snow — was about to take him again.He squeezed his eyes shut.
If I hurt her, he thought, with a cold, flat clarity that surprised him with its honesty. If I come back from this and I have hurt her—
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to.The first tremor hit him without warning.It wasn't like the partial shifts — the claws, the eyes, the hunger spikes. Those had been manageable. Painful and humiliating, but manageable. This was categorically different. This was total. It started in his spine and it didn't stop, rolling upward through every vertebra in a grinding seismic wave that blew out his vision in a flash of white and drove him to his knees in the snow. He tried to hold on. He gripped the Gareth-breathing, he gripped the texture of the snow beneath his palms, he gripped his own name in the dark behind his eyes like a handhold on a cliff face.
Jake. I am Jake. I am the Prince of Aethelgard. I am—
The second tremor hit and took the sentence away entirely.
You woke to Barnaby's voice. Not his usual soft domestic meow. This was different — high and urgent and stripped of all his habitual feline composure, the specific sound he reserved for genuine alarm. You were upright before your eyes were fully open, the iron skinning knife in your hand from muscle memory alone.The floorboards near the hearth were empty. Jake's woolen cloak was gone.You were at the door in four steps.Outside, the full moon had turned the world into something alien and silver. The snow was so bright it was almost painful. The trees stood in their dark rows, perfectly still, and Jake's bootprints led north-northwest into the trees with the long, slightly uneven stride of someone moving fast and not entirely steadily.You stood on the threshold for three seconds.You had known, in the abstract, that the full moon would come. You had known it the way you knew most things — from the old books, the ones the citadel's clergy called superstition and burned when they could find them, that you had traded three jars of ghost-mushroom salve for from a half-mad hedge scholar in the outer wards seven years ago. You had read them by firelight in the early years of your exile, learning the language of the deep woods the only way available to you — obsessively, desperately, turning every page as though your life depended on it. Which, as it turned out, it had.The books had chapters on Lycans. On the full moon that transformed them but left the man intact enough to hold the beast at bay.
You had read those chapters with the detached academic interest of someone who did not expect to ever need them practically.You pulled your cloak off the hook. You followed his tracks.The birch ring was perhaps a quarter mile from the cabin. You heard the clearing before you reached it — a sound that stopped you dead at the treeline with your hand on your knife and every hair on the back of your neck standing at full attention.It was a sound the deep woods did not make. Low and resonant and enormous, vibrating at a frequency that didn't so much enter through your ears as settle into your bones and make the marrow of them hum in response. Old. Territorial. Entirely, categorically wrong in the way that only things from the very oldest stories managed to be wrong.You stepped through the birches.The thing in the center of the clearing was not Jake. Or rather — it was Jake, in the same way that a city in ruins is still the city. Something of the original architecture remained, visible in the specific angle of the restructured jaw, the golden hair wild around a face that had been pushed forward and thickened into something predatory. He stood on two legs, which somehow made it worse than four would have. He was vast. The transformation had amplified the already considerable mass of him into something that belonged in the burned chapters of the books the citadel's clergy kept locked away, in the stories that the outer ward mothers told their children to make them stay inside after dark.
His eyes were entirely gold. Not the brief terrifying flash of it you had seen twice before — continuous, deep, luminescent, catching the moonlight and returning it like signal fires.He had his back to you.He was very still. And he was breathing — slowly, laboriously, with the concentrated effort of someone performing an extremely difficult physical task that happened to look, from the outside, like simply standing in a field of snow.He knew you were there. You understood this immediately and without question. Whatever those senses of his had become over three weeks of the curse's escalation, they had catalogued you with a thoroughness that left no room for doubt.He hadn't turned around.You understood that too, after a moment. He was choosing not to turn around. There was a difference between an apex predator that didn't know you were behind it and an apex predator that knew and was choosing, with tremendous effort, to keep its back to you anyway.Your hand dropped away from the knife.You had spent eight years learning to read the woods. You knew what a predator looked like when it was hunting. You knew the specific coiled, forward-weighted stillness of an animal preparing to charge. You knew what fear smelled like in an animal, and what aggression smelled like, and the crucial, life-preserving difference between them.What you were looking at was neither.
What you were looking at was a creature in tremendous pain trying very hard not to do something it was afraid of doing. You recognized that from your work. You had seen it in men with infected limbs who gripped the table and stared at the ceiling and breathed through their teeth. You had seen it in fever patients who fought the delirium with everything they had because they were terrified of what they might say or do if they let go.You had never seen it in something this large. The scale of it was new.You took one step forward, angled slightly left. Non-threatening. The way you moved around anything with enough pain in it to be unpredictable."Jake," you said.Your voice came out steady. You were mildly surprised by this. The enormous gold-lit frame shuddered. Not with aggression — with the specific tremor of someone who has been holding on alone for a very long time and has just heard another person's voice in the dark. "I'm not going to run," you told him. "So you can stop holding your breath." Silence. The moonlight moved across the snow. Then, with a slowness that conveyed tremendous deliberateness — the slowness of something acutely conscious of its own mass and what that mass was capable of — the thing in the clearing turned around. The gold eyes found you. Not searching. Finding, instantly and completely, with the absolute precision of something that had known exactly where you were since the moment you stepped through the birch ring. You looked back at him.
Up close the gold of his eyes was extraordinary — not the flat reflective gold of an animal's nightshine, but something deeper and stranger, lit from within, carrying in its depths the dim and desperate flicker of the man you had spent three weeks arguing with over onions and firewood and the correct temperature for rendering ghost-mushroom. He was in there. Buried under layers of biology and moonlight and the Witch's architectural cruelty, but present. Holding on by whatever the Lycan equivalent of fingernails was. You took two more steps. Twelve feet between you now. Close enough to see that he was shaking. Not with aggression. With effort. The sheer, exhausting, monumental effort of maintaining the thread of himself against the weight of the full moon bearing down on his blood. Something in your chest did a thing you chose not to examine closely. "How long?" you asked. The gold eyes moved over your face. "How long has it been happening?" A long pause. The effort of forming speech through a jaw that had been restructured for entirely different purposes was visible — a grinding, laborious process that looked painful in its own right. "Don't — know," he managed. Two words, barely. The voice was almost unrecognizable, scraped down to something guttural and resonant. But it was his voice. Underneath the damage, it was unmistakably his. You nodded. You looked at him with the flat clinical attention of a healer assessing an unknown presentation for the first time. You noted the shaking. You noted the specific quality of his stillness — not calm, but the opposite of calm held under enormous pressure. You noted the way the gold in his eyes fluctuated, dimming and brightening in a rhythm that corresponded to the rhythm of his controlled breathing.
He was fighting it. Whatever the full moon demanded of him, he was fighting it with everything he had, and the fight was costing him enormously.You sat down in the snow. It was a practical decision. You were going to be here for a while, and standing was harder on your ankle than sitting. You lowered yourself into the powder, folded your legs beneath you, pulled your cloak tight, and looked up at him from the ground with the same expression you brought to everything — level, unimpressed, and entirely present. "Then I'll wait," you said. The fluctuating gold of his eyes went very still. He stared at you for a long time. Long enough for a cloud to cross the moon and return it. Long enough for the distant frozen river to groan once in the dark. He stared at you with an expression that the restructured landscape of his face was not currently equipped to convey but managed anyway — something stripped entirely raw, something that had never had occasion to exist in the court of Aethelgard because the court of Aethelgard had never once offered it the conditions under which it could exist. Then, with the slow and painstaking care of something acutely aware of the damage it was capable of, Jake lowered himself to the ground at the far treeline. He put his back against the silver birches. He set his clawed hands loose on his knees. He kept his eyes on you. You kept your eyes on him.
Neither of you spoke. The deep woods had their own language for this — for two creatures sharing a space in the dark without agenda, simply present to each other across the cold — and neither of you needed to translate it. The moon moved. The light shifted across the clearing floor in its slow, indifferent arc. And then, so gradually you almost missed it beginning — the transformation started to reverse. You watched it the way you watched everything medical and strange and outside the boundaries of your existing knowledge — with total, quiet attention, committing every detail to the healer's catalogue in the back of your mind. The frame contracting. The jaw slowly restructuring. The gold fading from his eyes by degrees, amber bleeding back in the way colour returns to something healing — slowly, from the edges inward, until the last of the gold dimmed and went out like an ember and what was left was just the familiar amber, exhausted and dark-circled and entirely human. He was breathing hard. His golden hair was plastered to his face with sweat. His hands — human hands again, bare and pale in the fading moonlight — were pressed flat against the snow on either side of him as if he needed the physical anchor of the ground to confirm he was still in it. He looked at you. You looked at him. For a long moment neither of you spoke. The birch ring held its silver silence around you. "You came after me," he said finally. His voice was wrecked — scraped down to something barely above a whisper, raw at every edge. "You were alone," you said. Simple. Sufficient. "You didn't know what you'd find."
"No," you agreed. "But I had an idea." His eyes moved over your face. "How?" You were quiet for a moment. "I read a great deal," you said, deliberately, watching his expression shift as he recognized his own deflection turned back on him. "Old books. The kind the citadel burns." You paused. "I knew what you were before the hare incident. I knew what the full moon meant. I knew what to expect, roughly." The silence that followed was a different kind than the ones before it. "And you stayed," Jake said. Not quite a question. "You were useful," you said, which was true but was no longer the whole truth and both of you understood that perfectly well. "And you fixed my roof." Something crossed his face that wasn't quite a smile but was closer to one than anything manufactured. Raw and small and entirely without performance. "I didn't know," he said quietly. "What I'd find on the other side. Whether there would be anything left of me. The first time I transformed I lost consciousness completely — I woke in the snow with no memory of the hours between." His jaw tightened. "I didn't know if I would hurt you."
"That's why you left without waking me," you said.
"Yes." You looked at him steadily. "Next time, wake me."
"You just watched me become—"
"I know what I watched," you said. "Wake me next time." He stared at you for a long moment, the amber eyes moving over your face with that expression you still didn't quite have a name for — the one that lived in the territory between bewilderment and something that looked, uncomfortably, like a wound slowly recognizing that it might be able to close. You pushed yourself up from the snow. "Come inside." He looked up at you. "You'll freeze," you said, which was not entirely true and both of you knew it. "And I'm not carrying you again." He got to his feet. You walked back through the birch ring together, following your footprints through the silver-dark forest toward the faint amber glow of the cabin window. You didn't speak. The silence between you had shed the last of its armor and what remained in its place was something quiet and unguarded and considerably more frightening than either of you was prepared to acknowledge yet. Inside, you stoked the fire back to life. Jake settled onto the floorboards. Barnaby descended from the high shelf with the dignified air of a cat who had absolutely not been worried and planted himself against Jake's side. Jake's hand settled on the cat's back with the gentleness that still caught you off guard sometimes, because it didn't match anything else about him. You climbed into your cot. The fire rebuilt itself from the coals, orange and steady. "I would have told you," Jake said, from the floor. Quiet. "Eventually. About the full moon. About all of it."
You stared at the ceiling. "I know," you said. A pause. "How much do you know?" he asked carefully. You were quiet for a moment, deciding how much of your hand to show. You thought about the chapters on blood moons. About the specific, architectural cruelty of a curse that made its cure and its catastrophe the same event. About the things you had been turning over quietly in the back of your mind since the night you had first pressed your fingers to his burning neck in the snow and felt the impossible heat of him and known, on some level, that you were picking up something you would not be able to put back down. "Enough," you said finally. "I know enough." Jake was silent for a long time. The fire crackled. Barnaby purred. Outside, the last of the moonlight faded from the windowpane, replaced by the blue-grey suggestion of an approaching dawn. "Then you know it gets worse," he said quietly. "I know it can," you said, which was not the same thing, and which you meant as a deliberate distinction. He heard it that way. You could tell by the quality of the silence that followed. "Go to sleep, Jake," you said. He did. And in the thin cold light of the winter dawn, with the deep woods holding their breath around the small warm cabin, neither of you spoke about blood moons or Witches or the specific cruel mathematics of a curse designed to make salvation and destruction the same event. Neither of you named the thing that had been quietly taking root between the floorboards and the cot for three weeks, growing without permission in the warmth of shared survival and onion-free stew and a cat who had decided, with the absolute authority of his kind, that the golden stranger was acceptable. You simply slept. Outside, the blood moon was still distant. But it was coming, the way all inevitable things came — patient and absolute and entirely indifferent to the fragile, warming thing it had been specifically designed to destroy.
It made no sound at all.
The days after the full moon were quieter than Jake expected. He had anticipated — something. A shift in the dynamic, perhaps. A new wariness in the way you moved around the cabin, an extra inch of distance maintained, the knife closer to hand. He had shown you the monster completely and without the buffer of gradual revelation, and he had expected that sight to change the specific texture of your regard for him in some fundamental, irreversible way. It didn't. You woke the morning after and made the barley broth and told him the eastern snares needed checking and that the thatch above the window was leaking again and did he think he could manage the repair before the next snowfall or was that beyond the capabilities of his reportedly useful northern hands. You said all of this without looking up from the mortar and pestle, in the same flat, unhurried tone you used for everything, as though the previous night had been simply another item catalogued and filed and integrated into your existing understanding of the situation. Jake stood in the doorway watching you work for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Then he checked the snares. Then he fixed the thatch. Then he came inside and ate his broth and said nothing, and neither did you, and the cabin settled back into its familiar rhythm as though the silver birch clearing had never happened at all. Except that it had. And they both knew it had. And the knowing sat between them like a third presence in the room — not uncomfortable exactly, but impossible to ignore, the way a fire is impossible to ignore even when you are deliberately looking at something else.
Three weeks passed. Then four. The deep woods moved through the back half of winter with a grinding, reluctant slowness, the cold refusing to release its grip on the canopy even as the daylight hours stretched incrementally longer. The change was barely perceptible — a fraction more light on the eastern windowpane in the mornings, a marginally less hostile quality to the wind — but you noticed it with the attentiveness of someone whose survival had depended for eight years on reading exactly these kinds of marginal shifts.Jake noticed it too, though he said nothing. He had become, over the weeks since the full moon, acutely alert to the passage of time in a way that sat in his chest like a low, persistent ache. Every additional hour of daylight was a marker. Every week that passed was the blood moon drawing incrementally closer, and beneath that — beneath the specific dread of what the blood moon meant for the curse — was the other calculation. The one he performed in the quiet of the early mornings when you were still asleep and the fire was low and there was nothing to do but think. When the blood moon passed, he could return to Aethelgard. He had known his route for weeks. He had extracted the information he needed from casual conversation and careful observation — the name of the ravine, the direction of the frozen river, the specific landmarks that placed the cabin approximately six miles northwest of the nearest vanguard outpost. Six miles in winter was not nothing, but for a man with Lycan biology heating his blood and a military career's worth of wilderness survival training, it was manageable. He would go back. He would return to the citadel, to his father's court, to the iron throne waiting for him at the end of the long dark corridor of his inheritance. He would bring the Crown's resources to bear on breaking whatever remnant of the curse survived the blood moon. He would be the Prince of Aethelgard again, with all that entailed.
He did not tell you any of this. He told himself it was practical. There was no point creating tension in the cabin over a plan that was weeks away from execution. You were useful to him — your knowledge of the woods, your medicines, the warmth of the cabin — and a hostile dynamic would compromise that utility. The shepherd's logic. Keep the peace until the trap snaps shut. But in the cold, honest hours of the early morning, with your heartbeat a steady rhythm across the room and Barnaby purring against his ribs, Jake found the shepherd's logic increasingly difficult to sustain as his primary explanation. He fixed the thatch instead. He checked the snares. He chopped the wood and hauled the water and rendered the ghost-mushroom with careful, methodical hands, and he did not examine too closely the fact that he had been doing these things for weeks past the point where they served any strategic purpose.
The changes in his Lycan biology announced themselves gradually, then all at once. The hunger was the first and most immediate. In the weeks following the full moon it escalated from the persistent, manageable void he had learned to live with into something considerably more demanding. The root stews and dried barley that had sustained him through the first weeks were suddenly, emphatically insufficient. His body was burning through calories at a rate that the cabin's meager stores simply could not meet, the Lycan metabolism accelerating in the wake of the first full transformation as though the moon had kicked something into a higher gear. He started hunting. Not with the cabin's small iron snares — those produced snow hares occasionally, which helped, but not enough. He went out in the pre-dawn dark, when you were still asleep, and he ran the deep woods with his Lycan senses fully extended and came back with things that would have been entirely impossible for a normal man to catch in the deep winter. A young stag from the eastern ridge. A pair of fat wood grouse from the frozen creek bed three miles north. Once, memorably, a boar — small and lean from the winter, but a boar nonetheless, which had required a level of physical engagement that left Jake with torn borrowed trousers and a satisfaction so visceral and uncomplicated it briefly alarmed him. He dressed the kills cleanly before bringing them back, leaving the evidence of how exactly they had been obtained out in the snow for the scavengers. You accepted the sudden improvement in the cabin's protein supply with the pragmatic gratitude of someone who was not going to ask questions that might produce answers requiring difficult decisions. The first morning he came back with the stag, you had looked at him for a long moment — at his wild hair and the flush of exertion across his face and the very specific light in his amber eyes that accompanied successful hunting — and then looked at the dressed carcass he'd set on the preparation block outside, and then back at him.
"Snares," you said. "Snares," he agreed. You had gone back inside to start the fire. The meat helped. It didn't solve the problem entirely — the Lycan hunger had a quality to it that went beyond simple caloric need, a craving for the specific warmth and vitality of fresh-killed game that dried fish and barley simply could not approximate — but it brought the worst of it down to a manageable level. Enough that he could sit across the cabin from you without the persistent, uncomfortable awareness of the blood moving through your veins overwhelming every other sensory input. That awareness — the second change — was considerably more difficult to manage than the hunger. His senses had always been heightened since the curse. But the full moon had amplified them past the threshold of useful into something that occasionally bordered on unbearable. He could hear the specific sound of ice crystals forming on the window glass. He could smell the exact stage of healing of your ankle from across the room without looking at the bandages. He could identify, by the quality of your footsteps on the floorboards, whether you had slept well or badly and whether your ankle was causing you more or less pain than the previous day. And your scent. Your scent was the worst. Had always been present in his awareness — a specific, layered signature of woodsmoke and medicinal herbs and clean skin and the faint metallic edge of the bloodwork that was simply a constant of your profession — but since the full moon it had acquired a quality he struggled to categorize. It wasn't the predatory appetence of the early days, the blood-hunger that had driven him toward you over a nicked finger. It was something different and more complicated and considerably harder to dismiss. It was distracting in a way that had nothing to do with threat assessment.
He managed it. He went outside more often than strictly necessary. He took the long route to the snares. He sat at the far end of the cabin when the space permitted and positioned himself upwind when it didn't, and he got very good at the specific discipline of keeping his expression entirely neutral while his enhanced senses were delivering an overwhelming amount of information about the person sitting twelve feet away from him grinding herbs. You noticed, of course. You noticed everything. But you didn't press him, which he was beginning to understand was one of your most consistent and disarming characteristics. You simply adjusted — left the window cracked more often than the temperature warranted, took Barnaby's preferred route around the table when passing him, maintained the particular quality of deliberate unawareness that people develop when they are choosing to give someone space without making an announcement of the choice.It was, he thought, in the quiet dark of one early morning, an extraordinarily considerate thing to do for a man you had every rational reason to be frightened of. The thought sat with him for the rest of the day.
It was a Wednesday — you kept a rough tally on the cabin wall, notches in the wood beside the door — when the first genuinely unguarded thing happened between them. You had been attempting, for the better part of the morning, to reach a bundle of dried nightshade hanging from the highest rafter hook. Your ankle had healed to the point of functional but not to the point of reliable, and the step-stool you used for high-shelf work had lost a leg to dry rot sometime in the previous month, leaving you with the options of climbing the rough-hewn shelving — inadvisable on a healing joint — or waiting for a moment of charity from the golden giant currently occupying your floor space. You had been waiting for approximately forty minutes, on principle, before the principle became less important than the nightshade. "Jake," you said, in the tone of someone making a significant concession. He looked up from the new snare trap he was constructing, his large hands working the wire with a deft precision that still occasionally surprised you. You pointed at the nightshade bundle without elaboration. He set down the wire. He crossed the cabin in four steps, which was two fewer than it took you, and reached the bundle without even fully extending his arm. He unhooked it and held it out to you. You took it. "Thank you."
"You waited forty minutes," Jake said. You looked up at him. "I don't know what you mean."
"I heard you trying to reach it," he said, and something in the amber eyes was doing the thing you had catalogued over the past weeks — the thing where amusement tried to exist in a face that had been trained from birth to weaponize every expression and was only now, haltingly and imperfectly, learning what it felt like to have one that wasn't deployed for strategic effect. "Your hearing is unsettling," you told him. "Frequently," he agreed. You turned back to the worktable. You heard him settle back onto the floor behind you, heard the resumed, precise work of his hands on the snare wire. "Jake," you said, not turning around. "Yes."
"You don't have to wait to be asked." You paused. "For things like that. You can just — help." A beat of silence. "I wasn't sure it would be welcome." You considered this. It was, you thought, the most honest thing he had said to you in weeks that wasn't extracted from him by circumstance. He had been calibrating constantly — reading the room, adjusting his behavior, trying to determine what was permitted and what was too much. It was a habit so deeply ingrained he probably wasn't fully aware he was doing it. "It's welcome," you said simply. The wire work resumed. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind moved through the pines in its familiar, cold conversation with itself. After a moment, Jake said — very quietly, as though testing the weight of something before committing to it — "You're nearly out of yarrow." You were. You had been aware of it for two days and had been trying to determine how far into the eastern ravine you would need to go to find dormant root stock. "I know."
"I can find it. I know what it looks like from the ghost-mushroom harvests." You turned around. He was looking at you with an expression that was not the sweet, puppy-dog performance and not the cold predatory blankness — it was something in between, something still learning its own shape. Tentative in a way that sat entirely wrong on his face and was, paradoxically, more convincing than anything deliberate he had ever produced. "The eastern ravine has an ice shelf on the north lip," you said. "I remember," he said. "Don't step on it. Forty-foot drop."
"Don't puncture the root casing when you dig," you said. "The active compound is in the outer layer."
"I'll be careful." You looked at him for a moment longer. Then you turned back to the nightshade. "There's a woven bag on the second shelf. Take it." He took it. He went. He came back two hours later with enough yarrow root to last the month, the woven bag full, the root casings entirely intact. He set it on the table beside you and went back to the snare wire without comment. You looked at the yarrow. You looked at his bent golden head. You looked back at the yarrow. "Thank you," you said. "You're welcome," he said, and this time it sounded, for the first time, like something he actually meant.
The budding of it was not dramatic. That was the thing about it that Jake found most disorienting — he had expected, if this kind of thing happened to him at all, that it would happen with the same architectural grandeur as everything else in his life. A declaration. A moment. Something that could be identified and catalogued and responded to with a defined strategic position. Instead it happened in the accumulation of small things, each individually insignificant, collectively devastating. It happened in the mornings, when he had taken to stoking the fire before you woke — not because you had asked him to, not because it served any tactical purpose, but because he had noticed that the first thing you did upon waking was shiver, and the shivering troubled him in a way he couldn't fully articulate, and it was a simple thing to prevent. It happened in the evenings, when the cabin was quiet and the fire was low and you read from the battered, herb-stained journal you kept of your medicinal notes, muttering occasionally to yourself when something didn't resolve the way you wanted it to. He had learned not to offer suggestions during these mutterings — you were not asking for input, you were thinking out loud — but he had also learned that if he waited long enough, sometimes you would look up and say, with a studied casualness that didn't fool him for a second, "hypothetically, if someone were attempting to stabilize a foxglove extraction at low temperature, what would you—" and then stop yourself, because you had remembered you were asking a mercenary from the northern territories for pharmacological advice, and the logical flaw in that was becoming increasingly apparent. The first time it happened he had answered carefully, from the abstract, claiming the knowledge as tavern-rumor and hedge-scholar gossip. The second time, he had answered slightly more specifically. By the fourth time, you had simply stopped pretending to be surprised by how much he knew, and he had stopped pretending to know it accidentally, and neither of you addressed this new tacit understanding because addressing it would have required addressing the larger question of who exactly he was, and that question still had too many jagged edges for either of you to approach directly.
It happened in the specific way Barnaby had taken to dividing his sleeping time equally between you — half the night pressed against your feet, half the night pressed against Jake's side — as though the cat had made a territorial assessment and determined that both humans now fell within the boundaries of his domain. It happened on the afternoon that you caught a fever. It was not, by your standards, a serious fever — a three-day thing, the kind of low-grade misery that your body occasionally produced in response to the accumulated stress of a hard winter and a healing injury and insufficient sleep. You treated it with your own willow bark tincture, declared it manageable, and continued working at the table with the specific bloody-minded stubbornness that Jake had come to think of as your defining characteristic. He watched you do this for approximately four hours before he crossed the room, took the mortar and pestle out of your hands with a gentleness that brooked absolutely no argument, set them on the shelf, and steered you toward the cot with one careful hand between your shoulder blades. You were too tired to fight him properly. "The rendering—"
"Will keep," he said.
"The snares need—"
"I'll check them."
"Barnaby hasn't been—"
"Fed," Jake finished. "I know. I'll feed him. Lie down." You lay down. You pulled the rabbit furs up. You looked at him standing over you with his arms crossed and his golden hair tied back and an expression of such complete, unperformative authority that it briefly reminded you — for the first time in weeks, and with a disorienting lurch — that he was not, in fact, a northern mercenary. You filed this away. You were too feverish to deal with it. "You don't have to—" you started. "I know," he said. "Sleep." You slept. He checked the snares. He fed Barnaby. He rendered the ghost-mushroom you had left half-finished on the hearth with careful, precise attention to the temperature, the way you had taught him. He refreshed your willow bark tincture at the correct intervals, timing it by the tally marks on the wall, and left it within reach of the cot without waking you. He sat on the floorboards beside the cot — not across the room, not at the far wall, but beside it — and he listened to your breathing even out into the slow, steady rhythm of real sleep, and he felt the Lycan senses tracking you with an attention that had nothing predatory in it anymore and everything watchful, and he thought about Aethelgard. He thought about the iron throne and the obsidian walls and the banners of dried-blood crimson snapping in the winter wind. He thought about his father's hand on his golden hair, possessive and cold. He thought about Gareth in the training yard and the specific, honest brutality of their sparring that was the closest thing to genuine affection the citadel had ever offered him. He thought about what it would mean to go back.
He would go back. He had always been going back. The plan had not changed — the blood moon, the passage of the curse's final stage, and then the six-mile walk to the vanguard outpost with whatever was left of him after the night was over. It was a good plan. It was the only plan that made sense. He looked at you sleeping in the firelight, your face finally relaxed out of its habitual watchful tension, Barnaby a warm orange weight against your feet. He looked away. He looked at the fire. Outside, the deep woods settled into their night silence, and the stars above the canopy were very bright and very cold, and somewhere above the horizon the blood moon was gathering itself with the patient, absolute indifference of something that had been coming long before Jake had ridden into the woods on his birthday and longer still before you had dragged him out of a melted snowbank on a broken ankle.It was coming. He knew it in his blood the way he knew the full moon — not yet, not close, but oriented toward him with the specific gravity of an inevitable thing. He had time. Weeks, maybe more. He told himself this was the only reason he was still here. He fed the fire. He listened to you breathe. Barnaby relocated from your feet to Jake's knee sometime after midnight, and Jake's hand settled on the cat's back without his conscious instruction, the way it always did now. The cabin was warm. Outside, the winter was beginning its long, grudging retreat. PJake sat in the firelight and did not think about leaving. He was very good at not thinking about things. It was one of the few skills his father's court had given him that he had found genuinely, unexpectedly useful in the deep woods. He simply sat. He simply stayed.And the blood moon drew closer, one quiet evening at a time, indifferent to the warmth it had been specifically designed to extinguish.
It started, as most irreversible things do, without announcement. Jake had been keeping a private inventory of the reasons he did not have feelings for you. It was a practical exercise — the kind of clear-eyed self-assessment his father had drilled into him since childhood, the discipline of knowing exactly what you wanted and what you didn't and never allowing the two to become confused. The inventory was extensive and logical and had been working perfectly well until approximately the third week of the fifth month, when you had done something so unremarkable that the inventory had simply — stopped. What you had done was this: you had come in from checking the snares in a blizzard, your cloak so saturated with snow it had gone stiff at the edges, your face raw and red from the wind, your ankle clearly hurting more than you were acknowledging — and instead of sitting down, instead of seeing to yourself first, you had gone directly to the shelf and measured out a careful dose of fever tincture into a ceramic cup and left it by the door of old Maren's cottage on your way back. Maren was seventy and arthritic and could not get to you in weather like this. You had gone to her. You had not mentioned it. You came in, hung your frozen cloak, and started the fire as though it were simply the next item on the day's list. Jake only knew because his Lycan hearing had tracked your footsteps taking the longer route home through the outer edge of the ward. He had watched you crouch by the hearth, coaxing the kindling to life with chapped, freezing hands, and something in the inventory had quietly put down its quill and declined to continue.He hadn't said anything. He had gotten up and taken over the fire-starting without comment, and you had sat back on your heels and let him without the usual negotiation of independence, and that had been that. But the inventory never quite recovered.
The understanding arrived in pieces, the way the thaw arrived not all at once, but in the incremental surrender of small frozen things.He understood it first as simple observation. He had always been good at observation; it was the foundation of every manipulation he had ever executed, the careful reading of a person's specific architecture before deciding precisely where to apply pressure. He had turned that same instrument on you because he couldn't turn it off, because eight years in the woods had made you extraordinarily difficult to read and difficult things were the only things that had ever held his attention for longer than five minutes. What he observed, over the long weeks of the deep winter's retreat, was this: You were nothing like anyone he had ever known. This seemed, stated plainly, like an obvious observation. You were a peasant healer living in illegal exile in the deep woods — of course you were nothing like the lords and ladies and carefully manufactured political assets he had spent his life navigating. The gap in circumstance was self-evident. But it wasn't the circumstance he meant. The people of his father's court operated on a principle Jake had always understood and respected, because it was the same principle he operated on — everything was currency. Kindness was currency. Loyalty was currency. Love was the most expensive and therefore most carefully spent currency of all. Nothing was given without calculation of return. Nothing was offered without a silent invoice attached.
You operated on no such principle. This was what kept confounding his attempts to read you. When Maren's granddaughter came to the door at midnight with a child burning with fever, you gave your last jar of the best salve and took a handful of dried beans in return that both of you knew were worth a fraction of what you'd given. When the tenant farmer came with his frostbitten hands, you spent three hours on the treatment when thirty minutes would have been sufficient by any clinical standard, because he was frightened and the fear was making the pain worse and you were constitutionally incapable of leaving a frightened person in unnecessary pain. When Jake himself had stumbled into your territory — naked and cursed and radiating enough heat to melt snowbanks — you had dumped out your entire firewood supply to drag him home on a broken ankle. None of it was strategic. None of it was currency. It was simply — given. Freely, practically, without ledger. He had spent twenty-one years in a world where love was a weapon and warmth was a performance and the shepherd's smile was the most powerful tool in any ambitious person's arsenal. He had been so immersed in that world that he had genuinely believed it was the only world. That the warmth the peasants showed his father's deceitful generosity was the same manufactured warmth his father deployed to extract it — just less sophisticated. Just sheep responding to the shepherd's call. He understood now, with the particular quality of understanding that comes from being made to live inside a thing rather than observe it from above, that he had been entirely, catastrophically wrong.
The warmth was real. That was what he hadn't been able to account for. The woman who had saved his life, who healed the sick for dried beans and kept the dying alive out of sheer bloody-minded refusal to let the King's cruelty have the final word — she was warm in a way that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the simple, radical fact that she had chosen, against all reasonable incentive, to remain a person who gave a damn. His father had never been warm. Jake had never been warm. The citadel was not warm. It was beautiful and powerful and suffocating and it produced people who were brilliant at performing warmth while feeling nothing of it. He thought about Elian, the valet boy he had sent to the northern gate for the crime of having cold hands. He thought about the merchants weeping over sawdust flour. He thought about the Princess Elara and her genuine, earnest tenderness that he had catalogued and weaponized and discarded in the same evening without a second thought. He thought about you in the silver birch clearing, sitting down in the snow at midnight across from the monster with the same matter-of-fact steadiness you brought to everything, and saying then I'll wait as though it were simply the obvious thing. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and breathed.
The Lycan senses were not helping. They had been escalating steadily since the full moon sharper, more insistent, more difficult to compartmentalize and the particular problem they presented in the context of his increasingly complicated feelings about you was this: they were incapable of lying. His mind could construct narratives. His mind was extraordinarily good at constructing narratives — it had been doing so since early childhood, papering over the cold rot of the citadel with whatever story served the moment best. His mind could tell him that his presence in the cabin was purely strategic, that the woodchopping and the snare-checking and the pre-dawn fire-stoking were all rational extensions of a practical arrangement. His senses could not be told anything. They simply reported. And what they reported, with the implacable accuracy of instruments that had no interest in his emotional comfort, was a level of attunement to your specific presence that went so far beyond threat assessment it had become almost laughable. He knew the exact rhythm of your breathing in every stage of sleep. He knew the difference between the footstep pattern of a morning when your ankle was manageable and a morning when it was bad, and on the bad mornings he found reasons to be inside and near the heavy bucket so you wouldn't have to carry it. He knew that you made a specific small sound — barely audible, a soft exhale through the nose — when something you were reading resolved in a way that satisfied you, and he had started timing his own tasks to be completed quietly so as not to interrupt the conditions that produced it. Your scent had become so familiar it had ceased to be overwhelming and become instead something closer to necessary — a constant in the background of his sensory world that he had stopped noticing the way you stop noticing a sound that has always been there and only register it in its absence. The one morning you had gone to the outer ward before he woke and he had come downstairs to a cabin that smelled only of woodsmoke and herbs and not of you, the specific wrongness of it had been visceral enough to stop him in the doorway for a full ten seconds before he identified what was missing.He did not share this information with anyone, including himself, for approximately two weeks.
The evening it became undeniable was unremarkable in every external detail. It was late. The fire had settled to a low, steady burn. You were at the table, not working for once but simply sitting, your hands wrapped around a ceramic mug of willow bark tea that had gone cold, staring at the middle distance with an expression he had learned to recognize as the particular exhaustion that came not from physical labor but from the weight of memory. He had seen it on the bad nights, when the deep cold brought the ghosts back — the father pulled from the wheat fields, the mother in the barn. You never spoke of it directly. You simply went somewhere else for a while and came back. Jake was on the floor near the hearth, nominally sharpening the axe blade but in practice watching you with the helpless attention he had entirely given up trying to discipline. Barnaby was on the table beside your mug, pressing his orange head rhythmically against your forearm in the cat's ancient, simple vocabulary of comfort. You looked down at Barnaby. Something in your face softened — not the careful softening of someone performing warmth, but the involuntary, unguarded relaxation of a person receiving something they needed without having asked for it. You set the cold mug down. You scratched behind Barnaby's ears. The cat's purr filled the small cabin like a second fire. "He does that when I'm thinking about them," you said, without looking up. You didn't specify who. You didn't need to. "He always knows."
Jake set the whetstone down. He was quiet for a moment, turning over several possible responses and discarding each of them. The shepherd's toolkit offered plenty — manufactured empathy, strategic vulnerability, the careful question designed to open a wound just enough to create dependency. He had used every one of them at some point in his life, and they rose to his tongue now with the automatic ease of long practice. He let them go. "How old were you?" he asked. Just that. No performance attached. You looked up. You read his face the way you read everything — carefully, looking for the angle. You didn't find one, which he could tell by the slight shift in your expression. "Young," you said. He nodded. He didn't say anything else. He didn't offer the fabricated grief or the theatrical compassion. He simply acknowledged it — the weight of it, the specific, unhealing quality of a loss that had been delivered not by fate but by the deliberate machinery of a system designed to take everything from people who had nothing to begin with. You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back at Barnaby. "He was a good man," you said. "My father. He knew the names of every plant on the farm. He could tell what the weather would do three days out just from the way the moss grew on the north fence." A pause. "He didn't want to go. They didn't ask." Jake thought about the war reports he had read at the high table. The casualty columns in his father's military dispatches — numbers, not names. Meat for the grinder. The precise, bloodless language of a system that had never once considered the moss on the north fence or the daughter watching from the doorway. Something moved in his chest that was not comfortable and not small.
"I'm sorry," he said. You looked at him again. This time the reading was longer. "You mean that," you said, with the mild surprise of someone encountering an unexpected species. "Yes," he said. You were quiet for a moment. Then you picked up your cold tea, made a face at the temperature, and pushed yourself up to reheat it. On your way past him you paused, and you did something you had never done before — you set your hand briefly on his shoulder. One touch, no more than three seconds, warm and entirely without agenda. Then you moved to the hearth. Jake did not move for a long moment. He looked at the middle distance where you had been sitting. He felt the specific warmth of where your hand had rested on his shoulder with the Lycan sensitivity that registered everything, and he thought about the inventory he had stopped keeping, and he thought about all the ways he had been wrong about the world, and he thought about the blood moon that was coming and the six-mile walk to the vanguard outpost and the iron throne at the end of the long dark corridor. He set all of that aside. He picked up the whetstone. He resumed the slow, rhythmic work of the blade. But something had settled in him — quietly, without drama, without the fanfare of declaration or the strategic calculation of deployment. Something that had been in the process of becoming for weeks had simply, finally, finished becoming. He loved you. He turned the knowledge over carefully, the way he turned a new weapon in his hands — assessing the weight and the balance and the specific implications of the thing. He had expected it to feel like weakness. His father had always framed love as weakness — the shepherd's tool, the leash by which the foolish were led. He had spent twenty-one years armored against it with the specific, comprehensive armor of a person who has been taught from birth that feeling anything is the first step toward being controlled by it.
It didn't feel like weakness. It felt like — he searched for the word with the frustration of a man trying to describe a color he has no name for — it felt like the specific, clarifying quality of the deep woods at dawn. Not comfortable exactly. Too large for comfortable. Too honest. But clarifying the way the pre-dawn dark clarified everything it touched, stripping away the citadel's elaborate architecture of performance and politics and leaving only what was actually there. What was actually there was this: a woman who had dragged a monster out of the snow on a broken ankle. Who sat in a silver birch clearing at midnight and said then I'll wait without drama or agenda. Who gave her last jar of salve to an old woman she'd never met and came home and started the fire. Who looked at the thing he became under the full moon and handed him a damp rag and told him to clean up his mess. Who had just touched his shoulder for three seconds and walked away and not looked back, because she wasn't doing it for any return. She was just — there. Warm and present and entirely, devastatingly real. He had never known anyone real before. He understood this now with a completeness that was its own quiet devastation. He let himself feel it. He sat with it in the firelight, this strange new territory — alien and enormous and nothing like the cold, calculated architecture of the world he had grown up in, but warm. Genuinely, unreservedly warm, in the way that only things without an agenda can be warm.
He didn't try to file it. He didn't try to manage it or deploy it or protect himself from it. He simply let it exist, sitting there in his chest beside the Lycan heat and the cursor's ache, entirely ungoverned and entirely his. Outside, the deep woods were quiet. The winter was retreating by degrees. The days were growing longer. Somewhere above the horizon, unhurried and absolute, the blood moon was approaching. Jake did not think about this. For the first time in months, the careful, ever-running calculation at the back of his mind — the exit route, the vanguard outpost, the iron throne, the plan — had gone quiet. Replaced by the sound of you moving around the cabin behind him, the soft domestic sounds of the fire and the ceramic mug and Barnaby's purring, the specific, grounding rhythm of your heartbeat that his Lycan senses had long since memorized. He thought about none of the things he should have been thinking about. He thought about the moss on the north fence that told the weather three days out. He thought about what it might be like to know a thing like that. To belong so completely to a piece of earth that you learned its specific language. To have that belonging taken from you by a column of numbers in a war dispatch. He thought about the merchant weeping over sawdust flour and believing in it, the genuine tears on a cheek above a blue-tinged lip, a man who had so little left that a handful of flour could produce that quality of hope. He thought about you, fifteen years old, walking into the barn on a frost-bitten morning.
He thought about everything he had been too elevated to see, for twenty-one years, from the high table. The fire popped. Barnaby relocated from the table to Jake's knee with the casual authority of a creature entirely at home in its domain. "The yarrow is almost out again," you said, from behind him. Practical. Conversational. Entirely ordinary. "I'll go tomorrow," Jake said. And he meant it as more than an errand. He meant it as the specific, quiet declaration of a man who has decided, without ceremony, to stay present in a life that has turned out to contain something worth being present for. You made a soft sound of acknowledgment. The fire burned. The cat purred. The blood moon climbed toward its apex above the frozen canopy, patient and inevitable and entirely forgotten by the man sitting on the floor of a healer's cabin in the deep woods, learning, for the first time in his life, what it felt like to be simply, unreservedly somewhere. It made no sound at all.
The thaw announced itself not with warmth but with sound. It began as a subtle shift in the language of the deep woods — the specific, groaning vocabulary of ice under stress, the percussion of meltwater finding new paths beneath the snow's crust, the occasional sharp crack of a branch releasing its winter burden with a sound like a distant gunshot. You had lived through enough thaws to read them the way you read everything else — methodically, cataloguing each signal, adjusting your movements through the woods accordingly. The ravine, you knew, would be the first place to become genuinely dangerous. The ice shelf on the north lip was a seasonal hazard — solid through the hard freeze, treacherous in the transition. You had been monitoring it since the temperature first began its marginal upward creep, checking the root growth below the overhang where the yarrow and the nettle came back earliest, timing your harvests to the narrow window between frozen-solid and actively-collapsing. You had been making this calculation alone for eight years. You were good at it. You told yourself this on the morning you pulled on your boots and reached for your walking stick and deliberately did not mention where you were going. Jake was outside splitting wood — she could hear the rhythmic crack of the maul from the chopping block behind the cabin, could feel the specific vibration of it through the floorboards the way she felt everything he did now, with a heightened awareness she had given up pretending was purely practical. He would be occupied for at least an hour. The ravine was a quarter mile. She would be back before he finished. She left a note on the table. Checking the ravine. Back by midday. Practical. Informative. Not a request for permission. You picked up the woven gathering basket and went.
The woods were different in the thaw. Not warmer — not yet, the air still had a blade to it, the snow still knee-deep in the hollows — but lighter somehow. The quality of the light through the canopy had shifted from the flat, iron-grey compression of deep winter to something marginally more tentative, as though the sun were testing its authority after months of abdication. The trees dripped at the tips of their branches. The snow had a different texture underfoot — not the clean, powdery compression of the hard freeze but something denser, wetter, with an icy crust that held your weight for two steps before surrendering. You moved carefully, your walking stick taking the primary weight off your left ankle, your eyes reading the ground ahead with the attention of someone who has learned the specific cost of reading it wrong. The ravine came into view through the pines — the dark, dramatic gash in the earth that had been part of your gathering territory for seven years, its walls slick with black ice, the bottom still invisible in shadow. The yarrow root system you had been monitoring was visible on the south wall, the dormant casing just beginning to show the faint blush of red that indicated the compounds were active again. Another week and they would be at peak potency. You moved along the southern edge, keeping well back from the lip, your stick probing the snow ahead of each step. The ground was solid. The shelf was on the north side — you were nowhere near it. You crouched at the edge to examine the root system more closely, calculating the harvest. The casing was intact, the soil around the base beginning to soften at the very top — not ready yet, but close. Three days, maybe four. You straightened. You took one step back. The ground gave way.
Not catastrophically — not the full shelf collapse you had always feared, not the forty-foot plunge onto frozen rock. A partial give, a two-foot subsidence of the snow and soil at the very edge of the south lip where the meltwater had been working at the ground beneath for days without visible surface evidence. Your left foot dropped through into empty air. Your right foot held, your walking stick drove deep into the solid ground to your right, and you wrenched yourself sideways and back with everything you had. You landed hard on your side in the snow, three feet from the edge, your left ankle bent at the specific angle that sent a white-hot bolt of agony straight up your leg and punched the breath out of your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. You lay there for a moment, flat on your back, staring up at the winter sky through the pine canopy. "Right," you said, to no one. You assessed. The ankle — the same ankle, of course it was the same ankle — was screaming with a persistence that suggested the scar tissue from the original injury had taken the brunt of the wrench. Not broken. You were almost certain it wasn't broken. Badly sprained, possibly a partial re-tear of the ligament that had never quite finished healing. You would know more when the shock wore off and you could do a proper examination.Getting home was the immediate problem. You rolled onto your side and pushed yourself up with your arms, keeping your left foot lifted. You retrieved your walking stick from where it had embedded in the snow. You tested your weight carefully — enough to hobble, not enough to walk normally. You had just gotten yourself upright when you heard it.
Not footsteps — the snow was too deep for footsteps to carry — but the specific displacement of the air that accompanied something moving very fast through the trees toward you. You turned. Jake came through the pine break at a speed that was not human. His golden hair was loose around his face, the leather cord lost somewhere between the chopping block and here, and his expression was the most unguarded you had ever seen it — stripped entirely of every layer of performance and calculation, down to something raw and immediate that you recognized as fear before you could name anything else about it. He stopped when he saw you upright. The relief that crossed his face was physical — a visible release of tension through his entire frame, from his jaw to his shoulders to the hands that had been, you noticed, slightly clawed at the fingertips and were now retracting. He had run a quarter mile through knee-deep snow in under two minutes. "I'm fine," you said, preemptively. He crossed the remaining distance between you and crouched in the snow in front of you without speaking, his eyes going immediately to your left ankle with the specific focus of someone who had spent months watching you favor it. "It's the same ankle," you said. "I'm aware. It's a sprain, possibly a re-tear of the—"
"Be quiet," he said. Not unkindly. Quietly. He set his hands around the ankle with a gentleness so careful it was almost absurd given the size of them — large and warm and entirely steady, the heat of his Lycan blood bleeding through the leather of your boot. He pressed with his thumbs along the specific lines of the injury with a precision that went well beyond what a northern mercenary should have possessed, and you watched his face while he did it. His jaw was set. His amber eyes were focused and unreadable in the way they got when he was feeling something he hadn't decided what to do with yet. The fear was gone — replaced by the controlled, careful attention he brought to things that mattered to him, the same attention he brought to ghost-mushroom harvests and snare construction and the pre-dawn fire he thought you didn't know he stoked before you woke. "Not broken," he said. "I know," you said. "I told you." He looked up at you. The amber eyes were very close and very direct. "You left a note," he said. "I left a note," you confirmed. "The note said you were checking the ravine."
"The note was accurate."
"The note," Jake said, with a quiet precision that was somehow more alarming than raised volume, "did not mention that the south lip was unstable."
"I didn't know the south lip was unstable."
"No," he agreed. His hands were still around your ankle, warm and unmoving. "That's the problem." You looked at him for a moment. He looked at you. The ravine breathed its cold, damp breath behind you and the pines stood in their indifferent rows and the winter light fell across the specific angles of his face and you thought about eight years of doing this alone — every ravine, every ice shelf, every three-in-the-morning knock on the door, every moment of every day without anyone who would run a quarter mile at inhuman speed because they heard the ice give way. You didn't say any of this. Instead you said, "Are you going to help me up or are you going to crouch in the snow indefinitely." Something shifted in his face. "I'm going to carry you home," he said. "You are not—"
"You re-tore the ligament," he said, simply and without drama. "If you walk on it now you'll be off it for two weeks instead of four days. So I'm going to carry you home." You opened your mouth. You closed it again. He looked at you with the specific patience of someone who has learned the rhythm of your stubbornness and knows exactly how long it takes to complete its arc. "Fine," you said. He picked you up as though you weighed nothing — which, relative to his Lycan strength, you essentially didn't. One arm under your knees, one arm around your back, your gathering basket hooked over his shoulder with a practicality that shouldn't have been as disarming as it was. He straightened without effort and turned toward home. You did not argue. That was the tell, if either of you had been paying attention to it. In all the weeks of the cabin and the woodchopping and the onion standoffs and the snare wire, you had never once let him do something for you without at least a token negotiation of independence. You were quiet all the way home, your cheek resting against the warmth of his shoulder, the deep woods moving past you in their silver and shadow.
He set you on the cot with the same careful gentleness he had used in the ravine, crouching in front of you to remove your boot with both hands, his touch so precise and so warm that the pain of the movement was almost secondary to the specific, overwhelming domesticity of the moment — this man, this impossible golden-haired prince-shaped anomaly, kneeling on the rough floorboards of your exile cottage with your foot in his hands as though it were the most natural position he had ever occupied. The cabin was very quiet. The fire had burned low in your absence and was just beginning to rebuild itself from the coals, casting the room in amber and deep shadow. Barnaby was on the high shelf, watching with the wide, unblinking attention he reserved for significant events. Jake examined the ankle with the same careful precision as before, his thumbs tracing the swollen lines of the injury with a focus so complete it felt like something else. You watched his bent golden head, the loose hair falling forward around his face, the specific quality of his concentration. "It needs the comfrey poultice," you said. "Second shelf, the brown ceramic pot." He retrieved it without standing — simply reached, his Lycan range of motion making the distance trivial — and opened it, and the sharp medicinal smell of the comfrey filled the small cabin. He applied it with the same hands that had carried you through the snow, with the same gentleness, with the same complete, quiet attention. You watched his face. He looked up and caught you watching. The cabin was very warm now. The fire had found its rhythm. Outside, the deep woods were utterly still in the way they got in the late afternoon, between the morning's wind and the evening's.
Neither of you moved. He was still crouched in front of you, your ankle resting in his hands, the poultice applied, no practical reason left for either his position or the specific quality of stillness that had settled over the room. His amber eyes were on yours. The calculation that usually lived in them — the constant, subtle assessment, the measurement of angles and exits and optimal responses — was absent. What was there instead was something that had no strategy in it and no performance and no agenda. Just him. Looking at you. Just you. Looking back. Everything that had accumulated since the silver birch clearing was in the room with you. Every pre-dawn fire and yarrow harvest and cold-tea-reheated-without-being-asked. Every almost-smile over onion grass and every three seconds of a hand on a shoulder. Every night he had stayed when he could have left and every morning he had been there when you woke. "Jake," you said. Very quietly. "Yes," he said. The same way — very quietly. As though speaking at normal volume might disturb something that was in the process of becoming. You reached out. You set your hand against his jaw — the sharp, aristocratic angle of it, the familiar lines of a face you had been learning for months whether you had intended to or not. He went very still beneath your touch, the way he went still when something mattered enough to require every available resource of his attention. His eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again the amber was very dark and very warm and entirely, devastatingly unguarded. He reached up. He set his hand over yours where it rested against his face, covering it completely — his hand so much larger that your fingers disappeared beneath his — and held it there. Neither of you spoke. The fire crackled. Barnaby made a soft, decisive sound from the high shelf, as though confirming something he had known for quite some time. Jake turned his face slightly, just enough to press his lips against your palm — not a performance, not a strategy, not the calculated tenderness of the shepherd's mask. Something entirely different. Something offered with the specific, terrifying simplicity of a man who has nothing left to hide behind and has decided, finally, to stop trying.
The fire crackled low, casting flickering amber across the rough cabin walls as Jake rose from his crouch. His amber eyes held yours with an intensity that pinned you more effectively than any physical restraint. The air between you thickened, charged with months of unspoken hunger finally breaking free. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving you time to feel the full weight of what was coming. His large hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip before he claimed your mouth. The kiss started deep and searching—his tongue licking into you with possessive strokes, tasting, exploring, demanding you open wider for him. You moaned softly into it, and he swallowed the sound, licking deeper, hotter, as if he could devour every quiet year of solitude you’d carried. When he pulled back, both of you were breathing harder. “I’ve waited long enough,” he growled, voice rough with Lycan gravel. “You’re going to feel every second of it.” He stripped you with unhurried command, peeling away each layer of clothing until you lay completely bare on the cot. His gaze dragged over your body like a physical touch—slow, heated, appreciative. He shed his own clothes next, revealing the powerful, sculpted lines of his Lycan form: broad shoulders, corded muscle, and the thick, heavy cock already flushed and leaking at the tip. He was magnificent, intimidating, and utterly focused on you. Jake settled between your spread thighs, but he didn’t enter you. Not yet. Instead, he dragged it out, building the tension until it felt like you might snap.
His mouth found your throat first, sucking and biting marks into your skin while one hand palmed your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until it ached. He licked a hot trail down to your other breast, sucking the peak into his mouth with long, pulling draws that had your back arching off the furs. Two thick fingers slid between your legs, stroking through your slick folds with devastating patience—circling your clit, teasing your entrance, never giving you enough. “Jake…” you whimpered, hips rolling desperately. “Not yet,” he murmured against your skin, licking into your mouth again in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss as he pushed one finger inside you, then two. He curled them perfectly, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb worked your clit in tight circles. Every time your breathing hitched and your walls started to flutter, he slowed or pulled back, edging you cruelly. “Please,” you gasped against his lips. He licked deeper into your mouth in answer, tongue fucking against yours in rhythm with his fingers. “You’ll come when I decide. I want you dripping for me.” By the time he finally withdrew his fingers, you were trembling, slick coating your thighs. Jake gripped your hips and flipped you onto your stomach with effortless strength, pulling your ass up so you were on your knees, chest pressed to the furs. He knelt behind you, rubbing the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance. “You’re mine,” he said, voice low and dark. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch your spine as he finally pushed inside. The stretch was intense—his girth splitting you open inch by thick inch. He went slow at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a deep groan. Then the leash on his control snapped.
He fucked you hard. His hips snapped forward with powerful, punishing thrusts that drove the breath from your lungs. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the cabin, wet and obscene. Each stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, his heavy balls slapping against your clit. He kept one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted as he railed you. He pulled you up onto your knees, back flush against his chest, and turned your head to lick into your mouth again—deep, messy kisses while he continued fucking you with brutal intensity. His tongue stroked yours in time with his cock, swallowing every moan and cry as he drove into you harder, faster. “Fuck, you feel perfect,” he growled against your lips, licking deeper, claiming every gasp. “Taking me so well. My love. My mate.” The tension coiled tighter in your belly, every hard thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He felt it—the way you clenched around him—and snarled, pounding into you even harder, the cot creaking dangerously beneath you. When your orgasm finally crashed over you, it was devastating. You cried out into his mouth as your walls spasmed around his cock, milking him. Jake roared, burying himself to the hilt. At the peak of his release, his fangs sank into the junction of your neck and shoulder—the marking instinctive, irreversible. White-hot pleasure-pain exploded through you, triggering another shattering climax as his essence bonded you to him forever. He licked the mark closed with slow, reverent strokes of his tongue, still buried deep inside you, arms wrapped possessively around your body as you both trembled through the aftershocks.There was no strategy left in his amber eyes when he finally turned you to face him—only raw, unguarded truth. The Lycan prince had claimed his equal completely, and in doing so, had given himself over in return.
Jake woke before you did. This was not unusual — the Lycan biology kept him at a perpetual low simmer of alertness, the senses running their quiet inventory of the environment even in sleep. But the specific quality of waking was different this morning. Instead of the usual snapping-to of tactical awareness, the immediate catalogue of threats and exits and variables, there was only — this. The fire burned low. The early morning light was a pale, tentative grey through the frosted window. Barnaby was a warm weight somewhere near the foot of the cot, his purring a constant, uninterrupted thread in the cabin's silence. And you were asleep against his chest, your breathing slow and even and entirely unguarded in the specific way that sleep strips everything back to its essential self. Jake lay still. He was aware of the mark at your neck with a clarity that went beyond the physical — a deep, settled recognition in the Lycan part of him that was not triumphant or possessive in the way he might once have expected, but simply certain. The way the deep woods were certain of their own geography. Immovable. Factual. Irrevocable. He had not planned it. That was the thing he kept returning to — he, who had planned everything, every gesture and every word and every calculated deployment of warmth, had done the most permanent and unstrategic thing of his life entirely without planning. The Lycan had simply — known. And for once, the Prince had not argued. He looked at the ceiling. The rough-hewn beams with their bundles of drying herbs, the familiar herbal weight of the air, the specific amber light of the fire catching the glass vials on the shelves. This was the cabin he had arrived in as a monster and had intended to leave as soon as it was tactically viable. He thought about the six-mile walk to the vanguard outpost. He thought about it with the same flat, examining attention he had brought to it for months, turning it over to assess its weight.
It was lighter than he expected. That surprised him. Not because he no longer intended to return — Aethelgard was still there, the throne was still there, the question of the curse's final stage was still unanswered. He was still a prince and the kingdom was still waiting and none of those facts had changed overnight. But the specific urgency of escape that had driven the calculation for the first months — the desperate need to return to the citadel, to restore the walls and the silk and the authority — that had quieted. Replaced by something he was only beginning to have language for. He wanted to go back changed. Not the same man who had ridden into the deep woods on his birthday with an arrow nocked and a century's worth of inherited contempt in his chest. Something else. Something that had stood in a silver birch clearing and been held together by a voice in the dark, and had sat on the floor of a cottage learning to render ghost-mushroom and check snares and stoke fires for someone who had never once asked to be taken care of and had never once stopped taking care. He did not know yet what that man would do with a kingdom. That was a problem for a later hour. You stirred against him. A soft exhale, the small adjustment of someone surfacing slowly from sleep, and then stillness again — not back under, but not quite present either, suspended in the particular warmth of the space between. He felt you become aware of him. The slight tension of consciousness returning, the brief moment of orientation — where am I, what is this, why is it warm — and then the release of it, the body deciding it knew the answer and that the answer was acceptable, settling back into the warmth.
Something in his chest turned over quietly. You tilted your head. You looked at the mark at your neck with your fingertips, very gently, the way you touched everything you were assessing — methodical, precise, cataloguing. "You marked me," you said. Not accusatory. Not alarmed. Simply noting. "Yes," he said.
A pause. "Lycan marking," you said. "The books described it."
"Yes." You were quiet for a moment, your fingers still resting at your neck. The fire popped. Outside, the early morning birds had begun their tentative thaw-season experiments with sound — the first in weeks. "Is it permanent?" you asked. "Yes," he said. And then, because the inventory was gone and the performance was gone and there was nothing left to hide behind: "I'm sorry if you didn't—"
"I didn't say that," you said quietly. He stopped. You turned your head and looked at him. The morning light was unkind in the way that only early light is unkind — showing everything exactly as it was, without the softening of the fire or the forgiving amber of the evening. You looked at him in the grey, honest light and he looked at you, and neither of you looked away. "I know what a Lycan marking means," you said. "I read the books. All of them." He held your gaze. "Then you know it isn't something I could have done without—"
"I know," you said. Simply. Completely.The silence that followed was the quietest the cabin had ever been.He looked at you in the grey morning light, your hand in his, your eyes steady and dark and entirely without fear, the mark at your neck that was the most honest thing he had ever done. He thought about what knowing would do to this morning. To the specific, fragile quality of the peace that had settled in the cabin overnight. We have now, you had said. He closed his mouth. He turned his hand over beneath yours and held it properly, his fingers warm against your knuckles. "Yes," he said softly. "We have now." Outside, the deep woods were waking into their tentative thaw-season morning, the birds finding their voices, the snow beginning its slow surrender to the inevitable. The blood moon climbed its patient arc above the canopy, drawing closer by the hour. And in the small warm cabin in the deep woods, two people lay in the grey morning light and held onto the present with both hands, the way people hold onto things they know are temporary but love too much to release before they have to.
The days that followed the marking were the best of Jake's life. He would not have said this out loud. He would not have known how to say it — the vocabulary of uncomplicated happiness was not one he had ever been given occasion to develop, and its absence left him reaching for words that kept arriving wrong. Too small. Too insufficient for the specific quality of what the days had become.So he didn't say it. He simply lived inside it, with the careful, wondering attention of a man handling something he doesn't fully trust not to break.The thaw was accelerating. The snow in the clearing outside the cabin had retreated to the shadowed hollows beneath the pines, and the ground that had been iron-hard for months was beginning its slow, muddy resurrection. The river to the north had broken up, and on clear mornings you could hear it moving again — a sound Jake had not heard since his arrival, and which struck him now with a quality of significance he couldn't entirely account for. Water moving. Things unfrozen. The world reconsidering its position. You had started leaving the window cracked in the mornings, and the air that came in was different — still cold, but carrying underneath the cold the faint green suggestion of something returning.Jake noticed these things in the way he noticed everything now — fully, without the filter of calculation. The thaw had done something to him that he suspected had less to do with the season and more to do with the marking, with the specific biological reality of a Lycan bond settling into his system like a second heartbeat. He was more attuned to the world than he had ever been and less defended against it, and this combination produced in him a state he had no prior experience with and was learning, incrementally, to inhabit without panic. The word for it, he thought, was present. He was simply — present. For the first time in twenty-one years.
The funny moments came first, which surprised him. He had expected tenderness. He had expected the quiet, careful warmth of two people learning a new proximity, the specific soft-footed adjustment of sharing space in a new way. He had not expected to find himself laughing. It happened on the fourth morning after the marking, when you had sent him to the root cellar to retrieve the last of the dried barley and he had come back up through the hatch with an expression of profound existential distress. "There are onions," he said. You looked up from the worktable. "There are onions," you confirmed. "Wild spring onions," he said. "An entire bundle. On the bottom shelf. Which means they have been there for—"
"Several weeks," you said, perfectly pleasantly. "I found them in the outer ward trade."The silence stretched. "You threw away the red onions," Jake said slowly, "while possessing, in your root cellar, a secret supply of spring onions."
"The red onions were inferior," you said. "You argued with me for an entire afternoon about caloric scarcity—"
"The spring onions are much milder," you said. "They don't ruin the broth." Jake looked at you for a very long moment, his expression cycling through several distinct phases. Then he set the barley on the table, sat down on the floor, and laughed — a real laugh, unmanufactured and entirely undignified, the kind of laugh that had never once been permitted in the court of Aethelgard because laughter was a vulnerability and vulnerability was a weapon handed freely to your enemies. It felt extraordinary. It felt like putting down something very heavy that he hadn't known he was carrying. You watched him with the small, pleased expression you deployed when something had gone exactly as you intended, which it clearly had. "You did that on purpose," he said, when he could speak again. "The broth tonight will be excellent," you said. It was.
The tenderness came in the nights. It arrived not as a grand gesture but as the slow accumulation of small ones — the specific way he had started sleeping with his arm around you, not possessively but as though checking, in sleep, that you were still there. The mornings when he woke first and lay quietly cataloguing the specific weight and warmth of you against his side, turning it over with the careful attention he had once reserved for military strategy, finding in it something that required no strategy at all. He had started touching you in the idle, unconsidered way of someone who has forgotten to monitor the habit. A hand at the small of your back when he moved past you in the small cabin. His fingers finding yours when you passed him tools at the worktable. The specific domestic intimacy of sitting beside you in the evenings with his shoulder against yours, reading the medicinal journal over your arm while you made your notes, asking occasional questions that revealed more about his actual education than the northern mercenary story had ever been intended to permit.You had stopped pretending to be surprised by how much he knew. He had stopped pretending not to know it. This unspoken renegotiation had opened up a quality of conversation that neither of you had permitted before — real conversation, the kind that had opinions in it and genuine disagreement and the specific pleasure of a mind meeting another mind at approximately its own level. He told you about military cartography — abstractly, framed as things he had read. You told him about the medicinal properties of plants the citadel's licensed apothecaries had never bothered to study because they grew only in the margins, in the places the Crown's maps didn't bother to detail. "They don't know about the ghost-mushroom applications," you said one evening, with a flat wonder that was really a kind of fury. "Eight years I've been using it for pain management and the citadel apothecaries are still prescribing imported poppy at twenty times the cost to people who can't afford to eat."
Jake was quiet for a moment. He was thinking about the Master of Coin. About the specific, deliberate architecture of a system that kept its people sick enough to need help and poor enough to be grateful for whatever help they were permitted to afford. "It's intentional," he said, without the careful framing he would have used a month ago. "The ignorance isn't accidental." You looked at him. "The licensed apothecaries pay significant tithes to maintain their monopoly," he said. "The Crown benefits from the arrangement. Cheaper alternatives in the outer wards would reduce dependency on citadel services." He paused. "It's a supply chain, not a healthcare system." The silence that followed was a different kind than the comfortable ones. You were reading his face with the full, flat attention you brought to things that didn't add up. "How do you know that?" you said quietly. He met your eyes. The conversation sat at the edge of something — a line he had been approaching incrementally for weeks, the question of who he actually was pressing against the inside of the fiction with increasing insistence. "I read a great deal," he said, for the last time, and they both knew it was the last time, and neither of them pushed further tonight, because tonight was warm and the broth had spring onions in it and there would be time. There would be time.
There wasn't.
The blood moon gave no warning. That was the thing Jake would return to, afterward, in the long frozen hours of afterward — the complete, devastating absence of warning. He had felt the full moon building for days before it arrived, had felt it in his blood like a tide turning. He had assumed, without examining the assumption, that the blood moon would announce itself the same way. That he would have time to prepare. To tell you. To give you the chance to run or to stay or to choose with full knowledge of what you were choosing. He had been wrong. He woke on an ordinary morning in the ordinary way — your warmth against his side, Barnaby's purring at his feet, the early light pale and tentative through the frosted window. He stoked the fire. He checked the snares. He came back to the cabin and set a brace of wood grouse on the preparation block and knocked the snow off his boots at the door and stepped inside to find you at the worktable with the spring onion broth already started, the medicinal journal open beside the pot, Barnaby winding imperiously around your ankles. It was, in every particular, a normal morning. The blood moon rose that night.He felt it differently from the full moon — not the gravitational pull, not the tide-turning build, but something sudden and total, like a door slamming open in the dark. One moment he was sitting beside you on the cot, your head against his shoulder, the fire low and the cabin warm and the evening so ordinary it was almost laughable in retrospect — and then the door opened, and everything that was Jake stepped back, and everything that was the beast stepped forward. He had no time to speak. No time to warn you, to push you away, to do any of the things he had intended to do when the blood moon came — the conversation he had been deferring, the truth he had been meaning to tell you, the choice he had been meaning to give you. The Witch had been very specific. There is no control. There is no — there is nothing left of me. He had believed her. He simply hadn't believed it would be this fast.
The beast that emerged on the blood moon was not the creature from the silver birch clearing.That creature had retained enough of Jake to hold on, to turn its back, to hold itself at the far treeline with its clawed hands loose on its knees and breathe through it. That creature had been a man in tremendous difficulty. This was something else entirely. The bond recognized you. That was the cruelest part — the Lycan marking that had been the most honest thing Jake had ever done now worked against you in the most devastating way possible, because the beast that wore Jake's body on the blood moon was not bound by Jake's choices. It was bound by the Witch's architecture, which was older and more absolute than any marking, and the Witch's architecture said: find the one who loves you. Find the source of the cure. And fulfill the curse's final terms. The beast loved you. That was not in question. The bond made that impossible to doubt. But the beast's love and Jake's love were different things — one governed by the man's slowly acquired humanity, the other by the raw, primal mechanics of a curse designed by an ancient and furious power to exact a specific and irrevocable cost. You didn't run. This was the thing that broke him, after — the thing that sat in his chest in the long frozen hours of afterward like a shard of iron that could not be removed. You had read the books. You had known what the blood moon meant. You had lived in the deep woods for eight years and you had learned to run from every apex predator, every territorial dispute, every thing that went wrong in the dark — and you had survived by running. You didn't run from him. You stood in the cabin and you looked at what was coming and you did not run, because you had sat in a silver birch clearing at midnight and decided, and your decisions were not reversible things.The snow outside was very white afterward. That was what he remembered most, in the immediate and terrible afterward — the specific, brutal whiteness of it, and the red, and the silence.
He came back to himself the way he had after the first transformation — consciousness returning in pieces, the cold against his skin, the specific weight and texture of the ground beneath him. But this time there was no melted crater. This time there was no anonymous snowbank and an empty clearing and the distant, galloping hooves of a frightened horse.This time, he was on his knees in the snow outside the cabin, and you were in his arms. The cold arrived first — not in his body, which was still running its Lycan furnace, but in his hands, where the warmth that should have been there wasn't. He looked down and the world stopped. He didn't scream. He had expected to scream — had some distant, instinctive sense that this was a moment that should produce screaming. But what came out of him instead was something much quieter and much worse. A sound he didn't recognize from himself, low and broken and entirely without the architecture of language, the sound of something that had no performance left and no strategy and no shepherd's mask, stripped down to the thing underneath all of it that had never been permitted to exist until the deep woods had slowly, patiently excavated it. He held you. He held you the way he had carried you back from the ravine — both arms, your weight against his chest — but the carrying was over now and they both knew it and the knowledge was a physical thing, a crushing weight that had nothing to do with the Lycan biology and everything to do with the heart that had been so carefully, so improbably, softened. The snow around his knees was red.
He looked at your face. The expression on it was not what he had expected — not fear, not betrayal, not the specific devastating accusation his imagination had constructed in every version of this moment he had allowed himself to consider. You looked, in the last of the winter moonlight, like someone who had made their choice and was not sorry for it. He pressed his forehead against yours. His hands were shaking — the Lycan steadiness that had never failed him in a training yard or a war council entirely absent, because this was not a thing that steadiness was equipped for. "I was going to tell you," he said. His voice came out wrecked, barely recognizable. "I kept meaning to tell you. I kept — there was always another morning. Another evening. I thought there was—" The words stopped. They were insufficient. They had always been insufficient — he had always known, in the coldest and most honest part of himself, that there was no version of the telling that fixed the fundamental problem, which was not the withholding of information but the nature of the curse itself. It had been designed this way. It had always been designed to end this way. To find your cure is to seal your doom. The Witch's words arrived now with the specific, devastating clarity of things understood too late. He turned them over in his mind with the same careful attention he had brought to military dispatches and resource assessments, applying the full weight of his analytical intelligence to a problem that had already resolved itself in the worst possible way. The curse was broken. He felt it — felt the absence of it with the same sudden, total quality as its arrival on the day of his twenty-first birthday. The Lycan heat was still present, the senses still heightened, the biology irreversibly altered. But the compulsion was gone. The Witch's architecture had collapsed. The blood moon had done what it was designed to do and had taken its payment and the debt was settled and the curse was finished.
He was free. The word arrived in his mind with an irony so complete and so crushing it was almost architectural in its perfection. Free. He looked down at you in the red snow. He thought about the man who had ridden into these woods on his birthday — arrogant and cold and entirely, comprehensively wrong about the nature of the world. The man who had catalogued the weak as fuel, who had sent a boy to the northern gate for having cold hands, who had looked at the starving outer wards from his private balcony with nothing in his chest but a cold, simmering superiority. He thought about the man who had ended up on the floor of a healer's cottage in a dead farmer's clothes, being ordered to chop wood and clean floorboards, being told that his roof-fixing and his apologizing were evidence of something worth keeping. He thought about the ghost-mushroom rendered at the correct temperature. The yarrow harvested in the dark. The spring onions kept secret for weeks. The hand on his shoulder for three seconds. The silver birch clearing. Then I'll wait. The gods of Aethelgard had given him a golden face and a kingdom and a throne and a father who had taught him that love was the oldest weapon. He had believed, for twenty-one years, that this was a blessing — that he had been born into the top of the natural order and that the cold clarity of his position was a kind of grace.He understood now, kneeling in the red snow with the broken curse settling into silence in his blood, that it had been the curse all along. Not the Witch's magic. That had come later, had been a response to something that already existed. The real curse was the twenty-one years before the woods — the architecture of contempt and performance and cold calculation that had made him, by the time the Witch found him in the clearing, exactly the kind of monster who would aim an arrow at a starving woman and call it pest control.
The Witch had not cursed him. She had shown him. And the woods had done the rest — had dismantled him, slowly and without ceremony, with root stew and snare wire and the specific, radical equality of being treated like a man who needed to earn his keep. He had been given the rarest thing in the world. A second nature. A real one, built from scratch in the shadow of the citadel he had spent his life embodying, in the company of the person least likely to offer it and most qualified to know whether it was genuine. And the Witch had built the ending into the beginning, had known from the first violet spark in the clearing that the cure and the cost were the same event, had looked at the cold arrogant prince on his hunting horse and designed a punishment elegant in its precision: You will find warmth. You will become capable of it. And then you will understand, in the most complete and irreversible way possible, exactly what you spent twenty-one years treating as fuel. Barnaby appeared in the cabin doorway. The orange cat sat on the threshold, and he did not hiss, and he did not run, and he looked at Jake in the snow with his wide, unblinking eyes — the same eyes that had watched from the high shelf on the very first night, the eyes that had known before anyone else what was living under the golden hair and the amber eyes. The cat made a sound. Soft, small, entirely unlike his usual authority. Jake held you tighter. The tears arrived without warning — not the performed grief of the court, not the strategic vulnerability of the shepherd's mask, but the real thing, which he had not produced since early childhood and which felt now like something breaking open that had been sealed too long. They fell into your hair and they were entirely without dignity and entirely without calculation and they were the most honest thing he had ever produced with his face.
The winter was almost over. The snow was retreating from the clearing, day by day. The river was moving again. The birches at the tree line were beginning their slow, insistent resurrection, the first green suggestions of leaves pressing against the grey bark. The world was warming. Jake sat in the snow and held what the warming had cost him and wept without stopping, the tears of a man who had learned too late and too completely that the thing his father had always called weakness was in fact the only thing that had ever been real. The blood moon set. The dawn came in grey and tentative and entirely indifferent, the way dawns always came — without regard for what the night had taken, without ceremony, simply the next thing after the last thing. Jake was still there when the light found him. Still in the snow. Still holding on. The curse was broken. He was free. He had never been less free in his life. And somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the grief and the silence and the red snow, a single thought formed with the cold, precise clarity of a man who had been trained from birth to assess a situation and identify what came next — He was the Crown Prince of Aethelgard. He had the full resources of a kingdom. He had a court mage and a Master of Coin and a Captain of the Guard who had taught him how to break a man's knee and how to survive the lethal politics of an iron court. And he had, in his blood, the permanent, irreversible mark of a Lycan bond that the Witch herself had said was the architecture of true love. The curse had a paradox at its heart. It had always had a paradox at its heart. To find your cure is to seal your doom. But what if doom was not the end of the story? What if doom was simply the cost of entry?
He looked at your face in the dawn light. The winter light. The light of a world that was, against all reasonable expectation, continuing. We have now, you had said.His jaw set. His amber eyes cleared, slowly, from grief to something older and colder and more purposeful — the Prince of Aethelgard reassembling himself from the pieces the curse had scattered, but reassembling differently now. Built around a different center. Oriented toward a different throne. He gathered you closer against his chest. He pressed his lips to your hair. He stayed in the snow until the dawn had fully arrived and the red had been absorbed into the white and the winter birds had found their voices in the thawing canopy. Then he stood. He carried you inside. He set you on the cot with the same careful gentleness that had always been disproportionate for a man his size, the same hands that had learned ghost-mushroom and snare wire and pre-dawn fires and the specific temperature of a rendering pot. He looked at the shelves. The glass vials, the ceramic pots, the tightly corked tinctures, the bundles of herbs that had kept the forgotten people of the outer wards breathing through the hardest winter in a generation. He knew every one of them. He had learned them all, in this room, from you. He began to work. He worked with the total, focused attention of a man who has identified the only thing that matters and has eliminated everything else from his field of consideration — the Lycan senses extended to their full capacity, the military precision turned entirely inward, every piece of knowledge accumulated over months of ghost-mushroom and yarrow and foxglove and the correct temperature of a rendering pot deployed with the single-minded ferocity of a prince who had been trained from birth to want things and get them. Outside, the last of the blood moon faded from the sky. The dawn light strengthened. The river ran. The birches pressed their green suggestions against the grey bark.
Barnaby jumped onto the cot. He pressed his orange head against your arm, the ancient, simple vocabulary of a creature that had known from the beginning what the golden stranger in the cabin was worth. Jake worked. The curse was broken. He was the Crown Prince of Aethelgard, with a kingdom's resources and a Lycan's senses and months of the most rigorous education in the real world he had ever received. And the Witch, for all her ancient fury and her elegant architecture of punishment, had made one miscalculation. She had taught him to love.She had not considered what a man like Jake did with things he loved.He fought for them.The curse had been his punishment, and the woods had been his classroom, and you had been, without ever intending it, the first true thing he had ever been given — and he had held it the way all men hold the things they receive too late, which is to say, with the full and devastating understanding of its worth only in the moment of its leaving. The Witch had wanted him to feel what the starving felt, what the widows felt, what the boys sent to the northern gate felt — that specific, particular cold of a world that takes without asking and owes you nothing in return. He understood it now. He understood it completely, kneeling in the red snow in the grey dawn with a softened heart and clean hands, which was the only ending available to a man who had spent twenty-one years learning the wrong lessons and one winter, too late, learning the right ones.
The kingdom was still there, and the throne was still there, and the iron crown was still waiting — but the man who would wear it now had been forged in a mud-and-stick cabin by a woman who had never asked to save anyone and had never once been able to stop.
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Summary: Five years ago, Mingi had to make a choice—between you and his career. Back then, he chose his career, which soared rapidly afterward. Famous, beloved, celebrated all over the world. You, on the other hand, were left behind—alone, broken, and hurt. And as fate would have it, you meet again, and things take an unexpected turn…
a/n: Alright everyone, here it is—my first longer fanfiction… I’m nervous! It feels like everything takes me longer because I’m writing in English for the first time! If you find any mistakes, I’m sorry!
Enjoy reading!
Chapter 1
You stride down the hallway of the fancy restaurant like you’re on a mission. Your heels click sharply against the polished parquet floor — loud, confident, a little dramatic. You’re trying (and failing) to shove your phone into your ridiculously tiny handbag, because of course it gets stuck, and of course your rings decide to latch onto the damn thing like it’s personal. Honestly, this excuse of a purse couldn’t even hold Smurfette’s essentials. Without looking up, you keep walking — until you slam straight into someone. Your bag slips from your hand and hits the floor.
“Shit—sorry,” you mumble, already crouching down to grab it, but a large hand beats you to it. You straighten up, ready to thank them politely — but the words die in your throat the second you realize who’s standing in front of you.
“y/n?”
You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Out of a million. Out of a lifetime. Your heart starts pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to warn you — or maybe escape. You just stare at him. Mingi. It’s been 5 years, 2 months, and 15 days since he broke your heart. Since he chose his career over you. And ever since that day, you swore that if you ever saw him again, you’d slap him across the face and call him every insult you’ve ever known. Maybe even add a well-placed kick to really seal the deal. And yet… here you are. Just staring at him.
Your voice is tied in knots. Your stomach is twisted. Your heart aches like it remembers everything all at once. You have exactly two options: Stay and make polite small talk with the man who shattered you into a thousand pieces… or face him — confident, fearless, healed.
Or… run.
Yeah. Running sounds great.
“I have to go,” you mutter, panic creeping into your voice as you turn on your heel and hurry away. You squeeze past a group of guests, stealing a glance over your shoulder — and there he is. Following you. Panic spikes. You pick up your pace, which would be easier if you weren’t balancing on 12 cm heels like a newborn deer instead of Usain Bolt. In your rush, you don’t see the waiter turning the corner — carrying a full tray. And then—
Crash.
You slam right into him. Glasses shatter, drinks spill everywhere, chaos erupts instantly. People stare. The waiter apologizes immediately, but you don’t care. You just need to get away. Away from Mingi. So you rush out of the restaurant, slip into an open elevator — thank God the doors close right away — and frantically press the button for the basement parking. When an elderly couple steps out one floor below, you’re finally alone. The ringing in your ears fades. Your pulse slows. You take a deep breath. Then another. Close your eyes for a second. You did it. You actually avoided him.
A small, proud smile tugs at your lips.
Out of sight, out of mind. That’s always been your motto. And honestly? It’s worked pretty damn well when it comes to Mingi. Your head drops slightly as you exhale. Now… how the hell are you going to explain to Mina that you completely ditched your arranged date? Then again — the guy was probably boring anyway. And then you feel it. A single tear slipping down your cheek.
You swallow.
Another follows. Then another. You press your hand over your eyes, as if that might stop them — as if you still have control. You don’t. And finally, you give in. Sliding down the wall of the elevator, you collapse into yourself, sobbing.
———————————
Once again, Mingi checks the apartment number against your ID. Apartment 9. This has to be it. He takes a slow breath in, then out. This is probably a terrible idea. But he had to see you again. Ever since running into you at the restaurant—since you bolted like your life depended on it—he hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. And it’s not just your dramatic escape that’s been haunting his nights.
No…
It’s also the fact that after five years, you’re still ridiculously hot. Your face—more mature now, sure—but still easily putting every model to shame. And that dress? The way it hugged your curves, especially that perfect, round ass— Mingi clenches his jaw. Yeah… he needs to get it together before this turns into a very inappropriate situation. Confident in himself—maybe a little too confident—he presses the doorbell.
“I’m coming!” your voice echoes from behind the door.
He hears footsteps. Multiple. Voices, too. His brows furrow. Wait… were you taken? Living with someone?
It suddenly hits him—he doesn’t know anything about you anymore. Not a single damn thing. You disappeared back then like you’d been erased. The door swings open abruptly, and he blinks. You’re standing there with your back to him. Short shorts. Oversized T-shirt. Your long hair piled into a messy bun. Effortless. Dangerous.
“Sia, I’m telling you for the last time—get dressed now!” you snap, your voice sharp enough to make Mingi question whether he’s turned on… or slightly afraid. His gaze drifts. Down your soft back… to your very distracting ass…and further down your toned, slender legs.
A quiet sigh escapes you as you finally turn around—
“Thanks for coming, Mom, those two—”
And then you see him. Your words die instantly.Mingi gives you a small, almost shy smile and holds up your ID.
“You left this behind,” he says softly.
Your eyes flick between him and the card. Him. The card. Him again. But you don’t move.
“Mommy! I can’t find the right crown for my Elsa dress!” a high-pitched voice pipes up behind you.
Mingi tilts his head, curious—and spots a little girl with long black hair in a light blue dress.
“Mommy! Are you even listening?” she huffs, completely unfazed by his presence. “Nari had the crown last!”
You still don’t respond, frozen in place.
“Who’s that, Mommy?” she asks, now eyeing Mingi with open curiosity.
Before you can answer, another tiny voice joins in.
“Mommy! I don’t have the stupid Elsa crown!”
Another little girl appears—
And suddenly, chaos.
“You do too!”
“No I don’t!”
Mingi’s eyes widen. These two barely reach his hips, but they argue like seasoned professionals.
“That’s enough!” you snap, stepping in and separating the miniature war zone. “Sia, your crown is in the bathroom! Nari, go get dressed—your grandma will be here any minute!” One of the girls storms off—sticking her tongue out at her sister on the way—while the other suddenly turns her full attention to Mingi.
“Hi! I’m Sia!” she chirps sweetly, flashing him a bright smile. Mingi crouches down, offering his hand.
“Mingi.”
Just like with you, his charm works instantly. She grins and high-fives him. “Are you Mommy’s date?” she asks, lisping slightly.
“Sia! Go!” you command, pointing down the hallway.
She rolls her eyes—definitely your daughter—throws Mingi one last adorable smile, which he answers with a wink, and disappears.
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“Married?”
“No.”
Interesting, Mingi thinks. You must have left the father, or he left you. What an idiot. When he stands back up and looks at you again—your expression could kill.
“What are you doing here?” you snap, snatching your ID from his hand.
“Returning your ID,” he replies casually. Then, with a teasing lift of his brow: “A date, huh?”
“Stop. Right now,” you warn.
“Relax, I’m kidding,” he says lightly—though his eyes wander down your body again.
Yeah… you’re definitely not wearing a bra.
“I know that look,” you say sharply. “And I don’t like it one bit.”
Mingi slowly drags his tongue over his lower lip, completely unbothered.
“So… how’ve you been, y/n?”
“Fantastic. And now—goodbye.”
You move to slam the door, but he stops it with one hand. Your eyes meet.
“Whoa, whoa—not so fast,” he murmurs. “You’re not even going to invite me in?”
You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
“No.”
“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, stepping back. “See you next time.” He gives you a wink and raises his hands innocently.
“There won’t be a next time!” you snap.
“Sure about that?” he teases. “Aren’t you missing your organ donor card?”
He laughs at your stunned expression.
“See you next time, Mommy.”
And with that, he turns and walks off—smirking to himself as your door slams shut behind him—hands sliding casually into his pockets, far too pleased with himself.
——————————-
With a sigh, Yunho lets the controller drop onto the couch the moment he hears Mingi entering the dorm. Mingi tosses his keys onto the shelf and flops down next to him on the comfy sofa. It doesn’t take long for Yunho to notice the wide grin spreading across his friend’s face.
“Someone’s in a very good mood,” he remarks, giving Mingi’s muscular thigh a friendly slap.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into today!” Mingi sings, his grin growing even wider.
Yunho barely has time to think before Mingi bursts out again, unable to contain himself.
“Okay, fine, I’ll tell you! You remember y/n, right?”
Yunho’s eyebrows shoot up. “y/n? That insanely hot y/n?!”
“Yep.”
Yunho drags a hand over his face. “Damn… she was an absolute bombshell.”
Mingi nods in full agreement.
“How is she?” Yunho asks, tossing a few peanuts into his mouth.
“Pretty good, I think. We ran into each other at a restaurant a few days ago,” Mingi says, grabbing some peanuts himself. “Though she bolted the second she saw me—like she’d just spotted a ghost.”
“Well… you did dump her pretty cold back then,” Yunho points out.
Mingi grimaces. Yeah, okay—he hadn’t exactly been a gentleman. But hey, that was five years ago! Forgive and forget.
“Anyway,” Mingi continues, “she dropped her ID while fleeing, and I, being the heroic savior that I am—” he places a dramatic hand on his chest, earning an eye roll from Yunho, “—returned it to her. Turns out she lives not far from here. Oh, and she has two daughters. Twins.”
“Married?”
“Nope. Which is kinda weird, right? I mean, the kids looked about four or five and she is one hot mommy!“
Mingi keeps munching on peanuts, completely unfazed—until Yunho suddenly freezes.
“How old exactly?” Yunho asks, more sharply this time.
“No idea,” Mingi shrugs. “Five at most, I’d guess. Why?”
Yunho lowers his gaze and leans back slowly, deep in thought.
“Hm…” he murmurs.
But Mingi, blissfully oblivious, keeps going:
“Anyway—she’s still insanely hot! Sure, she looked at me like she wanted to strangle me, but I’m positive there’s still something there between us.”
He leans back too, running a hand through his hair.
“I mean, the sex we had…” he exhales, almost nostalgic. “Best I’ve ever had. Damn, she was wild in bed.”
He lets out a devilish laugh and nudges Yunho with his elbow—but Yunho doesn’t react, still lost in thought.
“When exactly did you break up with her?” Yunho suddenly asks.
Mingi frowns. “Uh… no clue. Like five years ago? Why?”
Yunho exhales slowly. “Mingi… don’t you see what I’m getting at?”
“That I need to get her back into bed? Obviously!” Mingi laughs, rubbing his hands together.
Smack.
“OW!”
“That’s not what I mean, you idiot!” Yunho snaps, sitting up.
“Right after you broke up with her, y/n called me,” he continues. “She was crying, desperate to talk to you. Said she didn’t know what to do. You told me to brush her off and send her to your manager.”
Mingi nods. “Yeah, I remember.”
“She sounded really desperate,” Yunho adds quietly. “Said she couldn’t make that decision on her own.”
Mingi just stares at him, completely clueless, and shrugs. Yunho closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales loudly.
“Mingi! Think! Five years ago, you dump her. Five weeks later, she calls me, crying. And now—five years later—you meet her again… and she has two daughters.”
He opens his eyes, looking at Mingi expectantly.
“…what are you trying to say?” Mingi asks, a bad feeling creeping in.
“Well,” Yunho replies dryly, “you’re the math genius here.”
“…You think those kids are mine?!”
“Well, try putting two and two together.”
Mingi’s eyes dart to the floor as if the answer might magically appear there.
“No! No way! She would’ve told me!” he protests, shaking his head. “Yeah, the breakup sucked, but she’d never do something like that!”
“She did try to contact you. Multiple times.“ Yunho mutters.
Speechless, Mingi falls back against the couch.
This can’t be happening. No way those kids are his. Sure, they were young. Sure, they had a lot of sex—like, a lot.
But they used protection.…most of the time.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” Mingi whispers, looking helplessly at Yunho.
“You should talk to your manager—maybe he remembers something,” Yunho says. “And then… you definitely need to talk to y/n.”
———————-
Mingi is practically running down the hallway toward his manager’s office. He has to talk to him—today. In just two weeks, his group will leave for their Asia tour, and before that, he needs answers. He needs to know if you ever tried to reach out to his manager back then. He doesn’t even bother knocking as he pushes the door open. His manager is on the phone, but he looks up, offering Mingi a brief, polite nod before raising a finger—just a second. Mingi nods stiffly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, barely able to stand still. This has to be a misunderstanding. It has to be. Those two little girls—there’s no way they’re his. Yeah. Exactly. That’s all this is. A mistake. He repeats it in his head like a mantra, trying to force himself to believe it. The moment the call ends, Mingi steps forward so quickly it’s almost abrupt.
“Mingi, what can I do for you?”
“Five years ago… did a young woman named y/n try to contact you?”
He doesn’t even finish the name before his manager visibly flinches.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, short and cold.
Mingi narrows his eyes.
“You’re lying. Tell me what you know—now.”
A heavy sigh leaves his manager’s lips.
“Mingi… it’s better if we don’t talk about this. Everything is fine the way it is. End of discussion.”
He turns away, shuffling through old files as if that alone could shut the conversation down.
“I have a right to know what y/n wanted from you back then!”
Another sigh—longer this time, more strained. His manager drags a hand over his face.
“Mingi… this will only complicate everything. Don’t you understand that?”
But Mingi doesn’t back down. He walks around the desk, closing the distance between them.
“Seo-jun… for ten years, you’ve been my manager. You raised me in this industry, made me stronger, stood by my side through everything…”
His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its urgency.
“I’m asking you. Please. Tell me what you know.”
Silence stretches between them—heavy, suffocating. Then, another deep sigh.
“Fine,” Seo-jun finally says, his voice low, serious. He looks Mingi straight in the eyes. “But you need to understand—this could put your entire career at risk.”
“I don’t care.”
The answer comes instantly. Without hesitation. Seo-jun studies him for a moment longer… then gives in.
“Five years ago… that girl—”
“y/n.”
“…y/n called me. She was… in pieces. Crying. Desperate. She said she had to talk to you, that she didn’t know what to do. But you had already shut her out. Blocked her everywhere. Pushed her away completely.”
Each word feels heavier than the last.
“I told her to leave you alone. That you had ended things. That she needed to accept it.”
And before the final words are even spoken, something tightens painfully in Mingi’s chest. A knot forms in his stomach, pulling tighter and tighter—because deep down, he already knows. He already knows what’s coming.
“She told me…” Seo-jun continues quietly, “that she was pregnant.”
A pause.
“With twins.“
Mingi continues to stare out the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, his shoulders tense with barely contained emotion.
“So you knew? All this time… you knew those girls were mine?”
Seo-Jun lets out a heavy, ashamed sigh, running a hand through his hair.
“Yes. I… I wanted to protect you, Mingi. Honestly, you have to believe me!
“Protect me?” Mingi repeats, disbelief dripping from every word. Anger surges through him—anger at his manager, anger at you, anger at everyone. How could they betray him like this?
“Mingi, you know yourself how many crazy fans are out there,” Seo-Jun says, gesturing toward the vast city skyline beyond the window. “I thought she was one of them. So I told her she’d have to prove that you were the father first.”
Mingi lowers his head. Dark strands of hair fall over his forehead, shadowing his expression.
“And then?” he asks quietly.
“After the twins were born, y/n contacted me. She wanted to sue us… to take everything public. So I had a paternity test done and…” Seo-Jun’s voice falters. He clears his throat, as if gathering the courage to finally speak the truth. Mingi watches him, tense, expectant.
“When it came back positive, I met with her. It could never reach the public. Illegitimate children of a K-pop idol? It would’ve been a massive scandal. So… I offered her money.”
Mingi swallows hard. His lips feel painfully dry, his breathing shallow.
“How much?” he whispers, barely audible.
His manager sighs again, then taps a single finger against a sheet of paper—right on the number. The moment Mingi sees it, nausea crashes over him. His stomach twists violently. That little… that was all his children were worth? He grips the papers in his trembling hands.
“I need air,” he gasps—and then he runs.
Out of the office. Away from everything. It’s too much. You were pregnant with his children? Twins? And Seo-Jun had hidden it all. Mingi feels betrayed. Shattered. Furious beyond words. His entire world seems to be collapsing, holding together and spinning apart at the same time, faster than he can comprehend. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore—rage, despair, shame? He needs to talk to you. That’s his first instinct. But before that… he has to go back to the dorm. The boys are his family—his only real one. And they deserve to know the truth.
—————————-
The moment Mingi steps into the dorm, he’s hit with a wall of noise. Wooyoung is singing—loudly—by the stove. Jongho and San are yelling at each other like their lives depend on it while button-mashing through a PlayStation match. Meanwhile, Hongjoong and Seonghwa sit at the table, deep in discussion about the upcoming tour, papers and schedules spread out between them.
Yeah… this is home. His safe place. His refuge. His family— Mingi flinches.
Family?
The word twists painfully in his chest. He’s a father. He has a family. Technically. His stomach tightens.
“Mingi!” San calls out brightly. “There you are! Get over here and watch me absolutely kicking Jonghos‘ ass!”
Mingi just stares at him. Blank. Silent. Jongho immediately protests, jumping up to shove San hard. The two of them erupt into chaos again.
And Mingi… doesn’t move.
He stands there, frozen in the middle of the dorm. Papers clutched in his hand. A thousand thoughts in his head—millions crashing through his heart.
“Mingi, is everything okay?” Hongjoong asks, his voice cutting through the noise. His gaze drops from Mingi’s face to the papers in his hand. Mingi looks down at the floor, tightening his grip.How is he supposed to say this?
Will they understand?
Will this destroy everything they’ve built?
“Earth to Mingi!” Wooyoung chimes in cheerfully. “I hope you’re hungry, big guy! I made extra food just for you!”
Mingi lifts his head, eyes darting—lost, searching. Hongjoong reacts instantly. He stands and walks straight over.
“Hey… what’s going on?” he asks softly. Then, with a faint frown: “You look like you’re standing at your own grave.”
Wow. Accurate. Painfully accurate, Mingi thinks.
“I… we need to talk,” Mingi whispers. “All of us.“
After Mingi tells them everything… silence.
Complete, suffocating silence fills the dorm. For the third time, Hongjoong flips through the papers, as if sheer willpower might turn this into some kind of misunderstanding.
“I… I…” Mingi stammers, dragging his hands down his face. “I get it if you’re angry. Or disappointed. I would be too. But I swear—this won’t affect your careers. Not in any way.”
Seonghwa clears his throat, holding Mingi’s gaze.
“Why would we be angry?” he asks gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“The only one who screwed up here is Seo-Jun,” San snaps, already on his feet, fists clenched.
“He said he was trying to protect me,” Mingi mutters, resting his forehead against his fingertips.
“I just… I don’t want to drag you into this,” he continues, voice cracking. “We’ve worked too hard for this. For years. And if that means that I—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. Mingi freezes.
“I mean it,” Hongjoong says, stepping closer. His tone softens, but his eyes are unwavering. “Mingi… those are your children. That’s the most precious thing in the world.”
He places a firm hand on Mingi’s arm.
“You’re their father. And no matter what happens—we stand with you. No one is tearing us apart. Eight makes one team. Got it?”
Mingi hesitates, looking at him uncertainly. Hongjoong doesn’t budge.
“Got it?” he repeats, more firmly.
Slowly… Mingi nods.
Yunho steps in beside him, draping an arm over his broad shoulders.
“We stick together,” he says with a grin. “Let the press try to tear us apart. Fuck them! This is about your kids.”
Mingi lets out a small, shaky smile.
“Have you seen them?” Wooyoung suddenly blurts out, eyes sparkling. “What do they look like? I hope they look like y/n.”
That earns a round of laughter.
“I… don’t really know,” Mingi admits. “I only saw them briefly. They’re small.”
“Definitely got that from their mom,” Wooyoung shoots back instantly, winking. More laughter. Seonghwa suddenly stands up and gestures sharply.
“Up. All of you. Now.”
They obey without question, forming a half-circle around Mingi, arms slung over each other’s shoulders.
“Mingi,” Seonghwa says firmly, “we’ve got you. Thank you for being honest with us. No matter what happens—we stay together!“
„8 makes 1 team!“
Together, they shout their team chant. The sound fills the room. Loud. Unbreakable.
“You’re a dad now, Mingi,” Jongho laughs, ruffling his hair. Mingi ducks his head, embarrassed—but smiling.
“And twins?!” Wooyoung yells, launching himself onto Mingi’s back. “Wow… look at you, Mr. Fertile.”
Mingi stumbles forward, nearly collapsing, only for Yunho to catch him. The room erupts in laughter, cheers, teasing congratulations.
And in that moment, Mingi realizes— He really does have the best family he could ever ask for. And he’s never been more grateful.
…but now, there’s one more thing he has to do. He has to talk to you.
And honestly?
He’s not sure if you’ll be relieved that he finally knows the truth —or if he should start digging his own grave already.
🎥 banner in collab w @cherrytigercreations / buy prints here
pairing: jeon wonwoo x f!reader
genre: smut, fluff, lots of angst, friends to lovers
summary: after one impulsive hookup in college, you and your best friend, wonwoo, decide to stay just that — friends. years later, you’re both still pretending that’s enough. and because neither of you is brave enough to risk ruining what you have, you choose the most logical solution possible: you start setting him up on dates with other women.
warnings: major slowburn / smut at the end, oral (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, praise, wonwoo service top 4ever<3, miscommunication, fixer!reader, reader and wonwoo are major idiots in love, mutual pining (over almost a decade). nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).
word count: 33.2k
note: first thing I wanna state — I’m so incredibly sorry for how long this took! if you saw some of my posts over the last few months, you know how I just kept getting sick and that really deterred writing this, BUT I FINISHED IT 🙌 second thing — I need you guys to prepare in advance to either get incredibly annoyed by the reader or relate to her a little more than you’d like to admit LOL it might hurt but I promise the payoff is worth it !! at the end of the day, I really like writing real stories that could happen to anyone. no matter what age you are, there might be a moment where you’re a little messy or you avoid your feelings for your best friend for years! lol I hope this makes you feel things and maybe even cry a lil. I won’t tell 😇 enjoy friends! (taglist posted at the bottom.)
also a huge thank you to @cherrytigercreations for collabing with me on the banner! we have been friends for so long and I’m so excited we finally found an opportunity to create something. please check out her shop here! 💓
in rotation: blame me, monsta x / move me, charli xcx / another life, sza / our day will come, amy winehouse / daylight, taylor swift / it's always you, chet baker / soft, lany / like the movies, laufey
I.
I looked at him, and I thought, “If I was very brave or very honest, I would tell him.” I would say it, so he would know it and I would know it, and I could never take it back. But I wasn’t that brave or honest, so all I did was look at him. And I think he knew anyway. –JENNY HAN
April 22, 2017
You always woke up before your alarm, but something was different this time. Your eyes fluttered open, focusing on the pile of clothes strewn underneath the bed. The dorm walls were bare and that ugly yellow color, instead of being covered in your favorite movie posters. A fan was whirring in the corner of the room. The TV was still on, projecting the title screen of the game you and Wonwoo had been playing last night.
That was when you realized this wasn’t your room. This was Wonwoo’s.
And all your clothes weren’t on.
Creeping your hand up from the sheets, you turned the alarm off on your defective Android that your dad bought you for the cheapest price possible. Sometimes the alarm didn’t work, but you didn’t want to chance it this morning. You carefully moved off the mattress, almost falling when you noticed that this twin sized bed was higher up than the one in your dorm, and began to put on your discarded clothes.
The frame creaked.
Your body froze, unsure what to do, before you continued to step into your leggings and turned around.
Wonwoo was sitting up, the bedsheets falling carelessly down and exposing his bare torso. His was skinnier than you assumed. The oversized shirts he wore concealed his lanky form, but it was intentional. His hair was sticking up in every other direction as he put on his glasses, his eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. His frames were broken on one side, the arm being held together with shitty tape.
When he finally noticed you standing and putting your legs into the tight spandex of your leggings, he remembered everything that happened the night before. You asking to come over past visiting hours. The video game. The kiss. Needing relaxation before a grueling set of final exams next week. “Maybe we should try,” you had said. “Just once,” he had agreed. And now, there was a used condom in his trash can and he was trying not to gawk at it.
You were both just sophomores in college, but you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. Especially when it meant crossing the lines of friendship.
Tugging on your shoes, you said, “Maybe I should –”
“Coffee?” He suggested, voice rough from sleep. It affected you, somewhat, and you realized how much you liked him like this: unpolished and disheveled. “Avalon dining hall has free coffee and pastries on Saturday mornings.”
You nodded, all awkward. “Sure.”
Following slightly behind him, you walked to the dining hall, trying not to make eye contact with any classmate that passed by. You wondered if they could see it written all over your face: not exactly shame, but something deeper. Maybe self-consciousness, like you’d been caught in the act. Wonwoo was wearing the same t-shirt from the day you met in class – the one with a small hole on the sleeve, a faded graphic of Godzilla on the front – as the morning sun beat down on you two, promising a hot summer ahead.
You picked out a table in the dining hall as Wonwoo went up to get your coffees. He put them in paper cups rather than mugs. Avalon food was good, but the dishware tended to be sticky, even when they cleaned it. He found you at the small table in the corner, somehow holding two coffees while balancing a plastic plate of chocolate croissants on top of one. You accepted your coffee with a tense smile, immediately taking a sip and forgetting how hot it would be. Wincing, you pulled apart one of the croissants, hand pulling back quickly when your fingers almost touched his.
You two had been friends since freshman year, and you had never shied away from him like this. But after last night … it was like his fingertip had the ability to electrocute.
Silence echoed. The dining hall was only partially filled – it was the weekend, after all – and you had said hi to your friend, Seungkwan, when he passed. Neither of you were looking at each other, eyes focused on something else. For Wonwoo, it was the bee buzzing just outside the window next to your table.
You cleared your throat as you traced the rim of your coffee cup. “Well, I guess this awkwardness proves that we’d be terrible at casual.”
Finally, he relented. Your playful comment making a snort escape from his lips. You couldn’t help but smile, still staring at your cup. “Yeah. Imagine what it would be like if we actually tried,” he quipped.
Your eyes lifted to his, stunned for a moment. Just a moment. Because you couldn’t dwell on what “actually tried” meant. Dating? Wanting? Choosing each other on purpose? You were both just shy of 21. You couldn’t possibly know what you wanted.
But then the night was coming back in flashes. You remembered the way he kissed you slow at first, before deepening it and how you couldn’t hold back the moan when his tongue explored your mouth. He had taken his glasses off, making sure to cautiously place them on his bedside table, or else they would break again, and he was so … handsome. Well, of course, Wonwoo was handsome. You weren’t blind. But it was different up close, without his glasses. When he was staring at you not just like a friend, but as something more. Like you were everything he had ever dreamed of. It was just you and him breathing heavily against each other’s mouths while taking in your appearances, and then going in for the kiss again. Last night had been his first time going down on a girl, but it had been the best experience of your life. Granted, you only had one person go down on you before him. His talent was truly unmatched though. And the way it felt when he finally pushed into you –
Only a second passed. It had felt like hours.
You laughed too fast, shaking your head. “We’d have ruined everything.”
Wonwoo paused, a mere breath. “Or –”
You watched him. Even your finger on the rim of your cup hesitated, as if your entire world depended on the next words that came out of his mouth.
He closed his mouth, smiling, and then shrugged. “Yeah,” he agreed, “ruined everything.”
In freshman year psychology, your professor had briefly touched on origin wounds – deep, emotional scars that shape core beliefs about self-worth, safety, and especially, trust, making you repeat patterns in adulthood. You didn’t realize it at the time, and Wonwoo surely didn’t mean for it, but this was one of your origin wounds: the point where everything went wrong by dishonesty, by being too reasonable.
Maybe it was an origin wound for both of you.
Your expression was perfectly schooled, lips curving up as you reached across the table with your hand. “Just friends?”
He hesitated, biting his lip for the longest minute of your life. Until eventually … his large palm closed over yours.
“Just friends,” he promised. “Hopefully, for many years to come.”
February 12, 2026
Dusting snow flurries off his black beanie, Wonwoo was grateful that you gave the second key to your building to him rather than someone else. Not that you wanted anyone besides him in your personal space, anyway. You weren’t answering your phone when he arrived, so he let himself in, setting his wet hat and gloves on the antique space heater you still kept in your kitchen. It was so old; you were pretty sure it came from your grandmother that died before you were born. But it worked like a champ, and he was able to shed off his coat just before the pizza box almost fell from his hands.
Ever since you both moved to the city 3 years ago, you established a ritual for him to come over to your apartment on Thursday nights and watch a movie you both never saw before while dining on some of the worst reviewed takeout spots. You both begged to differ. Thursday movie night just made sense, seeing as the two of you bonded in a college course on the history of cinema.
He turned his head to catch the apologetic smile you were throwing his way. That’s why you hadn’t answered his text. Despite the late hour, despite the fact that you left the office three hours ago … you were on the phone with your boss about a change in his flight. You weren’t his assistant; you were actually far above that in the company. But you always agreed to help. If you didn’t answer his call, no one would.
Plopping down on the couch beside you, Wonwoo scrolled through his phone and listened as you talked your anxiety-ridden boss down from the ledge. It reminded him of last week when he came over and you quickly told him to set down the pizza in the kitchen while you sat on your bathroom floor and smoothed over a conflict your work friend, Jennifer, had texted you about. Something about a boyfriend. You didn’t sweat it, never missing a moment to give practical advice.
He had been watching you fix everyone else’s problems your entire friendship – half amused, half exhausted by how you never did the same for yourself. It’s always been something you never had a problem doing, but he saw how much it weighed on you. You never complained though. He wondered sometimes if it was tearing you up inside to complain. Just once.
When you finally got off the phone, you let out the heaviest sigh and fell back, resting your head on his thigh. Physical contact like this had never meant much to the both of you, but still, his finger did stop scrolling. His breathing paused, too focused on himself to notice that maybe yours had faltered too.
“Sorry about that,” you muttered. “Sal put extra cheese on the pizza, right?”
Wonwoo clicked off his phone and let it collapse on the couch cushion. Instead of answering your question, he said, “You’re always doing that – fixing people. I’m sure your boss could’ve figured that out on his own.” He looked down, meeting your eyes as they tilted up to his. “I know you’ve insisted it’s not a big deal, but –”
“Trust me, he wouldn’t have been able to figure that out. He’s never struggled with anything in his life.” You played with your fingers on your lap. “Besides, being praised at work after I help someone feels better than anything, even an orgasm.”
Your latter comment made him bite the inside of his cheek, just for a second, and he ignored it before adding, “It’s not just at work. It happens all the time. You know I’m right.”
You exhaled even louder, more dramatic, and sat up. Your hair was slightly messed up in the back, but you felt his eyes on you. Felt them burning into your cheek as if he had powers. Wonwoo always looked at you that way: like he cared a little too much, kind of like the way he stared at you when you were young and stupid in that godforsaken dorm room. You couldn’t deny that you were guilty of doing the same sometimes, whether it be in a dark movie theater where he was far too focused on the screen, or when he took the liberty ordering for you at a bar because he knew the bartender liked him. And maybe you did care a little too much, but that didn’t matter. Because it couldn’t matter.
Wonwoo would always just be … Wonwoo.
Shifting your gaze to his, you sent him a small smile and asked, “So which movie did you pick out for us tonight?”
After scrolling through multiple streaming apps, Wonwoo finally found the one hosting this horror movie that was recommended to him – Swiped. It was a modern day nightmare about a woman using an app to get back into dating and accidentally wound up on a date with a serial killer. Definitely an indie film, so they didn’t hold back on the gory scenes, which you watched with your hands over your eyes, peaking out slightly between your fingers. Wonwoo, on the other hand, didn’t shy away, but still watched the bloody scene of the killer’s past with his top lip curled in disgust. He set down the pizza slice in his hand onto a paper plate and leaned back into the couch.
“This is the exact reason why dating apps don’t work. You don’t know if you could end up with a serial killer,” he commented, crossing his arms over his chest.
You turned your head, desperate not to look at the TV. “Have you ever actually been on a date from an app? I can’t remember the last time you even told me you went on a date.”
He sent you a glare. “You’re one to talk. The last time you dated was that older guy who you stopping talking to after he wanted to be exclusive.”
“Sean was asking too much of me. He wanted to see me every weekend and I love my friends too much.” You glanced at the scene to see the killer’s particularly creepy face and cringed, looking back to your friend. “Now, answer the question.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I … okay, never. What’s your point?”
Good question. Your nose wrinkled as you thought about the last time Wonwoo dated. It had to be years ago, even longer than you. Just after college and you were both already hyper fixating on a quarter-life crisis. It was before you both moved, and you remembered him casually dating this girl. What was her name? Sally? Seoyun? Selena? Too different, but you thought he introduced you to her once. He broke it off before it got too serious, when you both got opportunities of a lifetime to work in the heart of the city.
He wasn’t dating. Hadn’t been for years. Not seriously. Not casually. He was always “busy,” always “just fine.”
You noticed. Of course, you did.
“Soooo …” You murmured, dragging out the word as you slowly met his eyes. Your tone was smooth, almost blasé. “Are you ever going to date again?”
Wonwoo arched an eyebrow. “You’re full of questions tonight. Why do you care?”
Your gaze narrowed. “Oh, I don’t know, Wonwoo. Maybe it’s because you’re my best friend.” You tossed a throw pillow at him and it hit him right in the face. He had never been good with dexterity, even though he was great at video games.
His glasses were knocked onto the floor and he laughed, picking them up before settling against the cushions once more. He fixed them back onto his face, but the frames – no matter how new – were still crooked on him.
When his laughter died down, he shrugged, lacing his fingers together on his chest as he watched the movie. “Haven’t met anyone worth the effort.”
There was nothing dramatic about his tone. He wasn’t bitter. He said it like a fact.
The words stuck, lodging themselves somewhere deep. Not in your head, not in your chest. Even deeper. In your ribs, nestled in a cage of your own making.
Because his answer wasn’t “anyone interesting” or “anyone I like.” He mentioned effort, no matter how indifferent he sounded. You had known Wonwoo for almost a decade. You knew what he was like when something was worth the effort.
So you laughed it off – albeit awkwardly – because you couldn’t stand the silence. “Well, that’s fixable.”
“Here you go again.” But then he finally glanced at you, curiosity peaked. “Is … is it?”
You nodded, body completely facing him now, as you rested your elbow on the back of the couch. Grinning at him, you replied, “Mmhmm. You’re just not meeting the right people. I know, like …” You lifted a few fingers. “… Five women off the top of my head for you.”
A corner of his mouth tugged up. “One of those isn’t your cousin that tried kissing me at your graduation party, right?”
“Don’t make me throw another pillow at you.” You playfully hit his arm. “I’m being serious. I think it all comes down to that.”
He turned back to the screen, just when the main character gasped at the killer’s monologue. Wonwoo was usually quiet, but this silence was different. He wasn’t arguing at your response, but he clearly wasn’t excited either. It was as if he was resigning himself to whatever fate you bestowed upon him.
And then he gently mumbled, “If you think so.”
Haven’t met anyone worth the effort.
You thought about his answer longer than you should. What was meant to be an uninterested string of words to shrug you off struck you somewhere that you hadn’t felt before. They were heavy; you could practically feel them rolling around in your brain like marbles. You pondered them, even at the office, when you should be focusing on work. Even at night, when sleep just wouldn’t come to you. As you took the train to work, when all you could hear was the singing of some elderly man at the back of the car.
Despite the way you laughed off awkward situations, you always listened to Wonwoo, always took in every word he said. One time, after drinking a single margarita because he was a lightweight when it came to tequila, he drunkenly told you that no one had ever listened to him like you did. But last night’s conversation hit … different, in a way that had you picking at your cuticles again. Maybe you cared too much. But was it really that bad to care too much for someone that had become your rock?
You couldn’t harp on it, too afraid of the real answer.
You had just gotten home, still wearing the cardigan you wore to the office even after changing into a pair of worn out pajama bottoms. The kind that you probably got as a teenager, but the fabric had stretched out so much that they still fit. You were chopping up some veggies for whatever haphazard rice bowl you were throwing together for dinner. Sometimes you would eat a pepper slice, other times you’d throw it in the pan. Your mind wandered though: on emails, reminding yourself that you needed to text back your dad, and – oh, the thing that Wonwoo said last week that simply wouldn’t leave your brain.
He deserves someone great, you thought to yourself. Clearly, you weren’t an option, not that you were expecting to be. If he fell for someone else, maybe you’d finally stop looking at him like –
You let the thought die before it could finish.
On lonely nights, when it was only you and your vibrator, some audio porn blasting through your AirPods, you wondered if you both had tried after that hookup before finals … what would’ve happened? Would you still be as close as you are now? Would you still be this much of a fixer and would he still be too “busy” to date anyone else?
Even worse: would you have been worth the effort?
You set down the knife on the cutting board, closing your eyes as you gripped the counter. Your head shook, as if pushing the question out before it could take root. But that’s when the feelings you pushed down for so long bubbled up all over again. Calling it a “crush” felt trivial, like you were two kids at recess. It was more like … a feeling that lingered. A curse. A spirit that haunted you.
Because, at your heart of hearts, you knew it shouldn’t ever happened. You and Wonwoo had the chance years ago, but it wasn’t in the cards. You were meant to be friends and that was fine. (Truly, it was.) Your curse would go away soon enough, even if it took another 8 years of friendship.
Rewinding back to your conversation last week absolutely wasn’t helping. You turned, pressing your back against the kitchen counter as the peppers started to sizzle in the hot pan. Taking your phone out of your pocket, you began scrolling through the contacts in your phone. It was in this moment that you reverted back to your old ways, doing what you always did when you were the least bit hurt: you were going to fix.
II.
I think I’ve loved you since I met you. I just mistook it for curiosity. –ALICE OSEMAN
September 16, 2015
Maybe Wonwoo had been right; maybe this was a problem for you. But no case ever started as “I’m going to fix this person.”
The first inkling happened after you read Jane Austen’s Emma in senior year of high school. You weren’t a matchmaker by any means, and you certainly weren’t wealthy, nor all that clever, but you related to Emma Woodhouse in ways that were beyond you. And once you got to college, where you could start off with a clean state and become your own person, you found your purpose beginning to sprout.
There was a girl in your ENG 101 class named Kat – loner type, the kind to always sit in the back and mind her own business. You observed her from your spot in the corner, watched the way she stayed silent and twirled the same piece of dark hair around her finger. She didn’t talk in class. Didn’t talk to anyone, really. Freshman year of college was hard enough as it was, but it was even worse when you were extremely introverted. Not that you had made many friends yet; you just knew how to make conversation. Always had. If you needed a friend and so did Kat, what harm would it be to help each other?
You approached her once class ended, hugging your notebook to you chest as you flashed the most endearing, pearly-white smile at her. You told her your name as she cautiously stood from her seat, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Do you want to grab lunch with me?” You asked brightly. “I think we also have the same first year seminar next. Maybe we could walk together to it after lunch!”
Surprisingly, Kat accepted your offer. Maybe she felt like she couldn’t exactly say no, but that wasn’t for you to assume. You showed her your current favorite dining area – Lincoln Hall – where they made the best burritos on campus. “They can sometimes make your stomach turn if you haven’t had any breakfast,” you explained, “but they’re worth it. Don’t let the chef intimidate you. Just ignore him.”
You quickly realized just how shy Kat was. She had a habit of keeping to herself and only spoke when spoken to. It took almost the whole lunch to get something out of her, as if she was trying to make it impossible to peel back her layers. But when she finally broke a moment of silence with, “These burritos are that good,” you knew that you were getting somewhere.
“Aren’t they? I love that they actually use fresh veggies,” you replied, wiping sauce from your top lip.
“They remind me of these ones I used to get back home.” She shrugged, pensive. “I miss it sometimes.”
Your interest peaked. “Home? Where are you from?”
She was a couple states south of here, while you were more north. Two opposite ends that somehow met on the same campus. Once she crumped up the empty wrapper, she mused, “You must’ve had a lot of friends back home.”
Your brow knitted together. “Not exactly. Just a small group that I had known since middle school, but I’ve always just been social. When I enrolled here, I really wanted to find new people. My parents always said that the people you meet in college are with you for life.” You traced the edge of the table. “Have … you met anyone else on campus?”
She looked a little caught off guard for a minute, and then shrunk into her jacket. “Besides you? Well … no.”
You tilted your head to the side. Kat stuffed her hands into her pockets and let the silence envelope her until it became too awkward. You realized that in order to get her to open up, you needed to beat her at her own game. It was a lot more difficult than you thought.
“I know it’s only the third week of classes, but I’m just …” She sighed, getting to her feet and grabbing her backpack. “… Nervous about making friends. And getting close to other people. I’ve always been kind of an introvert, but now …”
You followed her move, walking with her outside the dining hall and heading to the Roosevelt building across campus, where your seminar was. “Is there a reason for that?” You asked, and then bumped her elbow with yours, a smile on your lips. “You can tell me. I think we’re friends now.”
Kat chewed on her bottom lip, debating her answer, until eventually, she cracked. “My friends from high school were … not very nice. My mom used to think they were toxic. Whatever you want to call them, they didn’t make me feel good.” She only looked at her feet as you walked together. “High school was hard and I was so scared about being without friends. But they always made me feel like I was a bother. Sometimes they wouldn’t even invite me over. I just let it happen though because I was afraid of being alone. I told myself that college would different.”
“Kat,” you murmured, grabbing her arm so her eyes met yours. You both stopped midstep in the center of the campus courtyard, blooming with life. “I don’t get the vibe that you could ever be a bother. College is the time to make friends, not shy away from them.”
You made due on your words, always making time to have lunch with her after ENG 101, but also introducing her to a few of your classmates from your History of Cinema course. Kasey and Jun were also on the quieter side, but they had way more in common with Kat than you did. Bringing them all together meant you saw Kat less, but she still made the effort to speak to you in class.
By the time fall semester ended, you and Kat were merely acquaintances, but you didn’t really mind all that much. You had become close with your classmate, Wonwoo, also from History of Cinema, as well as a few other girls that lived in the same building as you. Wonwoo was shy like Kat, but he knew when to exactly open himself up, and he always did around you. Sometimes you wondered if you were merely attracted to introverted people, but you didn’t want to be friends with Wonwoo to help him. There was a warmth to his friendship that you hadn’t experienced before, something that you told that he would be in your life for a long time.
When you and Wonwoo were in line for dinner, you noticed Kat leaving the dining hall with not just Kat and Jun, but a few others as well. She had clearly blossomed over the last couple of months, and you felt a sense of accomplishment that tingled throughout your body, from your head to your toes. This was the type of feeling you wanted all the time: purpose, connection, serotonin.
You looked on her fondly, knowing that you helped give her a little push, and your self-esteem seemed to skyrocket. Kat glanced over her shoulder, meeting your eyes then, and waved. Matching her wave with a smile, you then felt Wonwoo’s breath at your ear as he asked, “Who’s that?”
You shrugged. “An old friend.”
February 18, 2026
The coffee at the office was tasting particularly burnt this morning. To be fair, you saw the technician that fixed the machine every couple of months stride through the double doors just after you sat down with your cup. A couple of your coworkers were already fawning over him from the doorway of the kitchenette. You watched them, just over the edge of your cubicle, with a raised brow. The local technician, Seokmin, was definitely handsome and had the kind of biceps you only saw on a bodice ripper romance book, but you had too many emails to waste time on watching him repair the coffee machine.
No matter how much you wanted to.
You took another sip from your cup and winced. Still burnt.
Resting your chin on your fist, you scrolled through the piles of emails that you were copied on but didn’t actually involve your position. You played music softly from the speakers of your monitor, not exactly caring who heard. This was what would happen until you were rewarded with your own office space. Despite your Marketing Director role, the building in general was “far too small” to grant you an office, so you’d make your coworkers’ life a living hell in your cubicle until your boss grew tired of it. He would eventually. Men, especially in positions of power, always caved.
As your fingers began dancing across the keyboard, you heard the doors swing open and the loud scuffle of your coworker, Jennifer’s, ballet flats. You looked up, noting the red in her eyes, the way her cheeks flushed and her mouth was in a flat line. She smoothed back the curls in her perfectly styled pixie cut, huffed, and then dropped her lunch bag onto her desk all the way at the end of the row from yours.
Now that was perplexing. Jennifer was always in a good mood.
Your fingers paused on the keys, and just when you were about to get up and talk with her, she stormed in the direction of the bathroom. You heard her start to sniffle, but the sound was eventually muffled by the door to the women’s bathroom closing behind her. When one of your desk mates sent you a look, you took that as a sign to go check on her.
Getting to your feet, you smoothed down the wrinkles in your blouse and quickly made your way to the bathroom, sneaking a glance at Seokmin working his magic on the coffee machine in the process. (He really was handsome. Maybe you could help fix him up with someone here if he was single.) You pushed on the door and immediately found Jennifer at the sinks, sniffling as she wiped her eyes. She met your gaze in the mirror and already began stuttering, “Oh, I – I’m – let me j-just –”
You saddled up next to her and put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be silly, Jen,” you whispered, grabbing more paper towels from behind you and handing it to her. “Here, take these. What’s going on?”
Jennifer blew her nose into the paper towels, and the sound was so loud that it startled you. You blinked rapidly and she grumbled, “Sorry,” but it was muffled by the makeshift tissue.
“It’s okay,” you replied, trying to hide your chuckle. But soon enough, you were both sharing a laugh, giggling over the absolute absurdity of it all at 9 AM. You squeezed her arm as she blew her nose again.
“I hoped no one would see me like this, but …” She exhaled hard, tossing her snotty paper towel in the trash before checking her appearance in the mirror. Grimacing, she fixed the strands that had fallen out of her gelled hairstyle.
Your grip slipped away as you arched a brow. “Do you … want to talk about it?”
She straightened her back, smoothing out the wrinkle in her shirt, before asking, “Do you remember the guy I had texted you about week ago? We hadn’t been dating long, but I asked for your advice –”
“Matty?”
Jennifer rolled her eyes instantly, the name striking a sense of irritation in her that even she was unable to hide. “Yes,” she admitted, and then rubbed at her nose. “The day after I texted you for advice … we actually broke up, but I was too embarrassed to tell you or make you think your advice didn’t work.”
Your brow relaxed. “Jen, it doesn’t offend me that my advice didn’t work. I just care that you’re okay.” And it was the truth, but you couldn’t help but be a little miffed that she didn’t follow your guidance after you made time out of your movie night with Wonwoo to prioritize her problem. That was neither here nor there. Jennifer was your friend after all.
“I just …” She wrung out her hands in front of her, looking down at the dent in her favorite flats. “I saw him at a coffee shop today and it brought back a lot of emotions that I thought were starting to go away. We had only been together for, like, five months, but it still feels so … icky to think that it could’ve worked out and it didn’t.”
“Icky?” You repeated, and then let the word turn over in your brain. “That does feel quite icky, doesn’t it?”
“Very!” She huffed, her palms slapping against her sides. “Because here I am crying over a guy that clearly doesn’t like me anymore, and I can’t stop wondering if I’ll ever be good enough. Like … what is it about me that made our relationship not work?”
Sensing that this was going to be a longer conversation, you leaned against the faucet and leveled a look at her. “Jen, you can’t think like that. You’ll just make yourself go crazy, and I can guarantee that it wasn’t you in the first place.”
She sent you a soft smile. With the amount of times she came to you for advice, it almost felt weird to continuously thank you. “You know, when you turn – let’s say … 20 – you think that you have it all figured out by now. I thought this stuff would get easier, but I can’t help but feel like I’m in college all over again.”
A tingle ran through you, the kind that started at your hairline and trickled all the way down to your legs. Her words hit you in a way you didn’t expect, because you – the person who always had her life together, who pretended like she had it all figured out – constantly felt that way. Sometimes you wondered if you were that transparent, if everyone could tell that you liked fixing so you wouldn’t have to mend any of the problems in your own life. You weren’t just a body anymore. You were merely a piece of cling wrap, translucent and waiting to mold yourself to the next thing that needed you.
But maybe that was just you being too in your head, because no matter what, everyone came to you. And you’d drop everything. It was easier than having to face the fact that you still felt so small, so 20-something, insecure and overworked in a body that was pushing 30.
“No matter what age you are, you’re never gonna have your life completely together,” you mused, a small passing comment that you were hoping would end the conversation before it got too deep. Jennifer reached over you and grabbed another paper towel to wipe her nose. You took the opportunity to ask, “Are you … open to dating again? Seeing someone else can be the perfect way to get over Matty.”
Jennifer shrugged. “If the man is nice enough, sure.”
Wonwoo’s smile appeared in your head then, all the kind things he did for you over the years flashing through like a movie montage. You remembered the time he spent a whole week studying with you just so you would pass your Physics exam. The time he brought you a new pair of slacks when you split coffee all over yourself before a job interview. The time he picked you up from a Renaissance faire when it got flooded out. Or all the times he was there for you when he didn’t have to be.
He was nice enough. More than that. And yet, he hadn’t met anyone worth the effort.
You pushed off the edge of the sink. “You know, my friend, Wonwoo, wants to try dating again –”
Her eyes immediately flickered to yours. “The Wonwoo? As in your friend? I didn’t think he was single.”
“Why?” You cocked your head.
“Well, it’s just … the way you talk about him …” She was avoiding eye contact now. “And the way he was hanging off you when you brought him to last year’s company holiday party …”
You rolled your eyes. “To be fair, he got way more intoxicated than intended. Anyway, he’s very single, and actually … you two might get along.”
“How so?”
You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. In that moment, you couldn’t think of one thing – not even a lie – to convince Jennifer to go out with your best friend. They didn’t have anything in common, but that wasn’t typically a requirement for Wonwoo. He liked different.
“Well, I … haven’t exactly thought that far yet,” you admitted, sending her an awkward smile. “But he’s nice. Extremely nice. And you’re good with conversation. He can be difficult to come out of his shell, but I think you could do it.”
She sighed, turning to look at her reflection in the mirror. The redness in her eyes had faded, and she admired the natural flush of her cheeks as she fidgeted with her hair again. Eventually, she looked at you again with a shy smile, and then whispered, “I did think he was pretty cute at the holiday party.”
The game development company Wonwoo worked for was nowhere close to your job, but when you asked him to go to lunch, he always came. He would say that it wasn’t a big deal, but the few times you went to go see him during lunch, it took you two trains to get to him, leaving you with only 20 mins to sit with him before you had to leave. It was a big deal, and yet, he didn’t complain.
He moved around one of his meetings just to come see you, texting you that the deadline for the prototype of their next game was due soon, so finding free time nowadays was scarce. But he still did it. For you. Because he knew you would do the same. He hopped on the two trains to get to you, walking the short block to the cafe you found that was close to the station. Opening the door for the elderly women leaving, Wonwoo squeezed in past them and found you sitting at a small table in the corner. He watched you for a moment, noticing the way your fingers tapped across your phone screen, most likely writing an urgent email to someone on your team. Even with your brow scrunched together like this, you were calm. The idea of being burdened with work settling you better than the green tea on the table.
Wonwoo pushed past the line forming at the register, and your eyes immediately lifted, like you could sense his presence somehow. Your lips curled and you waved him over. His own smile was quick, afraid of looking too eager, although any time he got to see you made him excited. Slipping his backpack off his shoulders, he sat down in the seat opposite of you and saw the hot mug of black coffee already waiting for him.
“I just got you the dark roast because I know you’ve always liked it,” you said, turning your phone facedown. Wonwoo wrapped his hands around the mug as he tried warding off the winter chill outside. “Were the trains bad?”
“Not really, but they’ll probably get worse later when I’m on my way home.” He took a sip of the rich, warm beverage. “I don’t have long though. What was so urgent?”
You laced your hands on the table, and you had this look in your eye that always scared him. The kind that excited you, but whatever you had planned would be hell for everyone else. Judging by the way your gaze was focused on only him, he had a feeling that he alone was going to become your next project.
“What if I told you that I gave your number to Jennifer at work?” You grinned big.
The mug was at his mouth when he paused. He considered pinching himself to make sure that this was real. “Jennifer?” He asked, arching a brow. “The one that brought homemade jello shots to your holiday party last year?”
“Well,” you scoffed and laid out your hand, “they were good, weren’t they?”
He finally took a sip. “I guess so. Actually … I don’t know if I’ve ever understood the appeal of jello shots. Too messy.”
“You’re no fun, and off topic.” You let your finger trace the rim of your cup, filled halfway with lukewarm green tea. “I gave Jennifer your number because she’s interested in going on a date with you. Exciting, right?”
He blinked in your direction. Jennifer sounded familiar; when was the last time he heard about her? Maybe it was … “Wasn’t Jennifer the coworker you were helping a few weeks ago on movie night? You went into the bathroom to give her advice because her boyfriend was being weird.”
“The weird boyfriend is out of the picture now. Has been for weeks,” you shrugged. “And she admitted that she thought you were cute at the holiday party.”
His nose wrinkled a little. “You sure she isn’t just remembering me through the haze of the jello shots?”
Your eyes narrowed into a glare.
He flashed a smile. “Kidding.”
“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat. He raised his fingers – just slightly – but you were already tucking that stray hair behind your ear. “She’ll probably text you tonight to set up a date. Don’t give me that look, Wonwoo. No pressure. It’s just dinner.”
Wonwoo hesitated, leaning back in his chair. This didn’t surprise you; he was always hesitant. He made sure to think through all his choices, not impulsively like you preferred. That was why you two worked so well –
You shut down the thought before it could go further. You shouldn’t be reminiscing on your compatibility with your best friend. This was about you helping him.
He tilted his head slightly, playing with the hairs at the back of his neck, like he did when he was anxious. His eyes crinkled. “Mingyu said once that you micromanage me sometimes.”
Your expression twisted at the mention of his roommate. “Says the president of micromanaging. He needs to mind his own business – literally. That’s what his restaurant is for.”
Wonwoo was silent again, taking small sips from the mug that was almost empty. Tapping his phone, he checked the time. He had maybe 10 minutes before he had to run back to the train station. Was he going to keep you on the edge of your seat this whole time? This was so dumb.
And you told him once over a bottle of soju that you hated edging anyway.
“You can say no,” you eventually muttered, leaning more into the table. “I just thought … maybe she could be worth the effort.”
His gaze met yours again, quick and intense. He opened his mouth once like he was about to refuse, and then closed it. One late night at your apartment, he told you that saying no to you felt like refusing care, which is why you wanted to remind him that he could. But at the end of the day … this was you. Out of everyone, you knew that flicker of change in his eyes, relenting.
For a moment, you wondered if he was going to ask something curious:
“Does she actually like me?”
“Is she really open to a date?”
“Do you think I’ll like her?”
But he didn’t. Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, “Alright.”
A single word. Loaded. Like a bullet.
You blinked once, then twice, surprised. You expected a joke or his typical resistance. This … this couldn’t be his real answer.
Or maybe you were just overthinking things again.
“Okay, great. I think you’ll like her.” Your smile was quick, and then you were turning over your phone again. To text Jennifer, he assumed. The cafe was loud, but all he could hear in that moment was the sound of keyboard clicks. A message being sent. “She’ll probably choose a casual place. She always does when her and I go out. You don’t have to dress up. She’s funny and super easy to talk to.”
And then, you looked up, afraid you were coming off as inconsiderate. That wasn’t what you wanted in the slightest. You cared about him, maybe even a little more than you should.
You reached out, fingers finding his wrist. “And, hey, listen – no expectations.”
He glanced down, watching your thumb glide over his pulse point. You tried to ignore the quickening of it, but it was unavoidable. Horrifically loud and matching your own. And you were now wondering why you told him there were no expectations in the first place. It was ironic, wasn’t it? The whole date was an expectation.
This was a game of charades, and neither of you were going to win.
He nodded, and you retracted your hand onto your lap once again. “Got it,” Wonwoo agreed, committing to his role. He finished the last of his coffee and stood to his full height, making you tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “I gotta go. I’ll watch out for an unknown number. Text me when you get home after work.”
You bobbed your head, staring at his back as he exited the cafe. When it was just you then, sitting on the booth side of your small table, your cup of green tea cold and abandoned in your hands, it was easy to let the mask slip. Confusion ebbed into your subconscious. Because you thought this was supposed to make you feel good – it always did. But you were suddenly filled with a bottomless pit of regret.
That night, with your sheets tucked up to your chin and your restless brain keeping you up, you thought, If he dates someone else, I’ll get over this. Whatever this is that I’ve been feeling forever.
Wonwoo – poor, sleepless Wonwoo, who was too tired of this act already but the thought of denying you felt like a wound – in his apartment across the city, pondered to himself, If I date someone else, maybe I’ll stop wanting her. She can still be in my life and I won’t lie awake wondering what it would be like if she was here with me.
As you both turned over to a cold pillow, you liked to believe it was all figured out. Inside, though, the two of you knew that life would never be that easy.
Endless emails, unread texts, boring meetings made the week fly by, and soon enough, it was next Friday. The night of Wonwoo’s date with Jennifer. You saw her at the office earlier and she seemed … in good spirits, at the very least. “He really hadn’t texted me this week,” she complained to you at lunch. “But maybe he’s just one of those guys that doesn’t like to text before a first date.”
You smiled nervously. “He’s just … shy.” Your fingers tapped against her arm. “But hey! What are you planning on wearing tonight?”
Deflection had always been one of your super powers.
You had done your best this week to help him. Told him to text her to get to know her better. Got on FaceTime with him as he picked out the best “casual” outfit, whatever that meant. He was tired already, exhausted by the idea of something you didn’t want to pinpoint. So you tried getting him excited: you hyped up Jennifer as much as you possibly could. Tried to find similarities between them. They had the same taste in books – which was an absolute fighting start – and also … well, that might be it. But this was about chemistry, two people getting to know each other and feeling a pull so deep it rivaled magnets.
You had felt it once. Maybe twice, but you couldn’t identify exactly who was the second. You knew that you felt it with Sean; that’s why he wanted to see you so often back then, when things had gotten too much. They were good at first though, when you met him at a wine bar after you’d been stood up from a blind date. As soon as he looked at you from his bar stool, you felt the pull immediately. And his smile … he looked at you like you were something special, not like a sad excuse for a date. You chocked it up to him being older and more experienced, but someone else had looked at you like that. (Someone you just didn’t want to focus on.)
Sean had gotten too exclusive too fast. It had been a lot for you to handle, but at his age, he knew what he wanted. “I want someone like you,” he had explained once. “Driven. Independent. But also soft, even when she doesn’t want to show it. If that’s asking for too much, I don’t know what to tell you.”
His words were cutting, but you guessed you couldn’t blame him. What else was there to say when you told him the relationship was becoming a lot for you? He was a decade older than you. His time was running out while yours was just starting. Your chemistry was off the charts, but something wasn’t aligning. You just weren’t sure what yet.
This was the exact opposite outcome that you wanted for Wonwoo.
You had to become a coach, similar to the one you had for basketball in high school. Over FaceTime was the best chance to catch him, allowing you to teach him about body language and the best questions to ask. You taught him how to make the questions deeper but not too invasive, especially when one glass of wine turned into two. He took in all your information, nodding, but not saying anything. He knew not to question you. Although you hadn’t dated in a while, you knew exactly how women wanted to be talked to – something he typically had trouble with.
Wonwoo wasn’t good with talking to just about everybody. Besides you. Never with you.
You were pacing in your tiny living room as an episode of some reality show played quietly. You supposed that you should go take a shower, do your skincare, and put on your pajamas before settling in on the couch with your takeout. The perfect Friday night. But you were anxiously waiting on Jennifer’s text that she was arriving to the bar that her and Wonwoo agreed to meet at. It was kind of a dive, but the food was incredible, specializing in multiple macaroni and cheese dishes.
There was no way that this wouldn’t work. Jennifer had such a huge personality, one that invited you in and made you feel warm. You were sure that she would charm him.
Your phone dinged.
Jennifer: Just got here! He met me outside, even though it was snowing. Points!!!
You jumped on the balls of your feet, excitement flowing through you. Forcing yourself to finally hop in the shower, you couldn’t help but wonder why you had so much regret about this in the first place. You were grinning; this was good. Maybe the satisfaction of setting up this date wouldn’t be instant, but it was still there.
This was for Wonwoo, after all.
You were buzzing, waiting patiently for his text that he was on his way over. He promised you he’d stop by after the date and rehash all the details. This felt like college again. Your roommate for the first two years, Liz, had been far more popular with boys than you, and although you two weren’t the closest, you longed for the days when you stayed up past midnight, waiting for her to come back to your dorm and share all the juicy moments.
Wonwoo wasn’t similar to the average female freshman, but you knew you could pry some things out of him. At the end of the day, all you wanted was for him to be happy.
That’s what you told yourself.
When your phone finally went off, you were sitting on your couch in pajamas and your wet hair wrapped in a towel. You changed channels from before, but the reality show stayed the same. Texting him back, you scooped one last lo mein noodle in your mouth before getting up to brush back your wet strands. The door lock clicked open once you were back on the couch, the takeout carton lukewarm and abandoned on your coffee table, next to the vanilla cashmere candle you almost always had lit.
Wonwoo shook the chill out of his body as soon as he stepped through the door, and you sat up, an immediate smile appearing on your face. It was amazing how just the arrival of someone could make you happy, but that had always been Wonwoo for you. He was dusting the snowflakes off his jacket as your feet – clad in your favorite fuzzy socks – padded over to him. “That didn’t take you long,” you chuckled, taking his winter gloves and placing them on the old space heater to get warm.
He hung up his coat on the door hang. “Well, I was halfway here when I realized I hadn’t texted earlier,” he explained, instantly gunning for the couch and plopping down in his usual spot. Plucking the carton from the coffee table, he leaned all the way back into the couch cushions and slurped a cold noodle into his mouth. He was silent, watching whatever fight was ensuing on the TV.
You head tilted, perplexed. Maybe it was strange for you to assume, but you thought he would be more … open about details. I mean, you did set him up in the first place. You hummed under your breath, grabbing the leftover chicken fingers and scallion pancakes on the kitchen counter before setting them on the coffee table.
“Soooooooooo …” You dragged the word as you fell into the cushion opposite of him, tucking one leg underneath you. His eyes slid to yours, unenthusiastic. You scoffed and hit his arm. “Why are you being so coy?”
He snorted. “I’m always coy. That’s part of my charm.”
“Just tell me how the date was.”
He shrugged, gaze back on the screen as he set down the takeout container. “It was fine,” he said politely before reaching for the remote. “Can we watch a movie instead?”
You intentionally moved the remote away from him and his eyes narrowed. “You have no right to glare at me when you’re being so secretive. It was just ‘fine?’”
“I guess … I –” His head fell back against the cushions, and then he glanced at you again. “Just fine. The food at the restaurant was good. We had a good time.”
You sat there, observing him, almost dumbfounded. Somehow, he was being even more vague than usual. Distracted. Usually, you could read him like a book, but there was something about his tone that you couldn’t detect.
So you tested his limits, got up in his space, despite the fact that your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest the closer you got. Lacing your hands on top of his right shoulder, you rested your chin on top of them and blinked up at him innocently. He slowly turned to face you, and you both tried to ignore how close your faces truly were, warm breath mingling with the other. His fingers twitched on his thigh, and you wondered if he could feel your heart thudding against his bicep.
“Can I help you?” He raised a brow.
“Tell me specifics,” you said, voice as sweet as honey.
Wonwoo looked back in front of him – anything but your eyes – rubbing two fingers over his left temple. “Why do you want to know so bad?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Sue me for wanting to know how the date I set my best friend on went,” you quipped, not moving one inch from your position. Your eyes narrowed. “Are you gatekeeping some kind of pertinent information? Or – oh, my God. Did you guys kiss?”
“No,” he answered immediately, meeting your eyes. His tone made your back straighten instantly, and he tried to recover by clearing his throat. “I mean – well … no. We didn’t kiss. She’s very pretty and has a great personality, but I don’t think her and I are … compatible.”
You nodded slowly. “What made you realize that?”
He sighed heavily, letting his hand fall back on his thigh. You noticed that his hands were still red from the cold, even though he had his best gloves on. So you grabbed your heating pad from the other side of the couch before he began to speak, plugging it in behind him and wrapping it around his hands, before plopping back down beside him.
Wonwoo was silent as he looked down, the feeling gradually returning back to his hands. He was used to you doing this sometimes: taking care of him, micromanaging him, like he had been your project since college. He couldn’t deny that he liked it, but there was some moments that still left him stunned. It was as if taking care of him came as second nature to you.
When were you going to let him reciprocate?
You poked his arm, interrupting the thought before it could take root. “What were you gonna say?”
He exhaled again and got comfortable in the old cushions. “We talked about our interests – and it didn’t bother me that we didn’t have a lot in common. It was just … I don’t think I’m what she’s looking for. Or what she needs. And then, we started talking about work and that really cemented it for me. We actually talked more about you than anything –”
He stopped himself, eyes flickering to you before he realized you were blowing out the flame on the dying candle. Collecting himself, he added, “I just don’t think we’re going to work. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a great person. She was really nice.” He shrugged and finally met your eyes again. His smile was bored, almost cat-like. “Done with your investigation?”
“I guess so,” you relented, turning back to face the TV beside him. Your hips were brushed against each other, pinkies so close to intertwining, but neither of you moved. “Unless you want me to ask more?”
He cut you a look. “Absolutely not.” Reaching out, his fingers plucked a scallion pancake from the container on the coffee table, and his smile got even bigger in your direction. “Want to finally watch In the Mood for Love? C’mon, you know you want to.”
III.
Locked down my by side even when I’m borderline, I don’t even know why I push you away. –CHARLI XCX
Bringing yourself to work on Monday was more of a chore than usual. You hadn’t been sleeping right. Your back hurt. And you just ran out of your favorite shampoo. Cementing yourself into adulthood was harder than you imagined in your early twenties. Now you actually had to care about making time before work to stop off at the store to grab essentials.
But maybe today would be good. The crew repainting the office garage smiled at you. The barista at the small coffee shop in the lobby told you that your latte was on the house. You were wearing a new pair of kitten heels and dare I say, you at least looked good. The boatneck sweater your mom gifted you two Christmases ago magically fit and paired well with the jeans you were sporting. It almost made you forget how badly your spine ached. Almost.
After getting a significant amount of emails answered that morning, you headed to the kitchen where your hummus snack that you bought earlier was stored. You noticed Jennifer leaving through the other door just as you were entering, making you pause to wave. “Oh, hey, J–”
Jennifer scrambled away before you could even finish your greeting. Quickly grabbing your snack, you followed her out the same door and attempted to catch up to her. “Hey!” You exclaimed, placing a light hand on her shoulder. “Jen, what are you –”
She turned, attempting to act casual, but you knew Jennifer was incapable of pretending. “Oh, h–hi. Sorry, must’ve not seen you back there.”
You let your hand fall as your brow knitted together. “Must have,” you replied suspiciously. “I meant to text you all weekend, but time got away from me. Did you have fun on the date? Wonwoo hardly shared any details.”
Her lips sealed for a moment, until she eventually muttered, “Oh.”
Tilting your head, you remarked, “Oh?”
“That came out wrong.” She held a hand up, collecting herself. A couple of your coworkers squeezed past and you both waved. Lowering her voice slightly, she continued, “He was nice. Dry sense of humor, but still funny. Gentleman enough to walk me back to my car. But …”
You blinked, hanging off the edge of your invisible seat. You felt like a cat right now and she was dangling a treat right in front of you, teasing you with more to come.
Jennifer scoffed and finally gave in. “But I thought you said he had a personality. At least, that’s how you always made him seem.”
Her answer made your head jerk back in surprise. “Wait –”
“I was basically carrying the whole conversation,” she added. “It really didn’t seem like he wanted to be there. When you brought him to that holiday party, he was pretty engaged in conversation, but when it’s just him … I don’t know.”
You thought back to your conversation with Wonwoo after the date. It was fine, he had said in that bored fucking tone of his. Of course, he was bored. Because he had been the boring one in the first place. Now you were pissed – and confused at the same time. You wasted all that time setting up this date, and yet …
A sigh escaped you. He probably let his nerves get the best of him. Your mother used to say that you shouldn’t cry over spilt milk – or in this case – a bad date. There was no need to get worked up over it, but you just wished he had been honest in the first place.
Maybe you could start with being honest about how you f–
You stopped that thought right in its tracks.
“Truthfully,” Jennifer said, bringing your eyes back to hers, “the most he talked during the date was … well –” She scratched her temple. “– Was about you.”
Your body went rigid, back straightening as if it hadn’t been tense since you woke up. Fingers lacing together in front of you, your lips pursed, trying to think of a suitable response, but … nothing was coming to you. Not one word.
Jennifer tested the waters and prodded further. Leaning into your space, she asked, “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two –”
“Absolutely not,” you cut in immediately, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “We’re just friends. Have been for years. We just … have a lot of history that he likes to talk about.”
She stared at you, not fully convinced.
You grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Listen,” you huffed, “I’m sorry the date didn’t go well. I know I set you up on it, so I don’t want you to think I had … I don’t know. Ill intent, or something. I really did think you two would get along and he’d come out of his shell.”
A slow smile appeared on her lips. “It’s not your fault. Compatibility is a fickle thing. It only happens, like, maybe twice in everyone’s life.” She shrugged. “Shit happens, and hey, I got a free dinner. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
You laughed, felt her squeeze back on your hand, before you walked back together to your respective desks. Slamming down into your creaky seat, you lifted your head over your cubicle wall and sent another smile, before bending back in your chair and sighing. Your eyes scanned your desk, lingering on the Polaroid of you and Wonwoo from a few years ago, crookedly taped to your monitor. You narrowed your eyes at his face, as if you could burn him.
Whipping your phone out, you opened up your text thread with your best friend.
You: I thought you said the date was fine
Wonwoo: ? Hello to you too
You: just answer the question
Wonwoo: Where is the question exactly?
You: did the date with Jennifer not go okay??
Wonwoo: It was fine. I told you that
You: I just talked to Jennifer at the office and she told me you barely talked. I understand that maybe I got your compatibility wrong, but I think you neglected to tell me some things
Wonwoo: I’m sorry. In my defense, I’ve never been much of a talker. She was doing just fine
You: omfg
You: you’re literally impossible. I’m just trying to help you
You watched the text bubble appear and disappear for a straight minute. Originally, you saw no problem with the text you sent, but then you started overthinking. Was what you said too harsh? Maybe you should’ve added a playful emoji at the end. He had been typing and retyping for two minutes now, causing you to start biting at the skin around your nails. He could’ve simply been caught up with something at work and not able to multitask. It wasn’t that deep – at least, that’s what you told yourself.
Wonwoo: I’m not trying to be impossible. [UNSENT]
Wonwoo: I didn’t meant to be dishonest. [UNSENT]
Wonwoo: I didn’t ask for your help. [UNSENT]
Finally, the text bubble stopped. Your phone pinged with a new message. You quickly glanced at the text thread to see one single line from your best friend.
Wonwoo: I’ll try harder next time.
Another coincidental situation. Another setup emerged. As your old friend, Holly, lamented to you about missing her ex-boyfriend from two years ago over the phone, you wondered if maybe – just maybe – she would do well on a date with Wonwoo. You supposed that listening better while she complained about Derek was probably a better idea, but your mind still wandered.
You were laying on your bed after a shower, legs bent up on the headboard while your head was near the end of the mattress, wet hair wrapped in a towel. Your phone rested beside your right ear and you were picking at the hangnail that just wouldn’t come off your thumb. Mind elsewhere, you thought about what a date with Holly and Wonwoo would look like. Maybe a diner. Maybe a pub with live music. She loved a “Dad rock” cover band every now and then.
It might’ve been more wise to deliberate on what your best friend’s last text meant rather than picture what his next date would look like. But this was easier. More simpler than revisiting the implications of seeing Wonwoo on dates with beautiful and uncomplicated women you set him up with. Women that he might be uninterested in, and for what reason? Could it explain why he looked at you like that sometimes, like he was taking you apart piece by piece before putting you back together again?
You rubbed at your eyes. Yeah, definitely not thinking about that again.
“I shouldn’t even be talking about Derek right now,” Holly huffed through the speaker. “We broke up because he was an ass sometimes, but when he wasn’t … these are the times I miss him.”
You let your hands fall onto your stomach. You both tried to call and catch up every other month, so how did almost all of them loop around to Derek? He was still on her mind, even two years after the breakup. “You deserve a better love, Holl,” you muttered, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
All her dates over the past couple of years were duds. She only went on them every so often, but you wondered if the problem was that she was going out with people she met at clubs. Holly was so cool – not many people could juggle the corporate world while going to see their favorite DJs at clubs and make it to a community theater audition the next morning. But not many men understood her, liked her quirks, or they were just meatheads she met at clubs and eventually revealed that they had no personality.
She was a catch. Always had been, since the day you met her in the women’s restroom at a concert. The best kind of friendships always formed when you were drunk in the bathroom. Holly didn’t live near you, but you both tried to catch up when you could. Her life fascinated you to no end, and she had to be one of the most charismatic people you ever met, constantly endearing people in every room she entered.
You had no doubt that she’d charm Wonwoo. Of course, you assumed the same about Jennifer, but Holly was … different. You couldn’t quite pinpoint it. If anyone could get him to talk, she could.
“I’ve been buggin’ because I want to go out to this place that he introduced me to. A Mexican restaurant in the city. The most bomb guacamole you’ll ever have, and made fresh in front of you,” she continued.
Your brow furrowed. “So why don’t you go?”
“I run the risk of Derek being there. He did show it to me. I just don’t want an awkward conversation.”
It was like a light bulb appeared above your head. “What if you went there with a date? Derek probably wouldn’t come up to you if he saw you with another guy. And if he is there, would it be so bad to piss off your ex the slightest bit?”
“Well, duh,” she snickered. “But where is this date you speak of? All my current flings have ghosted. I’m a free woman.”
You rolled over onto your stomach, smirking down at your phone screen, even though she couldn’t see you. “I’ve been trying to get my friend, Wonwoo, out on some dates. Have I introduced you guys before?”
“Hmm … Wonwoo …” She paused. “That’s your friend with the big glasses, right? The one in most of your Instagram pics? Truthfully, I …” A soft laugh escaped. “I thought you guys were together.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Well –”
“It doesn’t matter.” You huffed, looking through your contacts to share his number with her. “I can set it up, if you want. And send you his number, vice versa. He’s shy, but he’s talkative around the right people. The date could be fun for both of you.”
She took a moment to mull it over, and then said, “Okay. Yeah. I’m down.”
You grinned, already texting his contact info to her. “Excellent.”
“So you’re doing the set up thing again?”
Your tongue clicked, and you paused, debating her question. “Just for Wonwoo. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just …” That laugh again, trying to simmer the sudden tension fizzling down the line. “You told me once that you like doing stuff like this to distract yourself from whatever you’re currently feeling. Or if something tough is going on. You just … like to make someone else’s life better so you can forget what’s going on in yours. Is everything okay?”
“Okay, I told you that over one too many glasses of wine at an Olive Garden,” you replied instantly. “And I’m fine. Promise. I gotta go.”
You ended the call after you both said your goodbyes, and then laced your fingers together before resting your chin on top of them. Did you really tell her that once? How messy. It wasn’t exactly … untrue, but you’d never admit that. Everyone needed a good distraction sometimes, and if this was yours, then so be it. You liked seeing others happy. It was the kind of serotonin that money couldn’t buy.
If Wonwoo really didn’t want this … he would’ve told you.
At least, that’s what you hoped.
Speak of the devil, you should probably tell him that you gave a random woman his number. Again. You sat up in bed, took your wet hair out of the towel, and wrung it out while opening up your texts with your free hand. Your slipper-clad feet hung off the edge, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as your fingers began to swipe across the keyboard.
You: hi
You: I got you another date
You: so if you get a random message, it’s my friend, holly. she’s really nice and funny
You locked your phone. It dinged instantly.
Wonwoo: Oh?
Wonwoo: Her text came just as I was about to log off of League. Thought it was spam lol
You bit down on one of your fingernails, right knee curling towards your chest. His playful tone always made you feel warm like this, and you were suddenly questioning how normal that should be.
You: not spam lol
You: just text her and feel it out, but I think she’d 100% be down for a date. she wants someone to take her out to this mexican restaurant
Wonwoo: Alright. Sounds good to me.
His mood switch made your brow furrow. Each word sounded like a pause, like he was struggling to type two measly sentences. You should leave it there, not let it get too far, but then you were typing –
You: I won’t coach you again before this date lol. I think it made you a wee bit nervous on the last one
Wonwoo: Maybe a little
A minute passed. You assumed the conversation was over for now. Standing from your bed, you padded over to your bathroom and threw your damp towel in the laundry basket. Your phone sat on your bed as you brushed through your wet hair, completely unaware that the screen had lit up again with another text.
Wonwoo: I’ll be better this time.
IV.
In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap. –RICHARD SIKEN
Friday rolled around faster than you thought. Holly had been texting you all day about her excitement for this date, but truthfully, you weren’t sure if she was more excited to meet Wonwoo or go back to his restaurant without worrying about Derek. Wasn’t any of your business.
At some point, you had to slide your phone into your pocket to get off at a different stop on the subway. Trudging through the rain, you managed to snag some of the greasiest Japanese takeout imaginable: vegetable tempura, karaage (your favorite), kushikatsu, and of course, some yakisoba. This was another one of your favorite spots that was poorly reviewed. Even the owner apologized for the mess as he handed the bag over to you, but you already couldn’t wait to dig in. You practically sprinted the couple of blocks back to your apartment, narrowly missing every puddle that came into your path, before you were hurdling through the door.
You went through your routine, regimented as always. After washing your face and putting on your comfiest pajamas, you sat on the floor and pulled out some sweet potato tempura. You practically had a feast laid out on your coffee table, paired with paper plates that were soaked through with oil and your favorite pair of chopsticks from the cabinet. You only wished, selfishly, that your takeout buddy was here to share it with you. And he would be. Later on. Once the food turned cold.
Scrolling through your phone, you found it strange that Holly didn’t keep up with you when she was on her way to the date. You guess that – again – wasn’t your business, but you were curious. You did set them up though. Wasn’t it normal to be this curious? Or maybe you were simply –
You paused, sticking your chopsticks in the yakisoba carton before your thoughts got too serious. You were an over thinker, could debate on topics for hours that truly did not matter, constantly wishing that you weren’t stuck in the deep chasm that was your own head. Sometimes it seemed that the only person who could pull you out was … Wonwoo.
Wonwoo.
His name echoed before you could stop it. Like you always do. And the grieving reality settled in from the mess of your own making. A pang of regret. This wasn’t the usual dopamine you got from fixing, and maybe that was because nothing needed to be fixed in the first place –
Your phone pinged. And there it was – that pause. When the thoughts got too loud and you finally focused on your best friend’s name lighting up your phone screen.
Wonwoo: On my way to your place. Might be a bit. The bus is taking its time
You were grounded again, worries vanishing like a speck of dust in the wind. Instead of taking a day like with Jennifer, you were going to be proactive this time. After answering Wonwoo, you scrolled down to your texts with Holly and quickly tapped your fingers across the screen.
You: how was the date ?!
You started crunching on multiple pieces of karaage when her reply came through.
Holly: man, the food is just as great as I remembered. we didn’t even see Derek, so I guess I didn’t have much to worry about lmao. but I’m glad we went and I think he also enjoyed it! he said something about showing you the restaurant sometime too!
Your brow raised. She was dodging the real question.
You: that sounds great! I was more so asking what you thought of wonwoo lol, but I’m glad it went well <3!!!
Holly: he’s great. a total gentleman. I just don’t think we have much in common
Holly: he picked out the most delicious spicy margaritas for us though
You: really??? I set you guys up because I thought you two had more in common
That was somewhat a lie and you knew it. They played a couple of the same video games, when Holly had time to turn on her Playstation, and you thought Wonwoo enjoyed theater. Somewhat. At least, he pretended to really well that one time you got free tickets to Les Misérables and brought him.
Holly: yeah, we do somewhat. we read the same books and a few video games. I just don’t think he was into it. or maybe he just wasn’t into me idk
You: I’m sorry it didn’t work out. thank you for being honest and letting me know!
Holly: of course! he’s not a bad guy at all, but we just aren’t compatible. our worlds don’t align just yet, which is okay <3 he was also shy like you said and did talk a lot more as the date went on. he talks about you in a way I’ve never seen before. I can tell he cares a lot about you
You: I care a lot about him too [UNSENT]
Your head whipped to the left when you heard Wonwoo turning your spare key in the lock. Finishing off the piece of karaage in your mouth, you fired back one last reply.
You: he always keeps me on my toes. talk to you soon!
His ears were pink from the last of the winter cold. It was the middle of March and spring would soon be upon them. Stepping into your apartment, he released a gruff sigh and let the warmth of the place seep through him. He was staring at you before you even looked up to meet his eyes. Your outfit spoke to how comfortable you were around him: the oldest pair of plaid pajama pants, your fluffy robe with a coffee stain on the front that just never came out, and a large t-shirt. Thin. White. Robe untied and allowing him to see everything. He swallowed and placed his gloves on the space heater like usual, then hung up his jacket. You were carrying multiple takeout cartons to the kitchen island as he stood in the front doorway, not bothering to greet as he helped you place them on the surface before they all fell out of your arms.
He didn’t need to always say, “Hello.” This apartment was just as much his home as it was yours.
Kicking his shoes off near the door, you watched him peel open the flimsy lid of one carton. “Thank God. I was having a craving,” he said, plucking a piece of carrot tempura and taking a large bite.
You retied your robe carelessly and crossed your arms over your chest. “So …” You fought the urge to flick his arm as he grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the cabinet. “How was it?”
“Good,” he answered quickly, as if the word was already on the tip of his tongue. Gathering a pile of yakisoba in his chopsticks, he slurped it all before adding, “She’s really nice.”
Silence. The kind that made you feel prickly, anxious from head to toe. You arched a brow. “Was it, though?”
Wonwoo crunched on another tempura piece and sent you a wary look. He always knew when you were trying to get something out of him, but you had never been the one to be coy. “I said that, didn’t I?”
“Were you into her?” You inquired further, eyes narrowed. You couldn’t blame him for his attitude, especially when your questions were a bit aggressive, but after texting with Holly, you just wanted to see if he’d have the same reaction as her.
“Yeah,” he shrugged, walking over to the sink to wash the grease off his hands. “I guess.”
Rounding the kitchen island, you let your hip press into the counter as you studied him: the way he wasn’t looking at you, the nervous tick of washing around the ring on his pinky. He was running his hands under the warm water now, longer than he had to be. “You don’t sound like you’re into her though,” you said over the loud faucet.
He turned it off with the squeaky lever and wrung his hands over the side. His frustration that he kept inside so diligently was tipping over the surface, like boiling water. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally replied, a tinge of bitterness in his tone. “You’re interrogating me. Why?”
Your mouth fell open slightly. “I … I’m not interrogating.” You tried to prove your point, how casual you were being about this, by reaching over to grab a skewer of pork kushikatsu. Biting into it, you shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong.”
His hand was still damp and he pressed it to his forehead, feeling the warm droplets trickle down his temple, grounding him. “Maybe I’m just … this is a lot harder than it looks. I’m not used to talking to so many new people.” When he opened his eyes, they were practically pleading. For what, you didn’t know. Yet.
You licked at the corners of your lips, relenting, your shoulders ablaze from the burden of carrying all the tension since sophomore year on your back. The tension you were desperately trying to smoke out. You relaxed and carefully curled your hands around his wrists. His body was frozen as you positioned him in front of you. Wonwoo realized what you were doing, providing a visual like you were both sitting across from each other on a date, but with you leaning against the stained counter like this, robe undone again, his mind wandered to a place he shouldn’t. Back in his dorm room. Your legs around his head. Your fingers tugging at his hair as he buried his face further between your thighs.
And while you couldn’t get what he was thinking, you could see in his eyes that it was something too dangerous to describe.
You cleared your throat, watching him blink. “Maybe … it would help for you to go into these dates as if they were a job interview,” you explained, your tone sounding suspiciously recognizable. Work-like. Professional who sits in a cubicle.
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t give me that look. What I mean is … not stiff. Not nervous. Just … open body language. That’s what people are attracted to.” You took a moment, originally trying to put as much distance between the two of you as possible, but for the purpose of your point … you placed your foot in front of you. Just one step. But it still made both your pulses jump. “And it’ll make them move closer to you.”
He physically felt his pupils dilate as he looked down at you. Wringing his hands again, he shook your grip off his wrists, noticing how fast his heart was beating. “You sound ridiculous,” he deflected. “You’re talking like how you do on the phone with your boss. This isn’t a performance review.”
Your face fell, brows pulling together. “This isn’t ridiculous, Wonwoo. You know that. I’m just trying to help.”
Something flickered in his expression then. Your words triggered his foot: one step closer, and then another. The gap between you so small that you felt the heat of his body. The small of your back was biting into the edge of the counter, head tilting up to meet his dark eyes behind his glasses. His gaze traveled, lingering on your pursed lips, moving down to where he could practically see the thump of your heart. The fabric of your white t-shirt, hiding your skin from his, and how he longed to push it up to see all of you. You hadn’t even let him see your chest when you hooked up all those years ago: too shy, too afraid of vulnerability to take off even your shirt. But now you both were nearing 30 and the only thing separating you two was this thin t-shirt that was becoming his biggest fucking enemy.
His stare flickered up before it could go too long, but he saw it. The way your nipples pebbled beneath the shirt. The tension between you two seeping from your shoulders to his like a tug of war.
“I think …” Wonwoo’s voice was low, intimate, like two fingers between your thighs. Simmering through the most private parts of you that so little people had seen.
The heel of his palms pressed into the lip of the counter, caging you. Your eyes closed, almost in surrender, easing under the warmth of his hot breath fanning your face. “I think what would help me is if –”
He immediately stopped. Your eyes opened and met his. There was something so familiar about his expression. He looked … you couldn’t put your finger on it. But your mind was flashing back to a memory: his dark eyes burning into yours, glasses slightly askew, a halo headband that was cutting into the sides of your ears, the damp autumn leaves at your feet and the buzz of tequila in your system. A memorable Halloween night from a few years back. All of that reflecting in the face of the man in front of you. Your best friend. Who was now looking at you like he was hearing something from the past in his head.
Your brow raised. He took a step back.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
Just three words, shutting down an entire conversation before it could even start.
You shook your head, brows drawing together and voice suddenly desperate. “It does matter. You can tell me. You’re … you’re my best friend.”
He winced. Just for a second, but you saw it.
“No, it’s … it’s fine. Seriously,” he added, even as the tips of his fingers were lightly grazing your knuckles, making every hair on your body stand up. Your toes curled inside your socks. “We – I can try again. I promise, I’ll have more open body language.”
His smile was so sweet, agreeing to your every whim because he knew that was the best way to get you off of something. But not tonight, because you both knew why he was doing this. It was that push and pull again – when feelings began to rise over that structured wall you both built brick by back, one of you had to push it down.
And the realization of that – of what almost could have been – was making you panic and want him closer all at the same time.
Wonwoo rounded the island and grabbed the carton of yakisoba before crossing the short distance to the couch. He kicked back, digging into the greasy noodles that would surely do a number on his stomach later. Without looking back at you, he asked, “Wanna rewatch Clueless again?”
You stood in the kitchen and gripped the edge of the counter, attempting to calm your racing heart. Like clockwork, his voice from the living room centered you, reminded you that everything was going to be okay. Things were still good. It was just you and Wonwoo. Friends.
Mustering the best smile you could offer, you grabbed the lukewarm karaage and quipped, “As long as you promise not to insult my girl, Cher, ever again.”
Wonwoo left your apartment a little over halfway into the movie, falling asleep with stray yakisoba noodles on the collar of his sweater. You couldn’t blame him: it was midnight and his body naturally got tired at 11, no matter how much sleep he got. He made sure to help you clean up all the takeout, even in his tired state, and slipped a twenty underneath the candle on your coffee table for always feeding him, knowing you wouldn’t except it unless forced. You walked him to the door, and he lingered – just for a moment – his sleepy gaze on yours while his fingers jerked slightly on the doorframe. Something between you two ached, but not enough to grasp.
So he left with a faint, “Goodnight,” and headed down the stairs for the subway.
The door shut softly, leaving you alone again in your apartment, and the silence was … overwhelming. The kind where you could actually hear a pin drop. Not even your upstairs neighbors were fighting. It was just you, and your own thoughts, as you stood in your kitchen, replaying the conversation that happened earlier.
I think what would help me is if –
An unsettling shiver rolled through you. Back pressed against the door, you sank down until your ass hit the floor and your knees were drawn to your chest. You buried your face in the collar of your coffee-stained robe. I can try again, he had said. I promise. You rubbed at your eyes, wishing the words would leave your head. But they were on loop like a merry-go-round.
You pressed your chin into your palm. Sighing, you realized that you should’ve taken a shower earlier. Your hair was so dirty and you didn’t want to go to bed smelling like takeout. But you suddenly couldn’t move, too consumed by his responses – or lack thereof.
Your brain was like a remote. You hit pause, then rewind, over and over again until all you could see was Wonwoo in your head. You replayed his hesitation, the way his mouth shut immediately. When his upper lip twitched. His jaw tightening with restraint. And his eyes – the way they softened before he let himself get too close. It was the kind of affection you didn’t show to just a friend, but for someone more.
Maybe he was just frustrated, you told yourself. Because what other explanation could there be?
You were too complicated for him. Not worth the effort. And the fear of ruining your friendship was too risky to bear.
But then your skin prickled and you realized … this bothered you. Not in the funny way. This bothered you because you hated that you didn’t know what he wanted to say. You hated the not knowing, the waiting on the edge of your seat. The suspicion. Because he shouldn’t have looked at you like … like that. Better yet: you shouldn’t want him to look at you like that.
You thought, just for a mere second, What if he –
And stopped yourself.
This wasn’t about you. It couldn’t. Wonwoo was discouraged and tired after the bad dates. Anyone would be. That was the reason for his hesitation, the jaw setting, his fingers grazing your knuckles as if he was begging to hold your hand.
Placing your palm against your forehead now, you closed your eyes and mulled over every scenario. Swiping through solutions in your head like a Powerpoint presentation: simple, sensical, because this would always be easier than being truthful with yourself. You were strong; you could always carry more weight added to your burden.
“I can fix this,” you muttered to yourself, and instantly got to your feet. You practically ran to where your phone was laying idly on the side of the couch and threw yourself onto the cushions. Opening your Notes app faster than ever before, you began typing up all of Wonwoo’s interests. Completely focused. Before you could let any more thoughts get the better of you.
Perhaps it was time you found someone similar to him.
V.
If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets. –HARUKI MURAKAMI
You wished you could be one of those people who read a book to wind down before bed. Or someone that drank tea and meditated. Someone that experienced true relaxation. But, unfortunately, your brain was always wired, and the only way you found a little sense of peace was from the mere swipe of your thumb on your phone screen.
It wasn’t all play though – scrolling through whatever social media that was your poison for the night allowed you to gather intel for Wonwoo’s next date. Despite him not asking about it. Despite the sting you felt in your chest each time you wrote a name down in your Notes app. You persevered, scrolling until the light made your eyes burn and you knew it was time to finally sleep. In just a few hours, your eyes would be back on a screen again. Your life revolved around light and screens, ignoring the tension that yanked at your heartstrings every day.
Eventually, you felt a shift when your Instagram feed refreshed to show a new post: Harin, one of your old friends from college. The first person to make you pause and sit up in bed, leaning back against the headboard. The fairy lights above your head flickered, needing new batteries, but your attention remained focused on swiping through the set of pictures she posted.
Harin, you realized, had gotten much more attractive since senior year of undergrad, when you both lived in the same building. She was dying her hair darker, gotten Invisalign to straighten her teeth, even cleared up her acne. It had been years since you last saw her – maybe even since graduation – but Harin had always been … easy going. Helpful. Popular, but also a little nerdy. The kind of girl who didn’t overcomplicate things. Nothing like you.
You picked at the edge of the pimple patch on your chin, because you hadn’t been so lucky with your hormonal acne that came back once in a blue moon. She posted a picture with an abnormally tall glass of beer, then some with people in costume, with the final photo of her in front of brightly-lit booth. She went to some video game convention out of state, the same one Wonwoo had talked to you about for 40 minutes a couple weeks back. Your teeth sank down into your lip, concentrating, as you clicked on her profile and began looking through all her old posts.
Mutual connections. (You both had several.) Tagged posts. (Did she have any bad angle?) Her story highlight that documented her Letterboxd reviews. (You dreamed of watching this many movies in a year.) There was something here. Maybe there wasn’t chemistry – only time would tell – but there was alignment, something everyone needed in their lives. A sense of symmetry. Two pieces that fit so perfectly that it was shocking they never crossed paths before.
You sat back more, playing with a strand of damp hair while zooming in on a picture of her from a concert she went to a year ago – some niche band you might’ve heard Wonwoo also mention. Her smile was effortless. Her hair was shorter and she had star earrings that dangled from her lobes. And suddenly, a thought hit you, cutting, like a blade: He wouldn’t have to explain himself to her. They would just click.
Biting the end of your fingernail, you processed the future before it even had seeds to take root. A bad habit that you weren’t willing to break now, because this could work. Harin made sense. Wonwoo and Harin made better sense.
No more weird looks. No more charged pauses. The dust would settle between you and the man that had been your best friend for nearly a decade.
You swiped to DM her before you could stop yourself.
You drafted a message. It was long, too personal, so you deleted it.
Redrafted, and still, too much. Frustration poured out of you. Why did every message feel like too much pressure? You needed to keep this simple.
You: hey, harin! you seem like you’re doing really well. weird question – are you single? I think you would really get along with my friend. you both like the same things!
The message was perfect, so why was your thumb hesitating over the send button? There was no reason to hesitate; you never did. You were impulsive, almost to a fault sometimes. You could stop this. Close the app and be honest with yourself for once. Quit pushing your feelings down and drowning yourself with work. You could –
Sent.
Your lips pursed. You set your phone down and hugged your knees to your chest, the clean sheets pooling over your bare feet. The room was still, colder than before. Maybe even quieter, although you didn’t quite understand how that was possible. You hadn’t breathed properly in more than a minute. Then, somewhere deep, past your ribs where your greatest desires roamed free, a tiny voice escaped to ask, What if he doesn’t want someone else? What if he wants you?
But you didn’t let yourself process the words, because your phone dinged and – shit, Harin had answered you. She was thrilled to hear from you, congratulated you on your accomplishments. Conveniently, she was now living just outside of the same city, but she seemed uncertain. I don’t typically do blind dates, she wrote. So you made it easy for her by sending a picture of Wonwoo – the one you took of him last winter, when he was carrying both large buckets of popcorn before you went to go see an anniversary screening of Twilight – and she immediately agreed to meet him for a date in the city.
You shared his Instagram profile with her, telling her to message him on there. Maybe texting was too much pressure on him. Maybe her taking the initiative and messaging him on a safe place like Instagram would give him less anxiety. That seemed to be the source of his issues. At least, that was what you were telling yourself.
She was so kind, so excited to reach out that she was asking for advice on the perfect message. And you thought, for once, this might be the date that actually worked out, but you’d been let down by Wonwoo time and time again. No one seemed to be worth the effort. But Harin could be.
You didn’t tell Wonwoo that you sent his profile to Harin, but he kind of figured you were behind the sudden DM he got from a woman totally and completely out of his league. You weren’t exactly hiding your involvement; you were simply … letting Harin do the work. And maybe your assumptions had been right after all, because when Wonwoo texted to let you know that he knew you set him up with Harin, he seemed … more inclined to go on the date than usual.
You weren’t sure how it was possible, but you felt both the satisfaction of being right and stab of something sharp in your heart all at once. Neglecting the latter was easier said than done.
He told you their date was on Thursday night, and conveniently, you were stuck at the office for longer than usual, making sure the latest marketing project with in tip-top shape before you submitted it to the VP tomorrow. Even your subordinates stayed well past their time, wanting to make sure you didn’t have to be at the office alone. It was 7 PM when you all finally left, and you sprinted fast enough to make the 7:15 train, which – of course – was packed to the brim. You were squished like sardines next to an old man who smelled of cigarettes, and you found yourself pushing through the crowd as soon as your stop arrived.
It was strange that you hadn’t heard from Wonwoo yet about the date, but you tried not to think about it that much as you got through the doorway of your apartment. Too tired to even call for takeout, you toed off your office heels near the door and settled on a frozen dinner. There weren’t even any leftovers in the fridge. As you placed the hard brick of lasagna in the preheated oven, you phone pinged and you retrieved it faster than you liked to admit, heart hammering in your chest.
Wonwoo: On my way over :)
Your brow arched. Since when the hell did he text smiley faces? You set the phone back down, and irritatingly threw your hair up into the most unkempt ponytail imaginable, loose strands hanging from the backside of your head. Why were you so frustrated? An emoji didn’t mean anything. And there was nothing to be angry about. Your mind was still lingering on work, projecting your exhaustion onto such a non-issue –
The door opened just as you were pulling the now bubbling lasagna from the oven, setting it on the kitchen island before looking up at your best friend. Spring had definitely come, because Wonwoo was wearing a striped button up that was halfway tucked into his jeans and a light jacket. His hair was messy, as if someone had ran their hands through it, and he had a smile on his lips that was … real. Not tired or forced. Genuine.
The room shifted and neither of you had even said anything yet.
“Hi,” you addressed immediately, realizing his gaze had drifted down. Too caught up in your own thoughts, you didn’t even noticed that he had been taking in your disheveled blouse, the pencil skirt that hugged your hips too perfectly, the sheer black tights that made him jealous of any man at work who got to see you in them.
But then his stare was instantly on yours as soon as you spoke. His smile reached his eyes and he replied, “Hey.” It was casual, sure, but there was … energy behind it. The kind of energy you never heard from him before.
You stuck your fork in the lasagna, and before you could even place it in your mouth, he dipped his pinky in the red sauce. Your chin tilted up, watching his expression sour. “It’s tastes …”
You leveled a look at him.
“– Better than anything I could’ve made,” he recovered, and you noticed the pep in his step as he headed for the living room, tossing his jacket on the coat rack.
You paused, eyeing him with suspicion from the kitchen, before looking back down at your sad excuse for a dinner. It was late. You were tired. And instead of eating the greasy goodness of takeout, you were left here with a shitty lasagna and your best friend who looked like he had far too much fun on the date you set him up on.
This wasn’t time for a pity party.
Rounding the corner, you carried your foil tin of lukewarm lasagna to the couch and sat down beside him. You crossed your legs and anxiously pulled at the hem of your pencil skirt before asking, “Did the date go well?”
His smile got bigger and you had to fight the urge to throw up the huge bite of shitty pasta in your mouth. Usually, his debriefs were short and flat. Lacking any kind of emotion because clearly all he wanted to do was watch a movie with you. But he was speaking a little louder this time, gesturing with his hands as he said, “It was … really good actually.”
He went on to talk about the arcade bar they went to, one she knew about before him. He eagerly told you about how she laughed at all of his jokes, especially the bad ones, and how they were into almost the same things. Video games, music, even the same soju flavor. How the fuck had you set something up so perfect? You had to stuff forkfuls of lasagna in your mouth just to stop your teeth from grinding down.
But … wasn’t this your plan after all?
“She’s also really funny,” Wonwoo continued, breaking you out of your thoughts. He ran a hand down his face, as if remembering something she said. “You were right about the game thing. I don’t know many people that have played Arctic Warfare, and she’s apparently good at it. She told me her rank. Crazy. We kept arguing about this mechanic in the game that always makes my brain go –” He shook his hands in the air, laughing at the memory.
Your tone remained normal, despite the war inside your head. “Yeah? What’d you guys play at the arcade?”
This set him off on another tangent, explaining the hour long foosball game they played that ended in him paying for another round of beers. Harin had felt bad, insisted that she was kidding and let them split it, but he wanted to. And then let her pick out her favorite game at the arcade to play next. (It was pinball. You hated pinball.)
“She went to that convention I told you about recently,” he continued as you set the half-eaten tin on the coffee table, suddenly queasy from eating too fast. “And – oh, wait. She showed me this cosplay she did last year. Check it out.”
Wonwoo pulled out his phone and unlocked it, her Instagram profile already pulled up. He found the picture immediately – like muscle memory – tilting his phone towards you to show you the Animal Crossing cosplay she made. Her smile was so bright, cute, in the photo, pink cheeks and yellow eyeshadow on her eyes.
You cleared your throat. “Oh, that’s –”
“Cool, right?”
“Yeah, cool.”
He grinned big, placing his phone right side up on his thigh. Something he never did while at your apartment.
“She understood every reference I made. You know how sometimes I make those references to Portal and you kinda stare at me like I have three heads?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that –”
“She completely got all of them. It was … seriously funny.” He was laughing again, the kind he only did when he was drunk or when you reminded him of the time in junior year of undergrad when you puked in a punch bowl at a frat party. It was sacred and intimate, and right now, it was because of … Harin.
He met your eyes with a soft, authentic smile. “The date was fun. It was … easy.”
You felt your eye twitch.
Easy.
One word had never caused so much devastation to run through your entire body, the type you couldn’t will away with the armor you built for years. To compare yourself to another woman was cheap and not like you whatsoever. You would never think that way because you would never pit women against each other. It was wrong. Distasteful.
But Harin was easy. And you, certainly, had never been that.
As he continued – and you were keenly aware that this was probably the longest he spoke in all the years you knew him – you thought back to his previous girlfriends. The ones from college, the girl he dated three years ago … All those women he’d been attracted to were nothing like him. Opposites attract, after all. But Harin was the farthest from opposite. Your goal for this date had been symmetry, someone that aligned with Wonwoo, which meant this was a success. She changed something in him.
You felt the soft drop in your stomach.
Oh, you thought, he might actually fall for her.
That was the reason why you started this whole thing. It shouldn’t be a shock, right?
Right?
“So …” You played with a loose thread on your skirt, asking the question you always did. The one where you got the same answer. “Would you see her again?”
You were used to his hesitation, the way he would ponder exactly how to say, No, in the nicest way possible. But he didn’t do that this time. Wonwoo’s lips tugged up again as he replied, “Yeah. Yes, I think I would.”
There wasn’t much excitement this time, but his tone was unquestionable. Certain.
Good, you told yourself, this is good.
The silence between you two felt heavy. A constant, wavering cloud of gray.
This was what you wanted.
That knife in your heart dug in deeper, twisting, and you felt the invisible gush of feelings pour out of you. So much that you didn’t know how to push them back inside.
Then why does it feel like this?
His phone buzzed, breaking the tension completely. You sat up a little, peering to see who was on his lock screen, but you already knew the answer. Wonwoo smiled shyly and opened up his texts with Harin. Like clockwork, she was asking if he’d like to go on a second date. He was giddy; you could tell because he was making that face that he only made around you. But he didn’t want to show it, because he was getting to his feet and muttering, “Let me answer this and then we can watch a movie.”
You were completely frozen, hands laced on your lap as you grappled with reality. Every other date didn’t sting like this, because he didn’t like them. Not like this. Those bad dates kept him as yours, but this one might not. And – god, it was wrong of you to ever think he could stay yours because he was his own person and your best friend, but this hurt and your brain felt like it was imploding.
“Hey.”
You turned, seeing Wonwoo lingering by the doorway of the living room. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“Thanks for setting this up,” he said. “I mean it this time.”
You forced a smile. “Of course. I’d do anything for you.”
As he disappeared into the bathroom, you licked your lips and told yourself that everything was going to plan, that was a good thing. You repeated it like a mantra, hoping it would stick. And you believed it … for about ten minutes.
Wonwoo, rather unconsciously, tortured you with information on every date he had with Harin. If he couldn’t come over to talk, he simply texted you. And you feigned interest because – maybe, just maybe – you were terrified that he was going to forget about you. He was just so excited about her, and you could tell. This was your doing and all you’ve ever wanted was for him to be happy. But now he was happy and it wasn’t just with you anymore. What if, sooner or later, it wasn’t with you at all?
You had bitten your nails down to nubs because of it.
He had gone on more dates with Harin, almost every week for the entire month of April. Spring was quite literally in full bloom. He had even taken her to see the cherry blossoms – something you both typically did together. (But it was fine. It had to be.) He wasn’t coming over as often anymore and the takeout you got on Thursdays and Fridays started to taste a lot worse when you were alone. You thought you had gotten used to being alone all these years, but not like this. Not when the thoughts got too loud and you missed him so much that you debated on downloading a dating app. But then you thought back to that horror movie and decided you didn’t want to go on a date with a possible serial killer.
The bed you had made for yourself was cold and not in the good way. The kind that reminded you how lonely the armor around your heart had become. How yearning felt worse when your best friend wasn’t by your side.
You tried to busy yourself with work like always, but not even the late night phone calls from your worried boss were a good enough distraction. (Although, they did keep you up on the customer service hotline with whatever billboard company he decided not to do business with anymore.) For a second, you considered calling up your ex – the older one, Sean – even just for a one night stand. But Sean had never been one for casual. And you couldn’t remember the last time you were intimate with someone.
The fear struck you like lightning. You stirred in bed, flipping onto your back to stare at the ceiling. After attempting to go to sleep early, it was clear that your racing thoughts were going to keep you up, making dread pulse in your chest.
What if no one ever wanted you again? Not even just intimately, but physically. Your presence.
Worse – what if Wonwoo didn’t want you anymore?
The sound of the oscillating fan at your bedside drowned out, leaving you with the echo of the words that just came into your subconscious. Somehow, the world got so quiet, and you were clutching at the stretched out collar of your pajama shirt, breathing suddenly becoming difficult. What the fuck – this couldn’t be anxiety, could it? No way, you hadn’t felt that in year. You were being dramatic, ridiculous, and –
Your phone vibrated and you had never swung so fast to grab it.
Wonwoo: Sorry for the late text but I miss you
Wonwoo: It’s starting to get warm at night and my fan here sucks compared to yours
Wonwoo: Do you have plans Saturday night? Maybe we could get some drinks at the dive we like
And suddenly, breathing didn’t feel so hard to do. You accepted, of course, because the opportunity to see him after so long was more important than anything else in the world right now. He had never been one to initiate plans, so the fact that he was – let alone, asking to meet you at a bar – was progress. He missed you. Of course, he did. You were best friends, but it was clear that the distance truly made the heart grow fonder.
You prepared what you were going to say, how casual your tone was going to be, and the exact beer you planned to order – Stella Artois, of course – but your entire plan seemed to be interrupted when you turned your head to the side that Saturday night. The bar was getting more full, and you could see from the space you cleared out for him at the bar top that Wonwoo wasn’t alone. His hand was on a woman’s back as he ushered her forward and – oh my god, he brought Harin.
Your body froze mid sip as the cold bottle of Stella was at your lips. Wonwoo pushed his wonky glasses up on his nose and waved to you, helping Harin get through the growing crowd, and it took everything in you to force that smile. Once they were in front of you, your eyes raked down and took in the pretty sundress she was wearing: purple flowers scattered in a pattern over white polyester. She looked beautiful and still so casual with her hair undone like this. Your hand smoothed over the off-shoulder top you picked up on the Express clearance rack and your jeans that were a trusted pair since college, suddenly self conscious. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this way, but then you noticed how she was the perfect height next to him and now you were picturing yourself as a fucking Amazon woman next to her and –
You needed to stop this, but you were already upset, eyes getting the tiniest bit pink as you went in to hug Harin. She slipped past you after to order her drink of choice – a rum and Coke – at the bar, and that was when you felt Wonwoo pull you into his broad chest, and you realized just how well you fit here, his nose pressed against your hairline. Your fingers notched into the short sleeve t-shirt he was wearing, and then he muttered, “Missed you,” making you tug on that cotton a little more than a friend should.
“You too,” you replied, voice muffled by his shirt. “You’ve been busy though.”
He laughed under his breath before whispering in your ear. “She wanted to come see you after all these years. This okay?”
“Of course,” you replied, but there was no vigor behind it.
He hummed as you leaned back from him, and he absentmindedly lifted your hand to notice how badly you’d bitten down your nails. His brow furrowed, but you pulled away before he could comment.
Taking out his wallet, he handed Harin his credit card so she could get them both drinks. “You should’ve waited for me,” he said, nodding towards the Stella in your hands. “I wanted to buy your first drink.”
“I’m very capable of paying for my own beer, Wonwoo,” you remarked, and then realized how bitter you sounded, how the frustration that you pummeled down for weeks came up to the surface so easily. Your expression softened as you added, “You can pay for my second.”
He smiled, all goofy and kind. “Sounds good.” Noticing the strand of hair that had fallen in front of your eyes, he reached up to push it behind your ear at the same time Harin was turning around with the drinks. Wonwoo’s hand instantly retracted, but came back out to take his card that she handed to him.
“Oh,” she beamed while handing Wonwoo his Stella, “you guys like the same beer.”
Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck and gestured to you with his chin. “She turned me on to it. I was into Guinness for a bit.”
Harin stuck out her tongue in disgust and you suggested to move over to a high top table, desperate to let this conversation die before it could even begin. You didn’t want Harin thinking that you were one of those weird girl best friends, that you and Wonwoo had secretly hooked up on the side – even though that … definitely did happen in college. Nevertheless, you didn’t want her to have any assumptions of you. This night had already gone off the rails and you were desperate to get it back on track.
So you asked how they were doing, which was another mistake on your part because then Harin glanced at him and he was doing that goofy smile all over again. But not at you. Especially not now. She sipped at her drink through a tiny straw, nudged him with her elbow, before mumbling, “C’mon, you tell her. Don’t be so nervous, Nunu.”
Nunu?
You blinked.
When the hell did he start liking that nickname?
Without meeting your eyes, his hand found Harin’s wrist on the tabletop as he muttered, “I asked her to be my girlfriend last week.”
“Oh,” you blurted, and his gaze instantly lifted to yours. Your lips sealed for a moment, and then you added, “I meant … oh! That’s great news. I just never …” You should stop yourself, because Wonwoo’s eyes looked like he was pleading with you to be silent and Harin was staring at you like you were the most interesting thing in this sea of drunk people. “You’ve always taken so long to be exclusive. I never expected it. But I … I’m happy for you two.”
Harin’s face shifted into a huge grin, her eyes closing and her laughter hard to control. Wonwoo let out a sigh of relief that he thought no one noticed, but you did. You took a long swig of your beer as Harin looked to Wonwoo to exclaim, “And you were nervous to tell her! I told you that it wasn’t a big deal.”
That made you both pause. Your eyes flickered to his, the beer bottle frozen to his lips, and you set your own down on the table. Your hands were sweating as much as the cold glass. “You were nervous to tell me?”
He took a sip and shrugged. “Well, I –”
“I think he just …” Harin’s voice trailed off as she looked at him, her own hand coming up to lock around his wrist now. “He values your opinion more than anyone else’s. I’ve noticed it when he talks about you. Besides his parents, I took you as one of the most important people in his life.”
She was speaking in his direction, but once she finished, her head turned to you and she gave you the kind of smile that made you utterly hate yourself. Not out of jealousy, but because she was kind and perfectly perfect for him. Unchallenging and effortless.
For a moment, you were stunned, not sure what to say. But then you were setting down your beer again and suddenly replying, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom. Be right back.”
You spun on your heel, shoving yourself through the crowd of people that had assimilated around the bar, before finally propelling inside the two-stall bathroom. Walking up to the sink, you clutched the edge and let yourself breathe for a minute, inhaling the heavy scent of Febreze. You debated on splashing your face with cold water before you remembered that you decided to not wear waterproof mascara tonight.
He values your opinion more than anyone else’s.
Bile started to rise in your throat, making you cough and finally turn on the sink to cup water into your mouth. Your eyes got pink again, but you held back the tears that were damn near burning to be let out. If you cried now, you wouldn’t be able to stop, and you’d be damned if you let yourself cry over this. Over something so … nonsensical. What were you even upset about anyway?
The soft sounds of Maroon 5 only got louder when the door opened and you were greeted with the sight of Harin’s flushed cheeks. She smiled at you and you immediately sucked in whatever boogers were trying to leak out, grabbing a paper towel to dry your hands. “I didn’t get to tell you yet,” she said, walking forward and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into her orbit, “but you look even better since college. I’m in love with this top.”
And to think you were second-guessing it an hour ago.
She leaned back to grin back up at you, and looking at her now … you could see how she was able to charm just about anyone. People said that about you sometimes, but Harin was different. Something about her aura made you instantly want to let your guard down, feel more at ease, realize how silly you’d been feeling about all of this.
Until you remembered she was now your best friend’s girlfriend and something about that deeply unsettled you.
“Thanks,” you smiled as she detached herself from you. “I really like your dress too.”
“My mom got it for me! Target find, I think.” She shrugged, quickly washing her hands and looking over her shoulder at you. “I stalked you on LinkedIn a little bit. Not sure if you got the notification. You’re a Marketing Director now? That’s so cool!”
“It’s fun sometimes,” you waved off, unsure how to take compliments, even at this age. “You must be doing something cool now.”
She shook her head and dried off her hands. “Nah, I’ve been at the same software developer position for years. But I want to get into game development at some point.”
God, you thought, I really did find him his match.
You nodded, unsure what to say next, but then she was approaching you and reaching out to squeeze one of your hands. She looked up at you like you were important, like you hung the stars one by one. “I just wanted to thank you privately,” she whispered, “for introducing me to Wonwoo. I don’t think I’ve ever caught feelings this fast or got along with anyone so well, and I just … thank you. I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”
Your heart broke, and you needed to mend it in an instant. But this stung more than you could’ve prepared and it wasn’t fair that you were hurt when this was your doing. The bed you made. The music you had to face. Etcetera, etcetera.
“It was no biggie,” you muttered, wondering how you could make a break for it. Even if that meant going into one of the stalls that had more litter on the floor than a dumpster.
“It is a biggie. It just feels like …” She trailed off, looking off to the side as she mulled over her next words. “You know how I knew it was a big deal when he asked to be exclusive? He wanted to watch a movie – In the Mood for Love – and I learned only later that was one of his favorites. Did you know that?”
Of course, you did. It was only a couple months ago that you two watched it together and he never added anything to his Letterboxd Top 4 so fast.
But you shook your head, eager to get this over with. Maybe you could pretend to be nauseous and go home early.
“It was during a really pivotal scene that he insisted I pay attention to,” she continued, “but then … I felt his hand in mine. And it was like … the way you can feel someone looking at you. Then, he asked me, and something about it felt so right. The moment, his hand … everything. Which I know sounds super corny, but I just … I know this is good for me and I have you to thank. So again – thank you.”
You took the opportunity to carefully slip your hand out of hers. “You’re … you’re welcome,” you forced the words out. “I’m really glad it’s working out and you’re good for him too. This is … the best news.”
You sent her one last quick smile before your shoulder brushed hers. “If you’ll excuse me. My beer must be getting warm,” you added with a chuckle.
In that moment, as your palm pushed against the door and you felt the humidity of the packed bar all over again, seeing your best friend wave and keep watch over the high top table … you realized that getting over him might not have been what you wanted in the first place.
VI.
I don’t wanna look at anything else now that I saw you. I don’t wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you. I’ve been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night. And now I see daylight. –TAYLOR SWIFT
October 31, 2023
It was a particularly warm Halloween. A slight breeze had settled over the brightly lit city, but humidity lingered from the constant on-and-off rain all day. The weather just made the local dive that much hotter: bodies packed like sardines in a small bar that still smelled like cigarettes with a tinge of men’s deodorant. You and Wonwoo had moved downtown a few months ago and were lucky enough to find this place so close to your building. And the best part was – no cover charge.
Not that they could with how bad it smelled in here, but beggars couldn’t be choosers sometimes.
You were wearing a cheap angel halo from Dollar Tree that was far too tight on your head with a pair of light wash jeans and a top that fell off one shoulder a bit too far, enough to make a few men turn their heads and Wonwoo stand close. He had no costume – of course – but maybe he had the right idea when it felt like this headband was compressing your actual skull. However, when a pirate woman that was far too inebriated from multiple Dirty Shirleys asked what his costume was, he replied, “Game developer,” with a cheeky smile.
After twenty minutes, you were finally greeted with the sight of your friends from your new job pushing through the crowd to get to your free corner of the bar. You handed Wonwoo your beer without thinking – and he had to make a mental note which one was yours since you drank the same beer – as you tugged Jennifer into a hug. She was flagged by your other coworkers, Felix and Hunter, who he only recognized because he heard those names come from your mouth more often than not these days.
He introduced himself when you brought them over, but still kept to himself, practically sinking into the corner of the dark bar as you rambled on about something ridiculous happening with your new boss, who seemed like an anxiety-ridden mess. But you already knew that. You were distracted, yet you could still feel Wonwoo’s awkward presence near you. He had always been quiet, since the day you sat next to him in that History of Cinema class, but something was different tonight. Although he didn’t say it out loud, you knew he was still thinking about the girl he broke up with so he could move around the same time as you. He always said that she was nothing more than casual and the career opportunity he got here meant so much more, but … his demeanor tonight spoke to more than that.
Sometimes you wondered if Wonwoo just wanted to belong to somebody.
You wanted to tell him that he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him, but something about that felt too intimate.
Leaving the bar with a fresh buzz, your arm hooked around his and you allowed him to take the lead for once. Wonwoo might’ve been a tiny bit tipsy, but his broad shoulders and height made it easier for him gain the upper hand when your footsteps got a little too fast. You had one too many tequila shots more than him and it was enough to make you feel tingly, to make you a little overconfident when you tried to walk without his help. It almost ended with you face-first on the sidewalk.
Wonwoo grabbed your hand as you tripped over the tip of your shoe, and then simply … never let go. His palm was so warm in yours, albeit a bit sweaty, but you assumed that was from the fluctuating weather. And totally not because of anything else, even as he avoided eye contact.
He kept you close, bringing you into his side when someone else walked past. Your hand was in his sweaty one for a solid three blocks until you reached the door to your building. Feet slowing, his hand slipped out of yours, and it was supposed to look casual but when you turned to him, he was clumsily punching said hand into his jean pocket and trying to hide his pink cheeks.
Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, feeling the lip gloss you put on earlier crust at the corners of your mouth. It felt like your brain was swimming, drowning in whatever cataclysm of feelings you were trying to flush, but it was impossible. Wonwoo was impossible.
“You can stay over if you need to,” you offered. “I don’t want you walking back to your place all alone.”
Wonwoo shrugged. “It won’t be that bad. I might just have my roommate pick me up. I think Mingyu’s hanging out with someone just a few blocks away.”
He was staring at your hand, and you noticed, enough for the heat of your gaze to make his chin finally lift like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Nodding, you replied, “Thanks for going out with me tonight.”
His smile was effortless, so incredibly easy. “I know you hate spending Halloween alone.”
You chuckled, spinning slightly to hide your grin and purposefully whacking his shoulder with your purse. “It’s too spooky,” you argued, turning back to him and realizing now that his body was suddenly within reach. Your lips pursed and you met his dark eyes, the tequila in your system suddenly making your guard slip, as if it was made by mere paper and not bricks.
“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who actually knows me.”
His body went still, taking in your response, and then he asked quietly, “Is that … okay with you?”
Words failed you, dying on your tongue like ash, but you still allowed gravity to pull you in his direction. You were closer now – close enough that your chests brushed, feeling his warm breath on your face. It made a cold sweat appear on your hairline that mingled with the vaguely cool air around you, a reminder of the bitter winter ahead. But at that moment, it was just you and him, and the fallen leaves collecting in puddles around you, and the humidity that made your hair frizz a little. The alcohol running through you had your cheeks flushed and when your head tilted down, you realized your pinky was hooking with his.
You never wanted anything more than this: his warmth, his presence, Wonwoo. The only person that you trusted with your life. Your closest friend. You wanted him everywhere and nowhere. Wanting him was a blessing, but it was also too much, suffocating you from the inside out.
Your gaze lifted to his again, and your lips parted to say something that might ruin everything: “I think … I think I’d be okay with –”
But then, you hiccuped. And again, and again. Enough that you had to hold your breath for a couple seconds to calm down. Your finger was still looped around his and you didn’t look down to make sure it was real, but you felt his thumb running over your knuckles in a way that screamed want. Desire.
The tingles from alcohol started to fade, remnants of tequila ebbing away, and you reframed instantly. Your pinky carefully slipped out of his and you chuckled, “Obviously. You’re my best friend. I mean – that’s kind of the point, right?”
Wonwoo hesitated, brow quirking up for a less than a second. “That’s … that’s good.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped back from you. Your fingers twitched, already missing his warmth.
“I should get going.” He crooked his thumb over his shoulder, feigning a smile. “See you next Thursday for movie night.”
May 7, 2026
He hadn’t been coming to movie nights.
Out of all things, Wonwoo typically didn’t skip a movie night. Not even when he had a date. Hell, he was frequently trying to watch one with you after the dates you put him on. But once turned into twice, and then it was May and the peonies were sprouting in the soil by your apartment and Thursday had become their date nights.
It’s the best day for both of us, he told you in text once. I don’t usually work past 5 and her meetings end around 4:30. It just worked out that way. Which you couldn’t blame him, because Harin was his girlfriend and making time with her mattered. But there was this thing called a weekend – that they were using for dates too (you’d know; you saw the cute photos Harin posted on her Instagram story) – but of course, Thursdays were date night too. Convenient for them. Lonely for you.
You typically embraced loneliness like an old friend. It was never cold – actually, it was rather comfortable – but you regarded it with indifference. You had been alone for so long that you were used to it. It didn’t matter, as long as you had your friend. But your friend was preoccupied with someone else now – someone you set him up with. And this was supposed to make you feel good, but for the first time, you felt yourself grimacing when the shroud of loneliness appeared at your bedside and you flipped over, curling a blanket around yourself despite the heat.
So you called him.
You shouldn’t have. You should’ve let the feelings fester and eventually, they would pass. They always did. But it was another Thursday night alone and the mindless arguing from the reality show on your TV was doing little to silence your loud thoughts. Your glass of homemade sweet tea was left abandoned on the coffee table, water dripping down the sides, as warm air filtered from the open window. Summer was near and yet the spot next to you on the couch felt cold as ice, like someone had deserted it for longer than normal.
You flipped your phone over before you could stop yourself, scrolling down to his name. It was late and he was probably just getting into his apartment after seeing Harin, but you didn’t care. You didn’t really care about anything anymore, truthfully. The line only rang for two seconds before you heard a click and he was saying your name. So faint, like a prayer.
For a moment, you were sure you heard Harin’s muffled laughter leave the speaker.
“Are you just never going to come to movie night again?”
Wonwoo paused, and then said, “Hello to you too.”
“It’s late and I have to go to bed soon because I have a 9 AM meeting tomorrow. I don’t exactly have time for ‘hellos.’” It was a lie, and you both knew it. You’d been staying up way longer than you should’ve most nights and going to work exhausted. It could probably be heard in your voice.
He exhaled heavily, and you could almost hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry for skipping. It’s just … you know why. But I feel terrible. You have to know that too. You know I wouldn’t skip plans with you if there wasn’t a legitimate reason.”
You picked at the corner of the pimple patch on your jaw, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been skipping a lot of things recently.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
There was an indistinct woman’s voice on the other end, and then a door closed. He was alone now.
“Wonwoo,” you chastised, “you don’t need me to spell it out for you.”
“Is this still about movie night? I’m not a mind reader.”
You took a moment, swallowing down your pride and sitting up. If you didn’t say it, you feared you never would. The festering wouldn’t cease until you let the word vomit out.
“I feel like you’ve just forgotten me since you started dating,” you said, and then clarified, “since Harin.”
Silence echoed. The minute began to draw out, enough for you to ask, “You there?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “just thinking.”
“About what?”
Wonwoo clicked his tongue then. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
Your head jerked back, the grip on your phone tightening. “It is. I’m happy for you. Don’t I sound happy?”
The sound of his lips opening came muffled through the speaker, but you kept going on.
“I just –” You let your head fall into one hand as you rubbed at your temples. “I’m frustrated. I know people grow apart as they get older, but … I don’t see you anymore and it’s like you don’t give a fuck.”
“Now you’re putting words into my mouth.”
“So? Who cares?”
“Well, it seems like you do.” His words made your heart sink into your stomach, like you’d been caught in the biggest lie of your life. Maybe you had. “Why do you care so much?”
You blinked. “I …” Every nerve in your body died. Even if you wanted to speak, you couldn’t. There was nothing to say anyway. How could you possibly explain the truth when you had buried it in the deepest cavern imaginable for so long?
Finally, your mouth began moving for you: “I just think you’ve forgotten about your friends.”
Wonwoo sighed, frustration evident in his tone. “Listen,” he started, “You’re my longest friend. I know this is what you like to do. You like to fix people because it feels good –”
“It’s not just that, Wonwoo –”
“– But you don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” he added. “I do.”
Any response you had ready seemed to burn in your throat. It was like he took your whole vocabulary, leaving you mute and helpless as static buzzed from your line to his. Your mouth hung open slightly, and you prayed something would come out, but … nothing. You were nothing in a sea of nothingness and Wonwoo wasn’t yours anymore.
Eventually, you heard him exhale with a tinge of regret. “You there?”
You moved your phone away from your ear, staring down at his contact name. The text began to blur when you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. But you couldn’t let yourself; this hurt but you would survive. You always did, and he’d come back to you and you’d accept him with open arms because this was you and Wonwoo after all. Every friendship – or whatever this was now – went through a rough patch.
But instead of replying, you immediately ended the call.
Wonwoo didn’t come back like you thought.
Silence stretched, thinner than a bed sheet. The distance was colder than you imagined, almost arctic, and you felt it settle deep in your bones, but it did nothing to cool you at night when the humid breeze blew through your open window. No communication was harder than it looked, but in your defense, you really hadn’t expected this. And now, you were too embarrassed to even text him, the fear of rejection still clawing at you just like in college. (Let’s be real: it never really went away anyway.)
You had never been broken up with in the twenty-something years you’d been alive. Typically, it was you who broke things off, and sure, you were sad afterwards, although nothing ever lingered because it was you who ended it in the first place. Maybe you were heartless; maybe no relationship really mattered like Wonwoo’s friendship – but no breakup really hurt. This, however, felt worse than you could ever imagine. Your entire world seemed like it was falling apart and you couldn’t even go to him.
You missed him – more than you ever thought you could, more than that time he went away to Italy during summer break junior year – but you were getting by as much as you could. Jennifer took you out for drinks, and the sugary margaritas made your head swim for a solid night before you were right back to sulking in your chair at work. You got a promotion – one you had been gunning for for a year, one that you deserved. That felt good, and finally, your mood was turning around. Even your parents were going to visit for your birthday in September, something they hadn’t done in a few years. Your mother’s usual saying, “It’s always so busy around your birthday,” graduated to, “I think this year calls for celebration. The last year of your twenties is a big one.” There was a possibility of them cancelling, but you didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.
So many things to be excited over, and you were trying to focus on them, especially on those dreaded Thursday nights. Instead of popping a movie on your TV and watching it in silence like a lonely 50s housewife, you were taking matters into your own hands. Matters that involved a leak you tended to ignore every time it came back. You were blasting the loudest heavy metal music possible though your AirPods, the kind of stuff you hadn’t listened to since high school, as you tried fixing your bathroom faucet on your own. The sink was older than the apartment, it seemed, and would leak at the most inopportune times. You had been paying a technician to come fix it almost every year, but after the last time when he stared at your chest a little too long, you decided maybe it was time to get up off your ass and try.
In a loose pair of sweatpants and a tank top that was doing nothing to hide your genetically lopsided boobs, you hunched forward and inspected the pipe below the basin. You watched a tutorial online, then watched it again, and settled that this should be easy enough. Gone were the days of you paying a pervy technician far too much money to stop a leak that kept happening. You were a new woman now: independent, self-sufficient, definitely not lonely.
You followed the instructions to a T, but something was just wrong. Maybe it was the day or some form of karma that just wouldn’t get off your back – you would never know. Using all the strength in your body, you tried turning the shut-off valves clockwise, but it was hardly budging. It was like there was something preventing them from moving and condensation was already creating a puddle on your tiled floor. You even tried turning the water on and all the way off to see if something was just clogged, and yet … nothing. Were you really that weak that you could figure out how to fix a fucking sink?
There had to be a solution you didn’t know about. Connecting the drain to the stopper was a washer where the leak was dripping from. You picked up your wrench, the tip of your tongue meeting the corner of your lips, like you did when you really concentrated. The music blaring in your ears was reaching a peak, the bridge so loud that your could feel your neurons kissing – or whatever it was that neurons did. Maybe if you yank the wrench this way around the washer that would stop the leak –
Water erupted from the pipe, spraying all over your face to the point you felt like you were being fucking waterboarded. You reached out with fumbling, desperate hands, trying to tighten the washer again with your eyes closed, realizing you’d been stupid enough to leave one handle turned. After a couple more seconds of what you could only describe as a horrific form of torture, the washer went taut and the water stopped, albeit still leaking, but at least it wasn’t blasting into your nose.
You slumped back against the wall, coughing up the water that had entered your nose, before resting your head back against the peeling wallpaper. Your body was soaked, the thin cotton of your tank top completely ruined and your sweatpants looking like you pissed yourself, and – oh, now you were crying.
Tears welled up before you could stop them, rolling down your cheeks and clogging up your throat. The current song in your ears faded, replaced with an equally louder one that you simply had to turn off at this point. You couldn’t prevent the sobs from absolutely wracking through your body, like it was relieving tension from your system. But still, something about it almost felt violent: your face was turning red and you could already feel a headache coming on as tears practically stung at your eyes. You looked at the sink like it killed someone in your family and it was in that moment that everything became clear. Well, somewhat – warm, wet globs were still falling and it almost hurt to breathe.
You couldn’t believe you’d met your match and it was a sink.
The realization hit you and it felt like you were wearing an invisible dunce cap. You couldn’t fix everything. You could try and do everything in your power, but there was always going to be something that couldn’t be fixed on your own. And it wouldn’t feel good – actually, it made you feel like utter shit – but you had to get over it. You couldn’t do it all and not everything – not even a faucet – could be fixed.
As your eyes followed the water trickling from the pipe, you knew then that you’d been treating Wonwoo like this, like a sink. A project instead of a choice. Perhaps it should’ve been clear when you told him to go into his dates like a job interview, or when he told you that his dates weren’t a performance review. There were a multitude of times when you should’ve realized, but you didn’t,and now you were paying the consequences with this leak in your bathroom and no Wonwoo by your side.
You got to your feet and padded to your room for a fresh set of clothes. It wouldn’t help sitting there and sulking at the stupid leak you couldn’t fix.
On the rare occasion that your absent-minded mother called you to check in, she’d ask you the same things – “Are you still working at that company? How’s Wonwoo? Did you get a cat yet?” – but one always stuck with you, to the point her voice would echo in your head before you went to sleep. Sometimes she’d prod about why you weren’t dating anyone, why you hadn’t experienced love yet when you were pushing thirty. And it stumped you, because surely, you should’ve experienced love at least once. But you never wanted to think too deeply about it out of fear, and then came up with a quip like, “I’m waiting for a love like I’ve seen in the movies. Find me my own Harry Burns from When Harry Met Sally, then we’ll talk, Ma.”
It was all farce though.
And as you sat down on the edge of your bed, clean clothes abandoned in a neatly folded pile at your hip, you knew the reason why now. You’d always known, deep inside yourself, but you pushed it down for so long that these feelings had no choice but to come up when a leaky faucet made you the most defenseless. Like your armor of sturdy bricks had finally crumbled from a mere gust of wind.
You were in love with Jeon Wonwoo.
Maybe you always had been.
VII.
Orpheus: How will you remember?
Eurydice: That I love you?
Orpheus: Yes.
Eurydice: That’s easy. I can’t help it. –SARAH RUHL
You attempted to text him for an entire week, an abundance of words spilling from your subconscious, the same ones you buried since the day you shook his hand while saying, “Just friends?” That one sentence seemed to haunt you for life, repeating over and over in your head when not even audio porn could dull the ache in your chest. You poured your heart out into your phone all week: ranging from essays you drafted in the Notes app to actually opening up your texts with him and letting the bright light blur into your retinas until sleep finally took over.
Nothing was right though.
Maybe it was all you. The ideal words just weren’t coming and it was all too embarrassing. You weren’t 28 anymore; it felt like you were 11 logging onto AIM with trembling fingers before messaging the boy you liked. The same boy that you shared Social Studies with, that you didn’t give a Valentine’s Day Fun Dip to because you thought that would make him like you – but I digress. You were shriveling into your past shelf and you didn’t know how to make it all stop.
The next blow hit before you were able to expect it.
While you’re on your lunch break eating the saddest salad known to man, you open up Instagram and see a story update from Harin. Instinctively, you know you shouldn’t. It could be nothing and it would still make you upset. The last thing you needed was to drench this limp salad with your tears. Your finger hovered over her icon, and you almost stopped yourself but the temptation was too much.
A video started playing, making your hands fumble as you struggled to turn the audio down and grab your AirPods at the same time. Once they were in, you replayed the first video: she was showing off a new apartment with a big smile. She was so beautiful and graceful as she moved around the new place, presenting the big kitchen and best indoor heating system for the winter. (You wondered how she’d fair with your tiny space heater in the kitchen, and you chuckled to yourself.) She opened the door to the bedroom, rambling on about the size and how it was made for two people.
You held your finger down to pause. Made for two. As in … a couple. Moving in together.
Lifting the pad of your finger, her voice came though your headphones automatically: “This move all came up pretty fast,” she sighed, plopping down on the clean carpet. “But it’s a new opportunity and I’m so excited to start this new journey, as corny as it sounds. I’ve been a little bit of a cornball recently. If you know, you know. Trying to romanticize my life and all that.” She slid down to lay on the carpet then. “Here’s to new beginnings!”
It was wrong to jump to conclusions. You knew that; you preached it. But when your heart was beating a little too fast like this, it was hard to not make your imagination run wild. Because obviously, Wonwoo was moving in with her. After only a few months of dating. You knew it shouldn’t come as much as a shock because she was his girlfriend after all, but also you thought maybe – just maybe – this was something he could’ve told you. Even when you both weren’t speaking.
You stood from your desk, smiling politely to each coworker you passed until you got to the bathroom. It was only when you locked yourself in a stall that you felt the devastation hit you. Like an avalanche. Your palms laid flat on both sides of the stall as you stared at your feet, waiting for something to change. But it was just you: calm on the surface with your feelings eating you up inside, swallowing you whole until you were nothing left.
If you didn’t confess, then you’d become a shell. A walking set of bones and muscles. But what if he completely cut you off? What if he was disgusted, absolutely horrified that someone who was supposed to be his friend had been hiding their feelings for ten years? You couldn’t blame him, but you didn’t want to imagine losing him. Not yet.
Friendship without honesty was still a loss. It was time for both of you to be honest with each other.
After a debilitating train ride, you almost reconsidered your plan. But as you stepped onto the platform for the stop closest to Wonwoo’s apartment, looking around at the crowd of people swarming around you, the only way out was in. You couldn’t postpone this to another day; not when you’d been repeating this cycle since college. So you pushed through – past the tired women in blazers that were looking forward to their Friday night glass of wine, past the men on the phone with their partners and assuring them they’d pick up whatever they wanted for dinner – until you got to the stairs and climbed up. You were out of breath by the time you got to the top, lungs burning, and a drizzle was starting to fall, but you sprinted forward into the crowd. Your dying courage would lead you to where you needed to go.
Once you were standing outside his building – newly refurbished a few years ago with a huge garden planted in the front – you began to dig in your work tote for your keys, which still had his fob attached to it. You didn’t use it very often since he was almost always at your place, but it was instances like this that you were grateful to still have it in your possession. Swiping it at the door, you tugged at the handle and stepped inside, pulling off your wet hood as your shoes squeaked all the way to elevator.
Sometimes you wished you had the strength to just move into a nicer building like Wonwoo’s. It wasn’t like you didn’t have the money, but you had just gotten … accustomed to your old place. The heating system was shit and the lack of proper AC sucked in the summer, however … there were a sense peace there that you never experienced anywhere else. That was where you built a home and memories. With Wonwoo.
As the doors opened and you stepped inside, it started to settle in what you were doing. Your heart rate kicked up like a drum, and your nails were pinching tiny crescents in your palms. This was really happening. Why the fuck were you doing this again? Could you really not get through another few years of pushing down these feelings and postpone this all over again? You wanted to, desperately, and you were half tempted to turn around. But your feet had a mind of their own, walking out of the elevator that stopped on the third floor, halting at his door and rapping your fist against it.
You still had time to back out. He might still be on the way home from work. Maybe it was just Mingyu there right now, and he’d keep your secret if you left. If you spun on your heel and already started for the elevator, he wouldn't be able to see you –
The door opened, and there was Wonwoo, blinking at you in surprise. He was running a hand through his combed wet hair, fresh from a shower, with a black t-shirt that was clinging to his slightly damp body and – oh. No matter how old you got, a pair of grey sweatpants would always get to you, especially on him.
Meeting his eyes again, you asked, “Are you busy? Can I come in?”
His lips pursed for a moment, and as much as you knew he wanted to be mad at you, his face softened. “Yeah,” he nodded, holding the door more open, “of course.”
You stepped through the threshold, noticing that his living room was as clean as it would get, something he had gotten sick of you chastising him for so you fought to always keep your mouth shut. Bills and junk mail were scattered on the coffee table, but you noticed – right near the TV – a candle was lit, almost burnt to the bottom. It was the candle you gave him for Christmas last year. The one he said reminded him of you.
Placing your work tote near the door, you didn’t bother sitting down, didn’t even take off your rain jacket. It was just you and him, standing in his living room that was lit with just one candle and an artsy lamp that his roommate had bought. You didn’t hear any rustling anywhere else; Mingyu must not be home.
A smart person – someone wanting forgiveness – would say something simple, like hello. But you didn’t, because clearly this was the stupidest decision of your life.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You blurted, making his brow furrow.
“What are you talking about?”
You gawked at him, and then replied, “Don’t play stupid, Wonwoo.”
He was blinking again, confusion wracking his brain. “I wish I was. I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw Harin’s Instagram story.” You paused, suddenly so aware about how childish you sounded. Getting upset over something as silly as Instagram. Your mouth went dry, and when you met his eyes again, you realized he was waiting for you to say more. “About the new apartment.”
“Oh,” he nodded, then thought for a moment. “Wait, she got the apartment?”
Your lips opened for a moment, processing his words. Something was off; were you both talking about the same thing right now? Why would he not know if his girlfriend got the apartment, presumably for the both of them?
“Are you intentionally acting dumb?” You asked, a little more irritable than you should be. He tilted his head and your hands balled into fists, standing up straighter. “Because if you keep doing this, I’m going to start crying again and I’m already so high strung and I haven’t slept and I’m confused –”
Wonwoo stepped closer then, his face losing every hint of anger towards you. He wasn’t really angry; he could never be that angry at you. His large hand circled around your arm, and you could feel the caress of his thumb running up and down even though the thin layer of your rain jacket. “Hey, take a breath,” he insisted in a soft voice. “Everything is okay.”
You inhaled sharply, and then let it out. Your gaze was practically glued to his as you felt every wall that was ever created inside you crumble. Originally, you assumed there was just one, tall as the eye could see, made of bricks. But there were actually several walls, and when your eyes connected with his, you could practically feel them collapsing in your stomach, one after the other.
“It’s not though,” you finally said. “And it pisses me off that you’re still so calm about this.”
His hand slowly left your arm. “About what?”
“About you and Harin moving in together!”
Wonwoo went silent, brows drawn together, and then he muttered, “Oh, that’s what this is about?”
“What else would it be about?!”
“Harin and I aren’t moving in together.”
You blanked. “Excuse me.”
“We actually aren’t …” He looked off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. Your brow shot up to your hairline. “We’re not together anymore.”
“Oh, I …” You shook your head. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in my head for days. I shouldn’t have assumed –”
He mimicked your movements, and now you were both shaking your heads at each other like bobble heads in a toy shop. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s just –” He exhaled heavily, and now it was your turn to grab his arm. You watched his body physically relax under the heat of your palm, his eyes fluttering down to burn into yours. “I broke up with her two weeks ago. She wanted to me to partially move in with her to see if our lives were compatible. We’d only been together a little under two months and I wasn’t ready. Obviously,” he added, gesturing to the state of his shared apartment.
You squeezed his forearm, and maybe you were just imagining it, but you swore you could feel his pulse quicken.
“I don’t think I would ever be ready. Because I’ve never …” He paused, and if he didn’t continue, you were sure that your courage would vanish. “I’ve never gotten over you.”
The hair on the back of your neck stood up. Your voice so small when you replied, “What? Ever since –”
“Sophomore year.”
Your grip slipped from his arm. “But I thought you … you had never met anyone worth the effort?”
Wonwoo leveled a look at you, like he’d been completely obvious all along. “You have never been just anyone. I thought you knew that.”
You scoffed, acting so nonchalant as if you both weren’t confessing to every feeling you ever had for each other. “Of course, I didn’t know. I’ve been setting you up on dates because I thought if I fixed your love life …” You feigned a laugh as your hand came up to your mouth. “Maybe it wouldn’t blindside me. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much when you really fell in love with someone. And of course, I was very wrong about that one.” Swallowing hard, your fingers were now lacing with his, placing your heart in his careful hands. “You deserve someone great, Wonwoo. Someone who doesn’t push her friend away because she’s in love with him.”
And just like that, they were out of your system. The words flowed off your tongue so easily too, like he was always supposed to know. Like you were meant to tell him all those years ago.
His voice was so low that it almost sounded like a breath: “You’re in love with me?”
“You’ve never been just anyone either, Wonwoo,” you sighed.
He shook his head. “But I thought … I thought you said … you said we would ruin everything if we tried.”
“I was terrified. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship when it just started, and then years went on and … nothing ever went away. I thought about you all the time.”
Wonwoo took a moment, relishing in the feel of your hand in his, running his thumb over your knuckles. He finally brought your laced fingers up, his nose brushing against your wrist as he breathed in your scent. You smelled like that perfume he loved, and paper, and rainwater – everything he loved about you and more. Because he loved you. Of course, he loved you, and you could see it in his eyes, and now you were wondering how you survived being this blind for so long.
“I thought I lost my chance years ago,” he murmured, his naturally long lashes sweeping against your skin. “I thought you truly wanted me with someone else.”
You realized then that your face had moved closer to his without knowing, wanting to be more in his orbit. You couldn’t remember the last time you both were this close. “I thought I did, but …” Your top teeth sunk into your bottom lip. “I don’t think that’s true anymore. And I’ve been sick to my fucking stomach because all I’ve wanted to do is be honest, but there was never a good moment or the right words.”
His chest was pressing against yours now and your fingers unlaced, only so he could hold your face in his warm palms. He shushed you, already seeing the tears prick at your eyes when you got too worked up, wiping them away with his thumbs. “Come on now. You’ve always known the right words to say,” he smiled, and you felt your mouth wobble at just how good he was. You had been an ass to him, you had hid these feelings for years, and yet … he always let you in. “I’m sorry it took me so long to be honest too. Every time I had a bad date, I thought it was proof that wanting you was useless. So I opened myself up, because I thought Harin might just be it. But she wasn’t you.”
His thumb traced your lip, making you release it from in between your teeth. “No one’s like you.”
You did your best not to cry again. All those years of blocking the tears were catching up to you. “I’m sorry for the way I went about this,” you muttered. “I should’ve been honest. I should’ve told you. But I guess you can still be a coward even at our age.”
“You’re not a coward,” he laughed. His finger swiped down the slope of your nose, as if he was committing every bit to memory. “I’m sorry for what I said on the phone. You were right – I did get caught up in the relationship, but I was trying to so I would forget about my feelings for you. I didn’t mean any of it. I like that you fix people.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Okay, maybe I don’t,” he confessed, and then his lips pulled into a smug grin, leaning in so close to your face that you could feel his breath on your cheeks. “Sometimes I like when you micromanage me though.”
The shock that this was all happening hit you, practically struck you like lightening. You stuttered out a series of incomprehensible words, until you finally asked, “Really?” All the confidence, bitterness, it seeped out of you when Wonwoo’s lips were this close to yours. “Well, I … maybe I could –”
“Finally let me kiss you?”
“Oh.” The tension in your body faded, and your hands were curling around his neck because this was happening and he was oh, so yours. “I mean … I guess that’s fine.”
He sneered, “Always needing the last word –”
Your mouth crashed onto his and it felt – god, nothing was more right than this. Your first kiss in college had been messy, almost clumsy, two young adults trying to figure out what the other liked, but Wonwoo had been a quick learner. And oh, did he remember. He didn’t forget the way you liked your bottom lip being sucked on, or how your breath hitched when he licked inside your mouth. His hand slipped from your cheeks, down your torso, before resting on your hips and pulling you even closer by your belt loops. Your fingers were tracing his shoulder blades through the fabric of his tee, an area you didn’t realize until now made him kiss you harder.
“Mingyu’s not home,” he breathed against your lips, shucking your rain jacket off your shoulders.
“I don’t care either way,” you quipped, more desperate than you realized, because you had already started shoving him to the right, where his room was located. Your mouths a hairsbreadth apart, you asked, “Do you still know how to do that thing with your tongue?”
He pulled back with confusion when his spine hit the door of his bedroom, and then realization crossed his features. “Oh, that. I might be out of practice. You were the first person I ever went down on and –”
You raised a brow, causing him to smirk. “It would be an honor,” he replied.
Once his bedroom door closed, the goofiness cleared out of him and his hands were tight, all over you like this was your first time all over again. He had your back pressed against the door, your wrists in his firm grip and pinned over your head. You chased his lips as he went from kissing you soft to hard, making you huff because – Jesus, you really were starved for his attention. Tugging on your bottom lip, he released it and let his mouth trail near your jaw, breathing in that deadly perfume again. The same one that didn’t cease to make him hard.
And you felt it. Right against your leg, heat seeping into your slacks. Was he not wearing any underwear?
“In case I didn’t say it already,” he muttered, his nose now connecting with yours, one palm sliding down to thumb at your nipple over your blouse. “I’m in love with you too.” His teeth skimmed your jaw again, then your collarbone, sucking hard on a particular spot and you felt like you could maybe cum untouched. This was pathetic, being reduced to nothing at your big age from just a hickey.
“I’ve been dreaming of the day you’d let me in,” he hummed, squeezing your breast and feeling the weight in his palm, “when you’d let me touch you again.”
Your knee nudged in between your bodies, smoothing over the growing bulge in his sweatpants. “Wonwoo, please,” you whimpered, already feeling the warmth pool in your stomach, panties drenched and desperate for anything.
“Are you gonna let me micromanage you now?”
Your eyes snapped open, lips pursing as you processed his dirty talk. A snort escape you, and he lifted his head to look at you from underneath his messy, wet hair. His cheeks were tinged a pale pink. “Sorry,” you giggled.
“It sounded sexier in my head,” he muttered, releasing your wrists so he could use that hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “You want to … right? I think I have condoms somewhere. If not, I’ll steal one from Mingyu. I’ve seen his dick once. Accidentally. We’re kind of similar –”
You placed a hand over his mouth to get him to quiet. “This is the most you’ve talked about your roommate and I’d rather not think about him before you fuck me.” Letting your hand fall, you played with the hem of his t-shirt, fingers now splaying on his lower abdomen. His skin was hot to the touch, still a little damp from his shower. “Don’t worry about it – I’m still on the pill. Hormonal acne and all that.”
Now your cheeks were pink, embarrassment creeping through your entire body. But Wonwoo was quick, leaning in to nip at your bottom lip again, and you relaxed by pulling him closer with the ties of his sweatpants. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your mouth, “always have been.”
Before you could catch your breath, he was picking you up and laying you down on his bed. You landed on top of the remote, making the TV flicker to life, and the soft sounds of When Harry Met Sally filled the room. But Wonwoo was too distracted to notice, one knee between your legs and nudging them apart as his mouth descended upon yours again. He kissed you breathless, like you were the only thing that mattered, like he’d be content if you were the only person he could kiss forever. And when he lifted his head, half-lidded eyes burning into yours – you knew it was true. He didn’t even half to say it.
Sitting up slightly, his deft fingers slowly started unbuttoning the puffy-sleeved blouse you wore to work today. (Which you definitely didn’t expect him to be taking off when you dressed yourself this morning.) When all the buttons were free, he paused, simply admiring the view of your exposed stomach, the curve of your breasts nestled in your bra. You almost wished you wore something cuter, but how the hell were you supposed to know this was going to happen? You grabbed his hand, calling out his name in a voice that he had only heard in his deepest fantasies.
“Sorry, I just …” He finally pushed the fabric to the side, revealing more of you to his hungry gaze. As his hand came around to unhook your bra, he continued, “I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long. It doesn’t seem real.”
You realized then … that night in his dorm – you hadn’t taken your t-shirt off. Anxiety had riddled your head, too scared of him seeing all of you. Although you had let him between your legs, being fully nude was different. That was true vulnerability, and you hadn’t been ready for that.
Until now. You shrugged off the bra, letting it fall onto his floor, and laid back.
He was looking at you like he’d seen God.
So you took his hand in yours and placed it on one of your breasts. “Fucking Christ,” he muttered, leaning down and wrapping his lips around one nipple. Your back arched off the sheets – purple, the same ones you bought him when he moved here – moaning softly while he played with the other nipple in his right hand. The weight of them was out of this world; all his perverted fantasies when he saw you in low-cut tops coming to life in this very moment. Every time he felt guilty for staring at you too long – they didn’t matter anymore. Because you had wanted this just as much as him.
“God,” he huffed, mouth dragging over to the other nipple, laving his tongue over it. “You’re a dream come true.”
Maybe he was just in love but the sounds you made were practically pornographic. Your hips bucked against his knee in between your legs, begging for friction. You could already feel your own arousal through your slacks – a mortifying cleanup you’d fret on tomorrow morning. As much as he wanted to play here forever, he knew how much you wanted his tongue inside you, so he relented.
His gaze on yours, Wonwoo peppered kisses down your stomach, making sure to nip at that beauty mark near your belly button, before he stood tall again. Pulling his t-shirt over his head, you were reminded just how toned he had gotten since college. You had never like a hulking, strong man, but Wonwoo had definition, hidden muscles in his biceps that had gotten bigger than you thought. He hid all this underneath those oversized tees, the sweaters he wore to work everyday. It was like he crafted in a lab specifically for you, nerdy interests and all.
Setting his glasses on his desk, he finally pulled down on the zipper of your trousers, and you both worked together to shimmy yourself out of them. But you almost wished you didn’t, because underneath those slacks was the evidence of just how much you wanted this, how utterly wet you were for him.
Wonwoo leaned over you again, so close to your face that you could see the lines underneath his eyes. “You’re completely soaked,” he murmured, snaking a hand between your bodies to graze two fingers down your clothed slit. The material of your panties was practically translucent, and your hips bucked immediately. “Needed me that bad, huh?”
“Don’t act so smug –” You barked, until you felt it: one finger pushing the fabric to the side while the other just barely prodded at your entrance. Breath hitched, you whimpered, “Yes.”
He smirked, going back down and kneeling at the foot of his bed. Pulling your panties off slowly, you expected him to take his time, even though you had both been waiting for this longer than you could remember. A yelp escaped your lips when he hauled you forward, and you felt his hot breath there, making you clench around nothing. One ankle rested on his left shoulder, opening yourself up to him, and you were pushing back hair from his forehead when you realized he was inhaling your scent. Your breathing stuttered, barely able to get out, “I’m sorry, I didn’t shave –”
His face was already buried between your legs, sucking your clit into his mouth like candy. Your head thrashed to the side, fingers digging into his hair and you yanked at him – hard. He groaned into you, teasing your wet hole with the tip of his tongue, devouring you whole. Everything about you was intoxicating: your taste, your sounds, even the way you pulled at his hair. It felt like you were actually trying to rip it out, and truthfully, that was a fate he’d risk if it meant he could stay here forever. Between your thighs, lapping at you until you were overstimulated and begging him to stop.
Your hips were now bucking against his face, free hand clenched at your side, as you lost yourself in the magic of Wonwoo’s tongue. The memory of how good this was in college diminished to nothing in that moment. He was out of practice and yet, this was the best you had felt in a long time. Wonwoo had this way of sucking on your clit before tongue-fucking you like it was out of style, and then repeating those steps all over again, sometimes using his nose to play with your clit in between. You yanked on his hair again, bringing him that much closer as you moaned, “Wonwoo.”
“Harder.”
“What?” Your head lifted.
His eyes met yours from the end of the bed. Mouth just barely leaving your pussy, he demanded, “Pull my hair harder.”
He didn’t give you a second to respond, already diving back into you. His mouth wrapped around your clit and you yanked on his hair as hard as you could and – the groan he let out reverberated through your entire body, making your nipples hard all over again. You felt that tip of his finger again – no, it was two – sliding into you and nestled in that place only he would remember. Because Wonwoo was attentive. Wonwoo remembered. He knew that the best way to get you there was tugging your clit between his teeth while he crooked those two fingers against a spot that made your thighs shake.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pumping his fingers into you. “You’re so tight.”
You pulled on his hair, making him press his erection against the bed frame. “It’s been a while.”
He was looking up at you again, noticing the way your jaw clenched, and he clarified, “That doesn’t matter to me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. A name you never thought you’d hear from his lips. You clenched around his fingers, sucking them more in.
“You close?” He asked, going in to drag his tongue through you. “Want me to edge you?”
You scoffed. “You know I don’t like that.”
He chuckled, slipping his fingers out to lick them clean. “Maybe next time.”
A snarky reply was on the tip of your tongue until his tongue was circling that swollen bundle of nerves. Three fingers were now stuffed inside you, sliding in and out while curling against that – “Yes, right there” – spot. If you felt this full with his fingers … you couldn’t even remember what his cock felt like. Your breathing was already uneven and he was moaning while sucking on your clit and – oh. Your orgasm crested and you were pulling on his hair so much that you were sure there’d be a funny, little bald patch after. His name fell from your lips and he kept licking you through it, grinding his achingly hard cock against the bed.
Despite his own greed, Wonwoo pulled away when your ankle relaxed on his shoulder once again. You already looked so fucked out on his bed: chest heaving, sweat dotting your hairline. This was something out of a dream, one that he had many times, leaving him waking up hard until he fisted his cock to completion. Your arousal dripped down his chin and he hardly made an effort to clean it up, instead crawling up on the bed and kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands had other plans though. One tugged on the ties at his waistband, while the other slipped under it, finding his erection so easily. No underwear, just like you assumed.He was throbbing, precum staining the thick fabric of his sweatpants, and you trailed a digit along the base. “Since when do you not wear underwear, you pervert?” You laughed against his mouth.
You felt him smile against yours. “In my defense,” he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I didn’t exactly expect anyone would be coming over.”
“What about Mingyu?” You squeezed at the middle of his shaft, earning a grunt from him.
“I thought we were done talking about my roommate before I fuck you.”
Your nose wrinkled. “Touché.”
He sat up on his knees between your legs, allowing you to help him pull his cock out. Wait. Was he always this big? That night in college was clearly a blur because this was not what you expected. The trail of dark hair that led to his groin didn’t surprise you – he had always been on the hairier side, too lazy to shave even his fingers – it was the whole package. His cock was long, thicker than you remembered, that dark hair trailing all the way down to the base and scattered around his balls. He had just two veins etched towards a flared pink tip, dripping more precum onto his sweats that were hanging just under his ass.
You didn’t even bother having him kick them off, wrapping your hand around his shaft again and slowly dragging it up, his whole body tense as he held himself back. He almost fell forward, but then braced one of his long arms by his hip to steady himself. “This is – fuck –” He muttered when you squeezed him at the tip. “This is evil.”
“I’m micromanaging.” You grinned, your finger leisurely tracing the vein on the right side of his shaft, making his knees buckle.
He laughed under his breath. “You have no idea –” His jaw shifted when you started pumping him a little faster. “– How many times I thought about this.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he choked out. “Felt so guilty after I jerked off – fuck – but nothing got me hard like the thought of you. And then, there were the dreams –”
Your hand paused at the base. “Wait, you’re being serious?” You asked, and his eyes flashed open, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Then, you confessed, “I had dreams about you too. Touched myself and imagined it was you. For years.”
“Oh, my god.” His head fell into your shoulder, as if this revelation was physically painful. Or maybe it was because your grip was squeezing him a little too well. “If we don’t finally have sex, I think I might cum.”
You chuckled, louder than you expected, placing your free hand over your mouth. But he removed it as your other palm slipped from his cock, muttering something about how much he loved the way you laughed, but your heart was pounding too much to hear it. Hooking one of your legs around his waist, he gripped his cock and guided it forward, nudging your entrance. His eyes lifted to yours, darker than you’ve ever seen.
“Tell me how much you want it,” he muttered, but his tone suggested that it was more of a demand. “How much you want me inside you.”
Your brow lifted. “Don’t be silly. I thought we were on a time crunch here.”
Now his brows were shooting to his hairline. “So you don’t want it?”
“Wonwoo, stop playing around –”
You hadn’t even realized until you felt it: his hand leaving his cock to rub slow circles on your already sensitive clit. Legs parting even more, you whined and you almost didn’t recognize your own voice. “What was that again?” He smirked, pinching your clit in a way that made your toes curl.
“Jesus, okay – I want it so bad,” you moaned, eyes closed as you surrendered to his touch. “Wonwoo, please – just … Oh, my god – please, fuck me. I think I might go fucking crazy if you’re not inside me in the next ten seconds –”
He pushed inside, burying himself to the hilt. You almost cried from the stretch. It was more than you expected, but you now realized that maybe you should stop having expectations with Wonwoo. He groaned, still rubbing your clit to get you to loosen up more, while hiking your right leg on his waist higher. Savoring the feeling of finally being inside you again, he peppered kisses on your cheek, humming against your skin, “You feel so good, sweetheart,” and, “my best girl, my sweetest girl.”
“It’s so – too much, Wonwoo,” you mewled, even though you suddenly didn’t want to imagine a second without him stuffed inside you like this. So full, so deep – you wondered if you’d feel him the next day.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he cooed, tilting his head to graze his lips over yours. “I know you’re tight, but you can take it, right?”
He leaned back slightly to look in your eyes, wiped the tears that threatened to fall, and you nodded.
“Good girl,” he muttered before pulling all the way out. You didn’t even have a moment to catch you breath before he was slamming back in, his jaw unhinging at just how good you felt.
This was different than that time in his dorm. You were both older, not all that wiser, but there was purpose here. He created a rhythm between you two that had you feeling every vein, every fucking ridge, and you were now wondering who taught Wonwoo to fuck like this. Because it surely hadn’t been you. Or maybe this was just a case of his memory again, because it only took him a few deep thrusts to find the perfect angle that brushed your g-spot, causing your legs to jerk upward. He caught your right thigh before it fell, and then bullied his cock back into you as stars flashed in your vision.
Your arms wound around his neck, fingers raking at the nape of his neck, and then pulling, just the way he liked it. “Fuck –” He groaned, his warm breath mingling with yours. “Missed you so much. Missed being inside you. God –”
The discomfort subsided, as if your pussy had molded itself to the shape of his cock, and it was then that you realized that you never wanted to fuck anyone besides Wonwoo for the rest of your life. You had ten years to have your fun, but this – he punctuated your thought with a hard thrust that made your whole body tremble – was it. You didn’t need anyone else, didn’t want anyone else.
Just Wonwoo.
You whined out his name, yanking on his hair as he filled you to the brim over and over again. His fingers – those long, fucking fingers – tweaked your nipples just right, and your back arched into him. “Please, don’t stop,” you begged, catching his lip between your teeth for a moment. “Close. So close. Wanna cum with you.”
“I’ll get you there, sweetheart,” he promised, making that warmth in your gut pool even more. If he didn’t get you over that peak soon, you were going to lose it. “Don’t worry. I got you.”
It was almost funny: the lewd sounds of him fucking into you mixing with Billy Crystal reciting the most devastating monologue known to man as When Harry Met Sally continued on his TV. Your focus shifted when his fingers gave one last pinch to your nipple before dragging down, down, down – all the way until his thumb was rubbing circles on your aching bud again. Harder this time. Like the way you pulled his hair. His digits were harsh, eager to feel you tighten around his cock. He wasn’t even fucking into you anymore; he was buried so deep that you felt him everywhere.
But then it happened: your walls clamping around him, your breathing stifled, and he was trying to fight the urge of cumming himself to praise you. “That’s it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You whimpered his name, orgasm crashing over you, and he was still rubbing your clit. “There you go. I got you, sweetheart.”
Your whole body was shaking, and it felt almost religious coming undone for him like this. Like it was written in the stars, or maybe your own obliviousness. It felt like every good memory led to this: the best orgasm of your life with the man you’d been in love with since you were 20.
When he felt your walls start to unclench the slightest bit, that was his cue to move again. He pulled out, and then pushed back in so deep that it felt like you were cumming all over again. Fucking into you like this would become an addiction, he just knew it, because when he finally chased his high and practically cried against your mouth, there was no other feeling like it. The way you held onto him, sucking him back in like a vice, as he fucked his release back into you – maybe you were made for him all this time.
All those years depriving himself of this left him desperate and enamored. He was already going soft but he was still pushing into you, not letting any of his seed escape, and you were clenching yet again, cumming all over his cock like it was the only thing you knew how to do. In all honesty, Wonwoo was tempted to keep going, but when he saw the way your body was damn near shivering in his arms, he decided that it was probably not the smartest to overstimulate you during the first time in so long.
He waited almost a decade for you. He could make up for lost time eventually.
Collapsing on top of you, he kissed you softly, feeling you smile into it. Even though him slipping out of you felt empty after all that, you were almost grateful for the reprieve. His soft cock pressed against your thigh, but he stayed there, on top of you, kissing you like you two were 80 and had been doing this all your lives. You hoped that could be your future after all. Because when he leaned back slightly and your hand came to rest on his jaw, you saw the kind of love you secretly always wanted: the kind that would span years, reincarnated in different people.
Wonwoo rolled onto his back, pulling the waistband of his sweatpants back up before relaxing against the pillows. You curled into his side and he picked up the forgotten remote, seeing the credits run across the small TV at the foot of his bed. “Shit, we missed all of the movie,” he joked.
You chuckled, arm circling around his middle as he tugged a sheet over you. “We can rewind.”
VIII.
You are where all roads lead back to. Parts of you exist in everything I’ve ever loved. –UNKNOWN
You had never been one for morning sex. Always preferred to wake up without distractions and get to your day as soon as possible. Wonwoo might change that though.
After realizing that it was a Friday night and the both of you had no plans the next day, he obviously had to twist your arm to stay over. You had come to his apartment with no plan, just the tote bag you brought to the office everyday and your rain jacket, so you mildly freaked at the idea of staying over without your favorite toothpaste or facial cleanser, only to find out that Wonwoo kept them stocked just in case. Like he was waiting for the day you slept over again. Except it was different this time, because you were dozing off in his arms as he whispered, “I love you,” and your smitten ass was saying it back.
Waking up to his chest against your back, hard cock pressed into your asscheek, as his hand snaked around to your front to dip his fingers between your legs wasn’t exactly what you imagined, but you liked it. Far more than you ever realized. And you supposed that maybe you secretly wanted this to happen because you did fall asleep in just his t-shirt. (Who’s to say?) It wasn’t long before he was having you cum on his fingers, prying your legs open with his own so he could fuck you on your side like this. Your head had turned to meet his lips from over your shoulder and – oh, absolutely nothing was better than this.
Once you were both spent, he let you fall back asleep – something you never did. You were typically an early riser, never once allowing yourself to sleep in and waste the day. He knew this already, which meant he had to physically tuck you back in under his duvet so you would make yourself comfortable again. “Just relax for once,” he chuckled before pecking your cheek. “Give yourself another hour. I’ll have Mingyu whip us up something.”
“Oh, good,” you replied sleepily, cheek flush with his pillow, “I thought you were going to cook and burn the kitchen down.”
He flicked your nose. “Funny.”
When you rolled out of bed an hour later, you chose to look decent and pulled on a pair of his clean boxers. You looked ridiculous, covered head to toe in Wonwoo, and even though he had let you borrow his clothes before, this felt special. What’s his was also yours now.
You ran a hand through your tangled mess of hair and tugged it through a scrunchie, padding out into the common area. Mingyu was already gone, probably off to his restaurant, and left Wonwoo some bills to go food shopping later. You crossed the threshold of the kitchen and paused, admiring Wonwoo. He was humming to himself while placing a pod in the Keurig, another steaming mug already waiting for you at his small dining table. You always thought he was handsome, but there was something about his hair sticking up in different directions, the way his sweatpants hung loose on his waist, his glasses sitting crooked on his nose … it did something to you. Nothing was more perfect than Jeon Wonwoo in the morning.
“Is this for me?” You asked, pointing to the mug on the table, and he didn’t even jump at the sound of your voice. As if he expected you there all along.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m almost done with mine, and Mingyu cooked us up some of those fluffy eggs with veggies. The ones you like.”
Sitting down at the table, you crossed one leg underneath the other and took a hefty sip. It was bitter and dark – just the way you liked it. Wonwoo joined you at the table after pouring a splash of milk in his mug, and you both sat there for a moment, perfectly at peace with the silence. It reminded you of that morning – after the first and only hookup – how your knees just barely brushed and the open windows that smelled of fresh flowers, like spring in bloom. Except this time, the weight of liking him didn’t feel like a curse. There were no final exams to worry about. And Wonwoo was now reaching out his hand: still hesitant, but certain. It was a declaration.
An origin wound now healed.
You ran your thumb over the back of his hand, a smile tugging at your lips. “We really are terrible at casual,” you mused, “which is why I really want to try this time.”
Wonwoo brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. His voice was almost cinematic as he replied, “Me too.”
One year after your divorce, you runs into your ex husband at a friend's birthday party. Neither of you expected to see each other again, and neither of you had prepared for the memories that come with it.
You and Sukuna had been married for three beautiful years, a time when your life felt completely over the moon. It was happy, peaceful, and everything you had ever wished for. In those early stages, you both thoroughly enjoyed your lives together. You went on endless dates and had sex in every location you could possibly think of.
Even on the kitchen counter and yeah even public bathroom, you never regret any of that.
That was your life with Sukuna laughing until your stomach physically hurt, sitting lazily on his lap, and watching cheesy romantic comedies. Even though he always complained that they were so boring and dramatic, you both had watched 'She’s the Man' at least six times, and he always watched it with full interest just because you were there.
He was a good man. Even though others constantly portrayed him as an arrogant asshole with an ego as high as the Burj Khalifa, or a ruthless bastard who would beat the shit out of anyone for looking at him wrong, he was never that way with you.
With you, he was something entirely different. He was the only person who made you feel completely safe in his arms. You loved spending every second with him. You and Sukuna genuinely couldn't live without each other, and he was always more than proud to admit it. He was a busy man and so were you. you worked long hours at the hospital, and he was a highly successful architect, but the dates and the effortless romance were always a priority. He would patiently paint your nails while you talked his ear off about the latest hospital gossip or a new show you were watching. And he always listened. He truly did.
If you ever felt sick, he was right there. He would immediately take a day off work just to look after you, because you were his. His sweet girl.
The age gap between you was just two years. You had initially met in high school as bitter enemies who absolutely couldn't stand the sight of each other, only to end up as husband and wife who couldn't bear to be apart.
When you turned twenty nine, you got pregnant, and Sukuna was absolutely over the world. He was so happy. He always found a way to hold your growing baby bump, gently squeezing it and kissing your skin, loving you even more with each passing day.
One afternoon, while you were standing in the kitchen making tea, Sukuna wrapped his arms around you from behind. He placed both of his large, rough hands over the small baby bump that was still growing. "I bet it's going to be a girl" he murmured gently, pressing soft, warm kisses against your neck.
Both of you simply wanted a healthy, fit child. the gender never truly mattered. Sukuna built and prepared the nursery entirely by himself. You both decorated it or rather, you sat comfortably in a chair and gave directions while Sukuna did all the hard labor, because he refused to let you lift a single finger.
Life was perfect. It was just like a fairy tale.
But fairy tales only exist in movies and books, not in real life.
You miscarried. You were driving home from the hospital after a long shift. Sukuna had called and told you to wait at the hospital until he could come pick you up, but you had refused. You told him that you had your own car, and that there was no point in him making the extra trip.
If only you had waited that day, maybe things would have turned out differently. The horrific car crash happened too fast, right in front of your eyes. A massive truck slammed directly into your vehicle with enough force to kill you, and a part of you deeply wished it had. At least then you wouldn't have had to live through the agony of losing your baby girl. It was a girl. You were seven months pregnant, and the doctors had to cut your stomach open in an emergency procedure just to take the lifeless infant out.
That loss completely broke both you and Sukuna. You fell into a deep, suffocating depression. Sukuna stopped working entirely for a solid month just to remain by your side, pulling you through every violent nightmare and every painful bout of crying.
He supported you constantly, even though he was losing himself, too. He had lost his daughter, and he had nearly lost his wife.
But your severe depression eventually led to you getting constantly annoyed over the smallest things. You started making wild, baseless accusations, claiming Sukuna was cheating on you. Deep down, you felt absolutely pathetic, but you couldn't stop. Sukuna never snapped back. he understood the immense trauma you were carrying. It went on like that for a year you constantly ignored him or showed him a terrible attitude over nothing. He was getting tired. Not tired of you he could never be tired of you. but completely exhausted by the toxic wall you had built between you.
And when he finally sighed one evening and told you to stop acting like a bitch, you completely lost it.
"Oh?! So I am the bitch?!" you had yelled at the top of your lungs, tears streaming down your face. "Really? Fuck you, Sukuna! I fucking wish I never married you! I fucking hate you!"
He never answered. He just stood there, glaring at you with a deeply broken expression before he turned and left the house.
After that night, he started drinking heavily and smoking even more. Everything came to a sudden, crashing end far too quickly. You moved out of the shared house, refusing to take a single dime of alimony because you didn't want anything from him. And just like that, after a quick and quiet divorce, it was completely over.
Now, a year later, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down a beautiful, elegant baby blue silk dress. It was completely backless, making you look incredibly chic and sophisticated. Your hair was tied up into a perfectly styled messy bun, your makeup was done effortlessly, and you wore expensive, elegant heels.
You walked toward the large house where Shoko's twin babies were celebrating their first birthday. You felt genuinely happy for her. Maybe a tiny, subconscious part of you felt a slight sting of jealousy seeing your friends move forward with their families, but you were genuinely thrilled for them. Your own love life was alright. you dated on and off, having casual sex whenever you felt the need for physical affection. Mostly, you spent your days shopping and treating yourself, because you deserved it.
You had been consistently going to therapy ever since the tragedy, and it was helping.
Taking a deep, steady breath just like your therapist had taught you to do you prepared to knock on the front door. But you quickly realized it was useless, as the loud sounds of laughter and chatter were echoing from the backyard. Shoko and her husband, Suguru, had rented this beautiful, massive estate for a week to celebrate. They were such a wonderful couple.
Holding the beautifully wrapped gift bags tightly in your hands, you walked around the side of the house toward the backyard. The spacious lawn was packed with people, covered in colorful clusters of balloons, and centered around a massive table loaded with delicious food. At least you knew you could enjoy the catering.
You walked gently over to Shoko, who was currently holding one of the twins. You didn't look around the crowd too much, not caring to see who else was there, since you had cut off most of your old social circle after the divorce.
"Oh my god! Look who's here! Auntie is looking so pretty!" Shoko cooed in a sweet baby voice, rocking the infant in her arms.
You giggled softly, walking right up to them to press a loud, loving kiss against the baby girl's chubby cheek. "Muah! My beautiful baby girl is getting so big! Where is the other one?" you asked, hugging Shoko tightly and kissing her cheek.
"Thanks, bitch! The other one just completely shit herself, you know how it is," Shoko laughed, rolling her eyes. "Suguru is upstairs changing her diaper right now. By the way, you are absolutely glowing!"
You smiled gently. "Thank you, Sho, Motherhood definitely suits you, but for God Sake stop cursing in front of this cutie pie." You leaned down to kiss little Lily again, and she gave you a wide, gummy smile that completely melted your heart.
"Alright, alright, whatever the Boss says" Shoko winked playfully. "Anyway, Suguru invited a ton of hot men today, so if you're looking to find a good one, keep your eyes open."
You shook your head, laughing softly at her antics. "Sure, Sho. Here, take the gifts. And I think this little one needs a diaper change now, too." you added, pointing at the telltale smell suddenly drifting from Lily.
Shoko made a comical, disgusted face. She quickly grabbed the bags, blew you a kiss, and hurried off toward the house.
Left alone, you felt a sudden wave of boredom. You recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd, but every single one of them was wrapped up with their partners and their children. Deciding to skip the awkward small talk, you headed inside the main house to use the restroom.
As you stepped through the back doors, you could hear Suguru and Shoko playfully bickering over the diaper changes in the next room, making you chuckle softly.
"Hey, Y/N! How are you? It's been a while!" Suguru called out warmly, spotting you near the hallway.
"I'm doing really well, Suguru. What about you?" you called back, pausing by the stairs.
"Just trying to adjust to fatherhood," he said with a friendly, tired smile. "Go ahead and enjoy yourself today!"
You nodded appreciatively and began walking upstairs, adjusting the silk of your dress. The blue fabric flowed elegantly with every step, clinging beautifully to your curves. You stared at the various doors in the upper hallway, wondering what kind of massive estate Shoko had actually rented. There were so many rooms, and absolutely none of them had a bathroom sign on them.
Sighing, you opened a random door just to see if it was a restroom, closing it behind you when you realized it was just a simple bedroom. Turning around to leave, you felt someone turn the doorknob from the other side at the exact same time. The door swung open abruptly, catching you off guard. In the sudden movement, one of your expensive earrings slipped from your earlobe and clattered to the floor.
"Tsk! Stupid" you muttered under your breath, immediately bending down to retrieve it.
But before your fingers could touch the jewelry, another hand reached down and picked it up. Your entire life completely stopped. Your breath caught in your throat. You could forget almost anything in this world, but you could never, ever forget those large, rough, heavily tattooed hands.
"Here" Sukuna said lazily.
As he held the earring out, his sharp gaze finally met yours, and he froze completely. He had just been wandering the halls looking for a bathroom to take a quick piss, casually opening doors, and now he deeply regretted it.
You were standing right there in front of him, looking absolutely beautiful out of this world beautiful. How long had it been? A year? Maybe even longer since he had last seen your face. He had tried asking Suguru about how you were doing a few times, but their mutual friends had never given him much information.
You quickly snatched the earring from his rough palm, your fingers trembling slightly as you tried to clip it back onto your ear. He stood directly in the doorway, his massive frame making it incredibly hard for you to move or slide past him.
"Excuse me" you murmured sharply, keeping your eyes trained on your hands as you struggled with the jewelry.
"Y/n?" he finally spoke.
His voice was just as rough and deep as you remembered. He still smelled exactly the same a distinct blend of expensive cologne and heavy cigarette smoke, a scent you used to love so much. He was wearing a crisp white button down shirt and navy blue trousers, making him look exceptionally handsome and sharp.
"Yeah?" you replied, firmly avoiding eye contact.
"...How have you been?" he asked quietly.
His eyes had softened. They had actually softened in a way that showed he deeply, genuinely cared about the answer. Because he did.
You took a deep, grounding breath, exactly the way your therapist had instructed you to do during moments of high stress. Finally finding the courage, you lifted your chin and met his gaze. The moment your eyes locked, a crushing wave of old memories flashed through your mind, threatening to tear down your composure.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I am good. really well, actually. What about you?"
You began to step forward, intending to finally walk past him now that he had moved slightly to the side. But as you stepped out into the hallway, his long strides fell right into alignment with yours, walking beside you.
"fine" he muttered, looking straight ahead. "I didn't know you were going to be here today."
"I didn't know you'd be here either" you replied, a slight edge to your tone.
"I'm surprised you even came, considering you've been completely ghosting all of our mutual friends." He said making you annoyed
"I haven't been ghosting Shoko," you defended yourself softly. "And why wouldn't I come?"
"Whatever" He muttered, a familiar spark of annoyance rising in your chest.
Sukuna let out a quiet sigh, his eyes lingering on your profile for a brief second. "You look..nice, Y/n. You're glowing. Life has been treating you right, I guess."
"Yeah, it has" you lied smoothly, keeping your chin held high.
"Alright then. See you around," he murmured. He stopped walking, turning back toward the stairs to head down to the party.
You paused for a split second, staring at his retreating back. The heavy, deliberate way he walked, the sharp clench of his jaw every single detail violently reminded you of the old times. Of the life you used to have.
When you finally made your way down to the backyard, your eyes immediately caught sight of Shoko’s mother. You had always deeply disliked that woman. You could never fully pin down why, but she had never liked you either perhaps out of some strange, deep-seated jealousy or bitterness you could never understand.
Your eyes instinctively began scanning the crowded yard, searching for Sukuna. You immediately hated yourself for doing it. But when you finally located him across the lawn, you realized he was already staring directly at you. The moment your eyes met, he sharply snapped his head away, pretending to look at something else.
Eventually, it was time for the highlight of the party. Shoko and Suguru stood behind a massive cake, holding little Lily and Liana as the babies bubbled, babbled, and screamed happily. Everyone gathered around the long banquet table to eat and celebrate. The atmosphere was filled with loud laughter and the clinking of glasses.
By total twist of fate, you found yourself seated right in the middle of Kenjaku and an older lady who was eating her food like a pig. Directly across the table, sitting right in front of you, was Sukuna. Beside him sat Shoko's mother and Suguru.
The conversations flowed effortlessly across the table, with various guests sharing funny stories from high school, talking about work, and discussing life.
Until Shoko's mother loudly cleared her throat, capturing the attention of the table. "I truly think that being a mother is a gift," she announced pompously. "Not every woman possesses the ability or the grace to have that."
Shoko rolled her eyes hard but chose not to say anything, wanting to keep the peace. You let out a quiet, sarcastic chuckle, catching the way Suguru practically gagged into his drink at his mother-in-law's words.
"And I am just so incredibly happy that my sweet Shoko is such a great mother" the older woman continued loudly, turning to face the other elderly ladies at the table with a huge, boastful smile. "She handles the entire house and two babies perfectly."
You set your fork down, a small, calm smile playing on your lips. "Motherhood is beautiful, certainly" you countered smoothly. "But I think not everyone deserves to have that blessing. I've seen some of the worst people have children, only for those poor kids to end up with severe mental health problems because of their parents."
"Of course, of course!" Shoko's mother let out a loud, forced laugh, clearly displeased at being challenged.
Across the table, Sukuna let out a rough scoff. He grabbed a fresh bottle of beer, taking a long sip before casually pouring more alcohol into the cups of the guests sitting near him. His sharp eyes shifted up, locking onto you as if silently asking if you needed a drink or if you were doing alright. You simply shook your head subtly, looking away from him.
Shoko's mother narrowed her eyes, her gaze landing squarely on you. The sweet, fake smile on her face turned incredibly malicious.
"Didn't you have a miscarriage, Y/n?" she asked loudly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the table.
Your entire body went completely still. The ambient noise of the party seemed to vanish instantly. Across the table, Sukuna’s hand froze dead in mid air, his beer glass halting just inches from his lips.
Shoko’s head snapped toward her mother, her face contorting into an absolute fury as she threw her a deadly glare. "Mom!, stop--"
You swallowed the sudden lump of ice in your throat, forcing yourself to take a slow breath. "Uhm, yeah. Unfortunately, I did" you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. A few of the older women sitting nearby immediately began murmuring softly, trying to show genuine empathy and comfort toward you to smooth over the tension.
But Shoko’s mother wasn't finished. She let out a soft, dismissive hum, leaning forward onto the table. "Well, have you ever considered that perhaps God took your child away from you because He knew you wouldn't be a good mother? Whatever happens, happens for a good reason. Maybe that kid was just supposed to die now or later anyway—"
Before the horrific sentence could even fully leave her mouth, Sukuna was on his feet.
It didn't take him a single second. With an explosive, terrifying speed, his fist flew across the table, punching Shoko’s mother squarely in the face.
The heavy wood of the table rattled as the woman went flying backward out of her chair, crashing hard into the grass. The entire backyard erupted into absolute chaos and screaming.
"You fucking hag!" Shoko’s father roared in shock, rushing forward to violently push Sukuna away.
But Sukuna wasn't having a single piece of it. He was completely out of his mind with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward again, his massive fists throwing punch after punch, completely blind to the world around him. You stood up from your chair, frozen in absolute shock, entirely overwhelmed as the screams of the guests echoed in your ears.
"And I think God thinks your fucking time has come, and that you don't deserve to live in this world anymore! How about that, huh?!" Sukuna roared, his deep voice vibrating with an terrifying, animalistic fury. "Talk about my girl like that again Idare you!-- Fucking let me go! I am going to kill this fucking hag!"
Suguru, Kenjaku, and three other men had to throw their entire weight against Sukuna, desperately pinning his arms and dragging him backward to keep him from completely destroying the older woman.
Sukuna was breathing heavily, his white shirt slightly torn as he was finally forced out of the backyard and away from the party. The celebration was entirely ruined. someone was already franticly calling an ambulance for the bleeding woman on the grass.
Your vision blurred completely as heavy tears finally spilled over your eyelashes. You couldn't believe someone could be so cruel, to say something so deeply monstrous to you about the daughter you had lost.
In a daze, you quickly wiped at your wet cheeks, walking as fast as your heels could carry you away from the chaotic house and out toward the front driveway.
As you reached the quiet street, you spotted him.
Sukuna was leaning heavily against his motorcycle, a lit cigarette pressed between his lips. His knuckles were bruised and stained with blood, his chest still heaving with residual adrenaline. As the sound of your heels clicked against the asphalt, his sharp eyes lifted, locking directly onto yours.
Seeing the sheer, protective fury still lingering in his gaze the same man who had just risked everything to defend your honor, had made completely broke down. You burst into violent, heavy tears right there on the pavement.
pls write about the reader being the eldest when she has sickness (like cancer or what) but she didn’t tell her family about this except for norm and max. That’s why she always at the lab and they found out too late because they’re being neglectful to the reader. Thankss
Too Late to Notice
Heyyy guyyyssss hope you like it <3
Masterlist
Being the oldest Sully had always come with responsibilities.
You were the first child, the one who helped without being asked, the one who stepped in when Jake and Neytiri were busy, the one who watched over Neteyam, Lo'ak, Kiri, and Tuk. It wasn't something anyone had forced onto you. It had simply happened over the years until caring for everyone else became second nature.
Maybe that was why nobody noticed when you started falling behind.
At first, it was small things. You were tired more often. Training became harder. Sometimes your hands shook when you tried to string your bow, and sometimes you found yourself struggling to catch your breath after things that had never been difficult before. You brushed it off whenever someone asked.
Not that they asked often. The Sully family was busy. Neteyam was taking on more responsibilities as the future leader. Lo'ak was constantly getting himself into trouble. Kiri spent most of her time wandering the forest and listening to Eywa, while little Tuk always managed to find some kind of adventure that required immediate attention.
There was always something happening slowly, without meaning to, you became easy to overlook. The day Norm and Max gave you the diagnosis, the world seemed to stop.
You remembered sitting in one of the lab's small rooms while Max explained everything carefully. He spoke gently, choosing his words with obvious concern, while Norm sat beside him looking more worried than you had ever seen him.
You didn't cry. You didn't panic. You just sat there staring at the floor while the reality settled over you. When they finally finished explaining, the first thing Norm said was, "We need to tell your family."
Immediately, you shook your head. "No." Both scientists exchanged a look. "Y/N," Max said carefully, "they deserve to know." You swallowed hard before forcing a smile onto your face.
"Not yet." That became your answer every time they brought it up.
Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. But tomorrow never came. Instead, you started spending more and more time at the lab. Whenever Jake asked where you were going, you simply told him you were helping Norm and Max. He would nod distractedly before returning his attention to whatever problem the family was currently dealing with.
Nobody questioned it. At first, that hurt. You hated yourself for feeling that way because you knew your family loved you. They loved you more than anything.
But sometimes love wasn't enough when nobody noticed you were struggling.
There were days when you came home exhausted and immediately went to sleep. Days when you could barely finish dinner because you felt sick. Days when you sat quietly while everyone talked around you, wondering if anyone would notice how pale you looked.
Nobody did. Not because they didn't care. Because they never thought they had a reason to look.
Months passed. Norm and Max became the only people who knew the truth. They monitored your condition, adjusted treatments, and stayed with you during the worst days. Sometimes Norm would sit beside you long after his work was finished, silently keeping you company while you stared out the lab windows.
"You should tell them," he would say. And every time you would give the same answer. "Later." The truth was that you were afraid.
Afraid of the look on Jake's face. Afraid of making Neytiri cry. Afraid of seeing Neteyam blame himself for not noticing. Most of all, you were afraid that after months of silence, it would be too late.
Unfortunately, it already was. One afternoon, your body simply gave out.
You had been helping Max organize samples when a wave of dizziness hit you so suddenly that you couldn't even react. The room spun violently around you. The tablet slipped from your hands, crashing against the floor.
The last thing you remembered was hearing Max shout your name. Then everything went dark. When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the sound of crying.
Your eyes opened slowly. The entire Sully family was there.
Jake stood near the bed looking as though he hadn't slept in days. Neytiri was clutching one of your hands so tightly that it almost hurt. Neteyam stood beside her, completely silent, while Lo'ak stared at the floor with red eyes. Kiri looked like she had been crying for hours, and little Tuk sat curled against Jake's side, tears still running down her face.
The moment Neytiri realized you were awake, a sob escaped her. "Oh, ma Y/N." The pain in her voice immediately shattered your heart. You tried to sit up, but Neteyam gently stopped you.
"Don't," he whispered. His voice cracked halfway through the word. That was when you knew. They knew everything. The room was silent for several moments before Jake finally spoke.
"How long?" His voice was barely above a whisper. You didn't answer. Jake looked away, struggling to control his emotions. "Norm told us," he continued. "Months, Y/N. You've been dealing with this for months."
The guilt in his voice was unbearable. You had never seen your father look so broken before. Not during battles. Not during losses. Not even during the hardest moments their family had faced.
But now he looked devastated. Neteyam lowered his head into his hands. "I should've noticed," he said quietly. The words seemed to physically hurt him.
"I always noticed when Lo'ak was in trouble. I noticed when Tuk was upset. I noticed everything else."
His voice shook. "But not this." Lo'ak wiped angrily at his eyes. "Neither did I." Kiri looked at you with tears streaming down her face. "We were all right there."
Nobody knew what to say after that because they all understood the same terrible truth.
You hadn't hidden from them. Not really. You had still been there every day. Still eating dinner with them. Still spending time with them. They simply hadn't seen how much you were hurting. Neytiri carefully brushed a hand through your hair.
"You thought you were alone." It wasn't a question. And somehow, hearing her say it made the tears finally come. For months you had carried everything by yourself because it felt easier than asking for help.
Now your entire family was crying around your bedside, and all you could think about was how desperately you had wanted them there.
Jake moved closer and gently took your other hand.
"I'm sorry." The words were simple, but they carried more emotion than any speech ever could. Around him, the others nodded. One by one, they apologized.
Not because you had asked them to. Because they genuinely regretted every moment they had missed. Every sign they hadn't seen. Every time they had assumed you were fine. For the first time in months, you didn't feel invisible.
And from that day forward, nobody let you face it alone.
Not Jake. Not Neytiri. Not Neteyam. Not Lo'ak. Not Kiri. And certainly not Tuk, who practically refused to leave your side.
Because while the Sullys had realized the truth far too late, they spent every day afterward making sure you never had to wonder whether you were seen, loved, or important ever again.
You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.
What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse, rating may change with every update.)
“Ito Saya, reporting in for your daily broadcast. In a noteworthy shift, Omegas are increasingly finding more employment opportunities in positions of power. With a positive trend towards reduced oppression of—“
You’re averse to this sort of thing. A folly, something you can barely care about as your eyes squint at big words floating around the screen, a pretty lady holding papers and looking all serious and… Boring. TV shows are supposed to be fun, supposed to be playing that anime you had been waiting all week to see, supposed to be… Interesting so that you can feel less alone.
You definitely don’t want some silly lady on the screen talking about— Those things that you can barely understand. Why do they always talk so much? A picture could probably end their entire long spiels in seconds.
Your nose scrunches, your fingers cupping your chin like those TV characters did when they were thinking really hard. So why don’t they just use pictures? They’re more colourful and tell you stuff faster, won’t they? It’s not your fault that the TV station people are always so inefficient.
(It’s the television’s fault isn’t it? Definitely, right? Mama always did tell you it was a little old.)
Or maybe it’s because you don’t know a lot of things.
You’re 4, staring up at the glowing screen of your all too old television, sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in this wide, wide room that was a little too empty for your liking. Your nose picks up on the scent of coffee, ears barely picking up on a clink of porcelain against a cheap wooden coaster. Mama circles things in newspapers, the gliding of her red marker against the sheet attracting your attention to the focused look in her eyes, the furrow of her brows, the way she just held that pen so elegantly…
(Your Mama is so much prettier than the lady on the TV.)
You like it when she’s focused like that, so serious-looking! This must be the pinnacle of a hard worker. Brains… And beety? Or whatever you heard some other old man on the TV used to cheer about.
So you decide you don’t wanna watch anymore, Getting up onto your small feet and barely catching yourself before you topple over, toddling over to your Mama with socks padding against the wooden floors.
You’re soon taking decisive peeks at your all too focused mother, watching over her shoulder in silence to let her focus. There should be a reason why she’s so serious, right?
Maybe it’s something fun? Something exciting? That’s why she’s so focused on it— right?
“J…Ob list…ings open…” Your eyes are narrowed, licking over your lips to wet them as you take another deep breath in. “Mini—um, ex-peer-i-sense?”
You can see the red marker coming to a halt, her sweet chuckle perhaps to humor you, to acknowledge your attempt. Patting your head when she turns her head around, and a smile upon her face as she smooths over the fabric of her skirt, as you feel yourself being lifted and plopped gently into the warm confines of her lap.
“That was a nice try, sweetie.” Her eyes meet yours when you take the decisive move to lean back, a ruffle of your hair and your quiet giggle as the short relief of her attention leaves you, though not without sating your curiosity. “Mama’s looking for a job.”
You know what that is. It’s for adults to make money, disappear for hours in a day and only come back super, super late at night.
(You think your father had one. Or… Did he really?)
And it means they spend all that time in a place nowhere close to their home or cute, adorable, obedient daughters either.
“Does that mean you can’t stay home with me anymore, Mama?” You’re still leaning back into her chest, staring up at her chin from your position as you bring yourself impossibly closer to her, the calm smell of vanilla and honey in your nostrils making you all warm and fuzzy, calm and happy.
(You always liked it when she smelled like this.)
“Maybe, sweetie.” She pulls away briefly to tap the end of the marker against your nose. “But Mama will be able to buy you more delicious food,” She pauses to smile so sweetly down at you, a pinch to your cheek. “And finally get you some toys.”
Toys. You realize that you don’t have any toys. At least— You couldn’t bring any of your toys with you when your mother had so urgently scooped you up into her arms in the dead of the night, a luggage rolling behind her as your nose picks up on an urgent, intruding scent of sour milk and rotting flowers, your senses spiked with uncertainty and fear as you soundlessly drink in the last sight of your old home for those few seconds before the darkness ate it all away.
You remember boarding 1 train, 2 trains, 3 trains… You lost count after that. Only simply remembering getting pulled along, Mama’s soft whispering and cooing promises that this is for the best, that your Papa won’t be able to follow you here, that you’ll be happier than ever. You remember her scent, less rigid, less frightened but still steeped in misplaced excitement. Like a fragrant scent of calm that beckoned you to follow and imitate.
You remember living in small apartments, tiny, squeezy and virtually no space. You remember how sickly, horridly sweet Mama’s scent was, caked in perfume when she rushes out every night for her job at the local izakaya. Her uniform always a little messed up in her haste before she leaves your dinner usually already in your hands as you slurp on ramen or eat another scoop of curry rice.
She would pat your head as you offer her a bite, giving you a smile before she tells you to be good, several locks clicking into place when she closes the door behind her.
It wasn’t much, wasn’t the most fun you’ve ever had in your life, but it was comfortable. You were happy with that simple life with her. But one day, you heard jangling at the front door, you hear hurried, panicked movements, smell sour fear despite the thick odour of perfume as your Mama hurriedly slams the door shut behind her, cold sweat on her as she hugs you close, buries her face into your hair.
You don’t like it when she’s like this.
You remember a man with a scent so different from your father come knocking at your door for weeks on end, gradually changing from slow knocks to furious banging on the metal with a rough pleads begging that he won’t hurt your mother, that she was beautiful, the she was—
That’s how you ended up here now. It’s been at least a year since then. And only about a month since you moved in.
(You think. You’re not really good at telling time yet.)
“Mama, I don’t need toys.” It’s not like you don’t want them, you just don’t need them. A lesson taught to you by more pretty ladies on the TV screen, you’ve also stopped by many a toy store only to see too many zeroes on price tags, and it’s been steeled in your mind that you just don’t need them. Not when you have Mama to play together with now that she’s smiling so much more.
So you’re adamant on not wanting any.
“Is that so, darling?” You feel a mindless pinch to your cheek as she circles another paragraph of words. “Then how are you going to keep yourself from getting bored when I’m not around?”
Now that has you in a slight dilemma, your hands freezing in place from where they had been twirling with her hair. You blink once, and again when you quietly see her marker tap against the paper, as if awaiting your thoughts as your eyes start to dart all over the room.
(She makes really good points. Too good. As expected of your Mama.)
The television? No. Mama would tell you too much is bad for your eyes. The pillows you both use for your futons? No. You’ll probably dirty it and make more work for her. Your eyes silently trail over to the window, sun shining through the panes and onto the floor as a glowing thought arises.
“I can just play outside.”
——
Be careful what you wish for, as they say.
An amused chuckle from Mama as she pushes you towards the door, nimble fingers excitedly doing up the straps of your old sandals and arming you with a couple of handmade cookies, a pat on your head and parting words of;
“Don’t wander anywhere past the playground, don’t follow anyone strange, be back by sunset and make some friends.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have said that you’ll go play outside.
“Honey, I know it’s only been so long since we’ve moved here.” She’s clears her throat, a cloth being gently rubbed against your face to help get rid of any stray rice grains. “But,” She sucks in a breath, a rise and fall of her chest as you blink at her.
“Have you…” She has to take another breath in. Does she have breathing problems—
“Made any friends yet?”
Oh.
The answer is no. Your go-to counter being, ‘I don’t go outside, so how can I make any?’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world as you give her a smile.
(This isn’t something you’re meant to be proud of.)
And all she’ll give you is winced smile, ruffling your hair and saying that there was no rush. That you’ll get your chance. That you’re the sweetest kid there was. That she has faith in you and wants you to work hard!
But it’s not like it’s as easy as your capable mother makes it sound, and not like you wanted to be out here, anyway. You think the sun is too hot, that there aren’t enough clouds, that the wind isn’t picking up enough, the cicadas are too loud, that you need water—
And that you need to stop complaining so much.
You’re kicking at the path, a long stick in your hands poking at the ground beneath you, cookies pinched between your fingers as you wander and wonder. You can make friends. Surely, you can. That’s what the the cookies are for, right?
Other kids your age should love cookies. You sure do, and you’re Mama’s number 1 fan when it comes to her baking.
(Or her… Anything, really.)
So… You know her inside out, you swear you do. You love her, she loves you, she makes good food and she wants you to make friends, come back with no cookies and a new bond forged.
(Anyone would do, right?)
But you don’t see any kids, the playground you just arrived at deserted and empty. It looks sleek, almost as if it were brand new. Dark wood and galvanized steel, it was so… Clean. So untouched. Yet nobody was here? Your shoulders slump forwards in mild disappointment, yet your heart thrills at the thought of being able to have the whole place to yourself. Alone.
Well, choosers can’t be beggars… Or was it the other way around? Either way, it’s not like Mama would know if you ate them both yourself.
——
So you find yourself sat down comfortably within the top of the little hut housing the slide, your feet splayed out in front of you as you prepare to take a bite. You feel the straps of your sandals relax against your feet, a slight breeze picking up despite the shade you had hidden under. Perfect. This was perfect—
“Are those cookies?”
You can feel your shoulders jump in shock, fear pulling at your heartstrings and a startle nearly making you drop your precious dessert. So much for a peaceful time. You have to physically lurch yourself back before any harm was done to your food. Just who do they think they are? To just come up to you and—
A flurry of white snow and icicles of frost. But you’re pretty sure the summer heat is still beating down, the cicadas are still singing, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Yet the one before you defies all of that. He had an aura about him, a commanding curiosity. And he does definitely—
“Look weird.”
His eyes widen for just that fraction of a second, before he furrows his brows, the long sleeves of the firefly kimono swaying when he crosses his arms in rebuttal.
“You’re weirder.”
You blink maybe twice. Once in surprise, and the other to really blink back into reality. He must’ve heard your thoughts.
“I didn’t. Ya just said it out loud, weirdo.”
Oh. You have to say your sorries, then. Mama didn’t raise you to be rude.
“This is my playground.” Your eyes catch a glimmer of the wara zori his feet donned. They were too neat, too well put together. “Nobody else is allowed in.” His tone sounds so proper, his pronunciation so abnormally clear, especially for someone who looks your age.
“Oh.” You didn’t know that. Though to be fair, you don’t know a lot of things. “Sorry. I didn’t know playgrounds can be owned…”
“That’s only for poor people.” You hear the tap of his shoes against pressure treated wood. “If more people were like me, they’d have their own playgrounds too.”
“Oh. Sorry then.” You really are. You just thought playgrounds were a place for every kid…
“S’that all you can say?” You can see the shine of iridescent blue, making use of his standing height to belittle and threaten your sitting position. He makes himself look big, makes the glimmer in his eye turn into one of malice and impatience. It twists his features, turns them into something rugged and rough and uncomfortable.
And you think it’s such a waste of the cute face he has.
“Sorry.” To his Mama who gave him such a nice looking profile, and to him, you guess. You don’t really know if you should be apologizing, don’t really know if what you’re doing is right.
(But apologising has always worked. It felt right to you.)
And you think he’s satisfied now.
He harrumphs, unfolding his hands. “Some old lady put me on a sweets ban.” He settles down next to you, pushing you aside to make space for himself as he plops down, and you notice the shifting of the pretty blue fabric he donned matching perfectly with the crystal blue of his eyes. You notice the print quality being one so clear and vivid, despite the simple design. That’s a really nice kimono. “So I can’t eat anymore for the rest of the month.”
(He really is cute.)
“But since you’re trespassing on my playground,” He holds a dainty, porcelain hand out, a small twitch of his fingers that itch for your compliance. “I’m charging you cookies for it.” He’s smiling now. A proud, smug grin with the upturn of his eyes into crescents.
”It’s okay for me to eat ‘em cause it’s tax.”
He’s kind of irritating, but… Anyone would do, right?
You swallow the lump you weren’t aware of in your throat, the sweat that you didn’t know that was starting to form on your hand. You think you have an idea. A good one, at that.
“Okay,” You produce the other packaging. “But you have to promise to be my friend.”
Now it’s his turn to blink at you in utter confusion.
“Are you—“ His eyebrows furrow deeper than before, his smile dissipating into this confused frown. His eyes scrutinize and watch you closely, as if he was scouring your every breath, your every movement to uncover something that just wasn’t there.
“Being serious?”
Why… Wouldn’t you be? The way you just blink back at him, waiting on him to continue only to be met with glaring silence… Is there something on your face? Is there a bug you didn’t see crawling in your hair?
Or maybe he just wants the cookie.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Your hand is warm as they grip his wrist, gently dropping the wrinkled plastic onto his hand with a tilt of your head and eyes that flick up to meet his. It’s innocent, genuine, even. Frightfully so. The way you smile with nothing else, the way your intent was shown upon your very sleeve.
Nothing. He garners absolutely nothing from you. Your hands feel too warm, the chocolate chips within the cookie already look like they were melting, sweat is starting to stick your hair to your skin— And he thinks it doesn’t get anymore real than this.
“Okay.”
Oh, good. He agreed. You have a friend now, and it makes your heart squeeze with just that bit of excitement, of joy. It felt like you were swinging too high off the ground, felt like you were going to be swept off your feet.
It felt good. Maybe you should make more friends.
“Do the thing with me.” His pinky is held out, pushed into your face. “Ya gotta promise me something too. That’s how promises work.”
Is that how it works? You didn’t know that either.
“Yeah.” It isn’t. “That’s how it works here, you dunno that cause you’re new.”
Well… Okay then. “What’s the promise?”
You see his lips curl up, his eyes sparkling with something unknown as you begin to stick your own pinky out. “You’re already my friend, right?”
You nod.
“Good.” There’s a smugness to his face now. “So you can’t be friends with other kids from this neighbourhood. That’s betrayal to me.”
You catch a whiff of something spicy, hot. As if it were burning you to the very edges of your body— Before it disappears completely, as if it were never there. He makes sense, to you at least, and it sounds… Fair enough, you guess.
Your pinky wraps tight around his, in spite of how foreboding and suffocating his hold feels. Your nose picks up on the scent of fabric cleaner, the scent of summer weighing heavy on your nose in this moment. You see blue and white, see oranges and pink light starting to envelop his hand from where the sun had begun to set, making his hand glow as your promise becomes sealed in this very moment forward.
“Hey,” His eyes still don’t leave the way your fingers were intertwined with each other. “Which house do you live in?”
(“I’m forgiven for coming in here without permission, right?” Your hands are stained with sticky chocolate that you’re trying to dab off with your dry handkerchief, bits of crumbs littering your lips.
“Ya can come here whenever you want now.” He wipes the remnants of soft biscuit and gooey chocolate off with a dismissive sleeve.
“That’s such a waste of a pretty kimono…”)
——
Even when your pinkies have lost their binding to each other, you still find his hand holding onto yours, adamant on them being intertwined as he huffs in annoyance at your stare.
“I’m only leadin’ ya back cause I wanna see your house.”
You give him that owlish stare again. The blank one that looks like you don’t have a thought passing through your head at all. “Okay,” You smile again.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
It’s a dismissive question, one that had only just occurred to you. You’re far more interested in watching the way the sun casted your shadows together on the concrete pavement, how your silhouettes gave you a sense of weird unity. Having a friend feels really nice, you think.
You take a glance at him when he takes too long to reply, catching an icy cold gaze that contrasted the warmth of your hands conjoined.
“You first.” Well, if he insists, you guess. It’s just your name.
“(last name) (name).” You’re pretty sure you got the pronunciation right.
“Gojo… Satoru.” You can hear him hold his breath as his name leaves his lips, his voice ever steady and confident, though with a tinge of hesitance. As if he expects something, as if he wants it to be over and done with.
It never comes. Only a confused tilt of your head as you keep staring at him like he was the crazy one in this situation.
And you can see his face change into one of disbelief, one that barely tilts over the edge of what you can only describe as ‘shocked relief’. Maybe he is as weird as he looks. Does he have some sort of weird complex? You can swear you’ve heard about it on TV before. Or maybe he just has really bad comedic timing? You can at least compliment him.
“You’re funny, Satoru-san.” Because he’s genuinely making you smile now.
“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my name.”
“Oh.” You thought friends were allowed to be on first name basis immediately. Were you wrong about friendships afterall? You stare at the ground for a little longer than needed as punishment for yourself, “Sorry, Gojo-s—“
“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my last name either.” His hand squeezes yours ever tighter in small retaliation, his face turned away from yours to hide the way he was starting to grow red with rapid embarrassment.
(You can still see the tips of his ears burning red.)
Now you’re just confused. A scratch of your head as you try to think a little bit harder.
“…do I just call you friend, then?” And you can hear him stifle a snort.
“You’re really weird.” He squeezes your palm again. “Lose the honourifics, weirdo.”
(“So, Gojo…?” You test the waters again. You see his eyes stare off to the side in thought for just that one moment before they flick back to meet your gaze.
“Satoru.”)
“My house is that one,” Your small fingers point towards the horizon, a quaint, unassuming home coming into sight. “You have to walk 3 houses down from the playground.”
You stop before the front. Trying to loosen your grip only to feel his hand tighten significantly around yours.
“Satoru.” You call his name when he’s seemingly lost in thought, his eyes staring blankly at your humble home. It almost looked as if he hasn’t seen one before. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh.” Is he copying you now?
“Don’t you need to go back home? Your Mama would be mad if you’re late, wouldn’t she?” You probe a little more in efforts to snap him out of his trance, poking at his squishy face to get his attention.
But to no avail.
He doesn’t say anything, his head only turning to the side to stare you straight in the eye as you await. You see how pinks and blues are practically reflecting off of those crystalline optics, the sky reflected in them as they shine with a certain warmth.
“Can I come by tomorrow?”
——
A small knock at your front door early into the morning, when the sun had barely risen and the skies were still painted in shades of night blue.
To be specific, it was 6:00 AM. Your Mama was startled as she sipped coffee in the kitchen, you hear her shuffling downstairs, hear the clatter of the very few kitchenware you had as you begin to stir from your sleep, your brain flaring into overdrive as you try to sniff out the air— Trying to capture whiffs of that rancid scent that you hate so much—
Nothing. Nothing but the growing smell of rotting flowers that sends jitters down your spine. It worries you, sends you into a panic as you practically trip over yourself to run downstairs, disregarding any of the instructions of hiding away in the closet like your Mama had taught you beforehand. You have to check— Have to see if she’s okay—
The door is already open.
“Is (name) home?” He’s the first to talk, eyes flicking back and forth between the slightly open door and the dim light from within your home and your sleepy mother.
Mama only blinks down at him, her phone on speed-dial to the police releasing its tense grip as her shoulders visibly slump forward. Her scent calming from the initial flare up as she opens the door just that little more to allow her full view of Gojo Satoru standing before your home accompanied solely by a pretty lady dressed in a simple kimono.
“Yes… She is—“
“Good morning, (last name)-sama.” A low bow that takes your mother by surprise. “Our young master has scheduled a playdate with your daughter for today.”
“I— Um, heard, yes. But I certainly didn’t expect it to be this early—“ Your Mama shifts in place a little uncomfortably, taking note of how the sun had yet to rise, how the street lamps were still alight.
“We apologize for the disturbance.” The servant girl swoops down into another polite bow, head low and hands holding out a neatly wrapped gift before her. “These are snacks to show our gratitude for hosting this event. Young Master Gojo was looking forward to this arrangement, and had made preparations to come as early as possible.”
What an… Interesting child.
“As I am not allowed to accompany him inside due to his request, please also take this number with you, (last name)-sama. Do not hesitate to call us if anything arises. I will arrive to pick him up when he wishes to go.”
“Ah, um… Thank you…” The box feels heavy in your Mama’s hands as you tug on her pajamas from behind, peeking out slightly once you hear the door close.
“Gojo-kun… Was it?” She has to blink a few times to really get a good look at the snowy-haired boy.
“How did you say your friend looked again?” She’s picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks, gently laying the food onto your plate as you continue to chew in humming delight.
Your training chopsticks are clacking against each other as you smile up at her, all toothy grin and happy glow.
“He’s really cute.”
She figures it checks out, the doll-like, porcelain features of his face, the shiny blue eyes and his silky looking hair. He doesn’t say anything, furrowed brows and curiosity in his eyes as he scrutinizes her too, the air starting to still just that little bit when he nods at her in greeting.
As if he was acknowledging her… And as if he didn’t know how else to react.
“It’s nice to meet you.” She leans down to shake his hand, noticing the softness of his skin, the grip of his hand. “And thank you for the gift.”
You pop out from hiding behind your Mama’s legs, blinking at how his clothing had switched from the pretty kimono yesterday— To a simple shirt and shorts.
“Satoru.” You smile only slightly, your voice dimmed with the raspiness of just waking up, waving your hand in greeting. “You’re not wearing your pretty clothes anymore.”
Mama watches, watches how his gaze had been fixated on you the moment you appeared, how he’s waiting—
“I’ll leave you both to it, then.” A ruffle of your hair as you let out a quiet giggle. “Make sure to wash up and brush your teeth.”
“Okay.”
And when she’s out of sight, her footsteps disappearing down the hallway— He starts to speak more.
“Your house is tiny.” Small. Inferior. Almost unlivable. He swears he’s seen servant quarters bigger than this as he kicks his sneakers off by the genkan, dusting himself of imaginary dust as he climbs up the step, his hand somehow finding yours with almost scary accuracy.
Is it? You always felt that it was too big. Always having too much space that you didn’t know what to do with.
“I think it’s nice.” You can feel yourself squeezing his palm with gentle self-assurance, leading him up the stairs and into the bedroom where your futon still laid upon the ground messily.
He sees darkness, hears the soft pads of your socks against tatami mats. Smells the faintest scent of honey within this room.
He stares. Silently, quietly. At the hadakake of your futon, at the thinner blanket that your Mama had taken out to deal with the sweltering heat of summer, at the overall state of the room.
“Are you poor?” You blink at him when he lays down next to you on his side, the softness of the bedding making your body feel heavy and sleepy, feeling a bit too lazy to want to keep the comfy sheets away.
“No.” Your whisper is quiet, soft. As if you were slowly fading away into sleep. “I have enough.” And he knows you’re telling the truth when you just give him a sleepy smile, a yawn escaping your lips as you cuddle against your pillow, eyes losing focus and turning the sight of your friend into a bleary blue and white.
”So I’m happy with just this.”
And he thinks you’ve really gone crazy.
“Good morning, Satoru…” Because you’re pretty sure you have yet to say it, as weird as it is when you’re in the midst of falling asleep.
“…morning.”
He’s fun to be around.
——
A couple weeks have passed, the same days of Satoru coming around to knock at your door too early in the morning, your sleep-deprived Mama getting the door and letting him in—
Only to end with both you and him sleeping in on your futon until early afternoon, when you both awaken only to play… Whatever, really. The playground, drawing at home, building pillow forts…
Mama tells you she doesn’t mind if he wants to come over, doesn’t mind if Satoru wants to play with you so often when she’s off to work. She tells you what really matters is what you want, that its up to you if you want him to come over this often, that it’s your choice to play with him.
(Mama described him once as ‘clingy’. You don’t know what that means, but you think it’s good. You have a friend. Your only friend.)
So you told him to only come once every 2 days, that you think too much interaction may ruin your alone time with Mama… Only to be met with a pout and eyes that teetered almost on watery even as you pat his head and apologise.
He still listened to you, though. Despite the glare to the side and the very evident pout on his face everytime he realises he doesn’t get to see you the next day—
Though, as of recently, Satoru had been the last thing on your mind. Your eyes taking interest in and stuck onto the house next door instead. It’s always been empty, more barren than your own. But it’s gotten ‘renovated’ as your Mama said, the walls losing their dull shade and obtaining a new shine, the boarded windows replaced with shiny, clear glass.
It looked really nice.
“Stop staring at the ugly house and look at me insteaddddddd!” Ever selfish, ever vying and whining for you to give him your undivided attention.
“(nameeeeeeeeeeee).”
“It’s not ugly, though.” You think it looks quaint, looks prettier than your own. “It looks pretty.” You’re curious what kind of people are gonna live there. Are they gonna be an old couple like how Satoru always claims? Maybe it’ll be a nice middle aged lady who likes to share her pickled vegetable dishes?
You just hope they’re nice.
“How much do you think it costs to rent-uh-vate?” Your stare is still pointed at the house next door, your window directly facing one of their rooms as you stare with curious intensity.
He narrows his eyes at the view of the empty rooms, the windows that still lacked curtains and the blank white of their freshly painted walls.
“Not much, I’m pretty sure.”
Probably not much in his terms, anyway.
“Mama said she thinks they’re gonna move in today.”
“Really? Then let’s watch ‘em later then.” He lets out a huff as he rolls around your floor, watching you settle down cross-legged next to him as he makes a grab for you. “I don’t wanna play at the playground t’day.”
“Oh. Okay then, let’s play the cards you brought then—“ Your words die on your lips, body reeling back to the window at the telltale beep of a horn, the loud rumbling of a truck starting to pull into the street just mere meters away from you.
And that has the both of you clambering up to the window, his hand holding yours to ensure you don’t fall as you both squeeze to stand on the same stool, hands pressed up against the glass as your cheeks squish against each other in hopes of getting a view of what these people will look like.
“If it’s not an old couple, can we play on the swing today?”
“Y’er on.”
Your eyes watch the dark blue Toyota pull in close behind, your heart starting to race in palpitating beats that make you think you’re gonna be sick.
“Looks cheap.” Satoru’s still as snarky as ever.
The passenger door swings open, mesmerizing you with the sight of someone new, someone unfamiliar; a stranger that you’ve never seen before. Your gaze is stuck, unable to leave the features that capture your mind first—
⤷ ˚‧ You got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere ˊ˗
PAIRINGS. 박성훈 x f !reader
TROPES. Tutor/student, forbidden romance, class difference, small town/big dreams, learning disability representation, opposites attract, second chance love
SUMMARY. Millbrook, Indiana. 1989. Your life is perfectly planned—until you’re assigned to tutor Park Sunghoon, the school’s most infamous senior. He’s failing English (again), lives for street racing, and couldn’t care less about rules. But he’s not stupid—just misunderstood. As you help him learn, he shows you a different way to live. Somewhere between late nights and quiet moments, your carefully mapped future starts to shift… and so do your feelings.
WORD COUNT. 20.4k
WARNINGS. Explicit sexual content (18+), kissing, penetrative sex, grinding, fingering, safe sex, depictions of undiagnosed learning disability, academic struggle, parental pressure, familial conflict, class differences, street racing, alcohol consumption, period-typical attitudes, strong language.
LACEYS NOTE. this was asked for a few times and I finally decided to post it so pls enjoy😽😽 this anon asked for it so ty for asking xx I hope you love Sunghoon and this story as much as I loved writing him. Thank you for reading— reblogs, likes and comments always keep me writing! Please enjoy
Principal Morrison's office smells like coffee and disappointment. You've been here before—student council meetings, scholarship recommendations, the kind of visits that end with praise and college brochures. Today feels different. Today, Mrs. Morrison's smile has an edge to it.
"I have a special assignment for you," she says, settling behind her desk. Outside, the hallway bustles with the chaos of first period passing. It's only the second week of senior year and you already have three AP classes, student council, yearbook committee, and exactly zero free periods.
"Of course," you say automatically, because that's what you do. Say yes. Exceed expectations. Maintain the 4.0 that's going to get you into Stanford. "What do you need?"
"I need you to tutor someone." She pauses, and something in that pause makes your stomach drop. "Park Sunghoon. Senior English. He's taking it for the fourth time."
Oh. Everyone knows Park Sunghoon. Hard not to when he rolls into the parking lot every morning in a black Mustang that's louder than the first bell, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like he walked out of a movie about teenagers your parents wouldn't let you watch. He's in your English class this year—always in the back row, usually late, definitely not paying attention. "I don't know if I'm the right person—"
"You're exactly the right person. Top of the class, excellent communication skills, patient." Mrs. Morrison leans forward, her expression softening into something that looks almost like desperation. "He needs to pass this class to graduate. And between you and me, I think he needs someone who won't give up on him."
The weight of expectation settles on your shoulders—familiar, heavy, accepted. This is what you do. You help. You achieve. You make your parents proud and your teachers grateful and everyone believes you can fix anything if you just try hard enough. "When would I—"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Library, four to five. I've already cleared it with him." She smiles like this is settled. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." You leave her office with a sinking feeling and the distinct impression that you've just been assigned the impossible.
—
Thursday afternoon, 4:02 PM. You're in the library with your AP Lit textbook, notes on The Great Gatsby, and growing certainty that Sunghoon Park isn't going to show up.
At 4:15, you're proven wrong. He walks in like he's doing you a favor—leather jacket, ripped jeans, boots that definitely violate dress code. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and when he spots you at the corner table, something crosses his face. Resignation, maybe. Or irritation. "You're my tutor?" he says by way of greeting, dropping his backpack on the table with a thud that makes the librarian shoot him a warning look.
"Looks like it." You gesture to the empty chair. "Have a seat." He sits, sprawling in the chair like he owns it, and pulls out an absolutely destroyed copy of Of Mice and Men. The cover's hanging by threads, pages dog-eared and crumpled. "So," you start, trying to figure out where to begin. "Mrs. Morrison said you're taking senior English again?"
"Fourth time." He says it flat, like it doesn't bother him, but you see the tension in his jaw.
"Okay. What's giving you the most trouble?"
He laughs—short and bitter. "All of it. The reading. The writing. The whole goddamn thing."
"Have you read the book?" You nod at Of Mice and Men.
"I tried." He flips it open randomly, stares at the page like it personally offended him. "The words just—they don't make sense. I read the same line five times and still don't know what it says."
Something clicks in your brain. The way he's holding the book. The frustration that seems deeper than just dislike. The fact that he's clearly not stupid—he wouldn't have made it to senior year four times if he was—but something's not connecting. "Can you read this page out loud for me?" you ask gently.
His expression shuts down immediately. "No."
"Sunghoon—"
"I said no." He's already standing, grabbing his bag. "This is pointless. I'm not some charity case for you to fix so you can put it on your college applications."
"That's not—" You're standing too now, and the librarian is definitely watching. "I'm trying to help."
"I don't need help. I need people to stop pretending I'm going to magically get this shit." His voice is low, controlled, which somehow makes it worse. "I'm stupid. Everyone knows it. Let's not waste each other's time."
"You're not stupid."
He looks at you then—really looks—and for a second you see past the armor. There's hurt there. Years of it. "Yeah?" he challenges. "Then why can't I read a fucking book that every other senior finished in a week?"
"Because I think you might be dyslexic." The word hangs between you. He goes very still.
"What?"
"Dyslexia. It's a learning disability that affects reading. The way you described it—reading the same line multiple times, words not making sense—those are classic signs." You're speaking carefully now, aware that this could go very wrong. "My cousin has it. He's brilliant. Mechanical engineer at Purdue. But reading was hell for him until he got diagnosed and learned strategies."
Sunghoon is staring at you like you're speaking another language. "That's not—I'm just—" He stops. Tries again. "Nobody ever said—"
"Have you ever been tested?"
"No. Teachers just kept saying I wasn't trying hard enough." The bitterness is back, but underneath it there's something else. Hope, maybe. Fragile and dangerous.
"Sit down," you say quietly. "Please. Let me show you something." He hesitates, then slowly sinks back into the chair. You pull out a blank piece of paper and write a sentence in clear print: THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. "Read this."
He stares at it for a long moment. "The... cat... sat..." He stops, frustrated. "Some of the letters keep moving."
"Exactly." You pull out a red plastic sheet—the kind photographers use for color correction—from your bag. Your cousin's old trick. "Try reading it through this."
He looks skeptical but places the red sheet over the paper. His eyes widen. "The cat sat on the mat." He reads it perfectly. Looks up at you with an expression you can't quite name. "What the fuck."
"Colored overlays help some people with dyslexia. The colored filter reduces visual stress and makes the letters more stable." You're trying to keep your voice steady, professional, but your heart is racing. "This doesn't mean you're stupid, Sunghoon. It means your brain processes visual information differently."
He's still staring at the paper through the red sheet, reading the sentence over and over like he can't believe it. "All this time," he says finally, voice rough. "All these fucking years, and it was just—"
"Not your fault," you finish firmly. "Never your fault." He looks at you then, and something shifts in his expression. The armor cracks, just a little.
"Can you—" He stops, clears his throat. "Can you teach me? Actually teach me, not just make me read shit I can't understand?"
"Yes," you say without hesitation. "But we're going to need more time than an hour twice a week."
"I work at my dad's garage after school most days. Can't really get out of that."
"Evenings?"
He hesitates. "There's a diner. Miller's, out on Route 40. They have booths in the back, it's quiet. I could meet you there. After the garage closes. Seven?"
Your mother is going to have opinions about you spending evenings at a diner with Park Sunghoon. Your father is going to ask if this is really the best use of your time when you should be focused on AP classes and scholarship applications. "Seven works," you hear yourself say.
His smile is small but genuine. "Okay. Tuesday?"
"Tuesday." He leaves with the red plastic sheet folded carefully in his pocket, and you sit there in the empty library wondering what you've just started.
Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, appears at your elbow. "That was kind," she says quietly.
"I just showed him a color filter."
"You gave him hope." She pats your shoulder. "Sometimes that's more important."
You pack up your things slowly, thinking about Sunghoon's expression when he read that sentence. About years of being told he wasn't trying hard enough. About intelligence that doesn't fit in the boxes that schools make. About the fact that you just agreed to spend your evenings in a diner with the most dangerous boy in school.
And the scariest part? You're looking forward to it.
—
Tuesday night arrives too fast and too slow at the same time. You tell your mother you're studying at the library. It's not technically a lie—you are helping someone study. She doesn't need to know the someone is Park Sunghoon or that the library is actually a diner on the edge of town.
Miller's Diner looks like it hasn't changed since 1955. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner playing Tiffany. The smell of coffee and frying oil. A handful of truckers at the counter, a couple of farmers in the corner booth, and exactly zero people from school.
Sunghoon is already there, sitting in the last booth by the window. He's changed out of his leather jacket into a plain black t-shirt, and there's grease under his fingernails. He sees you and something in his expression softens. "You came," he says, like he half-expected you to bail.
"I said I would." You slide into the booth across from him, setting down your bag full of books and teaching materials. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"People make promises they don't keep." He shrugs. "Had a few tutors give up before."
"I'm not going to give up."
"We'll see."
A waitress appears—Sally, her name tag says, probably in her fifties with kind eyes and a skeptical expression when she looks at Sunghoon. "What can I get you kids?"
"Coffee, black," Sunghoon says. "And a chocolate milkshake."
You raise an eyebrow. "Both?"
"Coffee's for staying awake. Milkshake's for when reading gives me a headache." He looks almost defensive. "What?"
"Nothing. I'll have the same."
Sally writes it down, her skepticism softening into something that might be approval. "Be right back."
When she's gone, you pull out your materials. You've spent the past four days researching dyslexia, strategies, techniques. Your cousin sent you a care package—more colored overlays, a reading ruler, special paper with slightly tinted backgrounds that's easier on dyslexic eyes. "Okay," you start, spreading everything out. "First things first. I'm not a diagnostician, so I can't officially test you for dyslexia. But I can teach you strategies that help people with dyslexia read more effectively."
"Like the red sheet."
"Exactly. Different colors work for different people." You push the stack of overlays toward him. "Try these on a page of your book. See which one makes the words most stable."
He pulls out Of Mice and Men, that same destroyed copy, and starts testing. Blue—no good. Yellow—better. Green—worse. Red— "Red's still best," he says finally.
"Then red it is. I also got you this." You slide over a reading ruler—a long transparent strip with a colored bar that helps track lines of text. "And this paper." Special cream-colored pages. "Some people find it easier to read on colored backgrounds."
He's looking at all of it like you've just handed him gold. "You did all this for me?"
"It wasn't a big deal. My cousin had extras."
"It's a big deal to me." His voice is quiet. Genuine. "Nobody's ever—" He stops. Starts again. "Thank you."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "You're welcome. Now let's see if we can get through chapter one together."
For the next hour, you work. You read passages out loud while he follows along with the red overlay and reading ruler. You stop every few paragraphs to discuss what's happening, to make sure he's comprehending. When he gets frustrated with a particularly difficult section, you break it down sentence by sentence. The milkshakes arrive halfway through. You're both so focused you barely notice Sally setting them down.
"This is about friendship, right?" Sunghoon says suddenly. You're on chapter three now, George and Lennie planning their dream farm. "Like, George takes care of Lennie even though it makes his life harder."
"Yes. Exactly." You're surprised by how quickly he's grasping the themes. "Why do you think George does that?"
"Because Lennie's the only person who sees him as more than just some ranch hand. Because having someone need you is better than being alone." He pauses. "And maybe because George knows what it's like to be different. To not fit."
You stare at him. That's a deeper reading than half your AP class came up with. "That's—that's brilliant, Sunghoon."
He looks up, startled. "Really?"
"Really. You're understanding the emotional core of the story. That's harder than just reading the words."
"But I can't write a paper about it. Can't spell half the words I'd need."
"So we'll work on that too. Writing strategies. Spell check. Audio recording your ideas and transcribing them." You're already making notes. "There are ways around every obstacle."
"You really believe that?"
"I really do."
He takes a long drink of his milkshake, studying you over the rim of the glass. "Why are you doing this? And don't say it's for college apps. You've got those locked down."
The question catches you off guard. You consider lying, giving some easy answer about community service or helping others. But something about the way he's looking at you—open, genuine, vulnerable—demands honesty. "Because nobody should feel stupid when they're not," you say finally. "Because intelligence comes in so many forms and school only tests for one. Because you deserve someone who sees you as more than just a problem to fix."
His expression does something complicated. "You don't even know me."
"Then tell me about you. Who is Park Sunghoon when he's not in the back of English class?"
He hesitates, then: "I work at my dad's garage. Park's Auto Repair, down on Fifth Street. Been working there since I was twelve. Can rebuild an engine blindfolded."
"Really?"
"Really. Cars make sense to me. They're logical. If something's broken, there's a reason. A fix. It's all mechanical. No hidden meanings or metaphors or bullshit."
"Unlike English class."
"Unlike English class." He grins—the first real smile you've seen from him. It transforms his whole face. "But mostly I build cars. Race them, sometimes."
"The Mustang?"
"The Mustang. '67 Fastback. Bought it for five hundred bucks three years ago when it was basically a rusted shell. Been rebuilding it piece by piece ever since." There's passion in his voice now, the same passion that's been missing when he talks about school. "She's almost done. Just needs a new transmission and some body work."
"She?"
"All cars are she." He says it like it's obvious. "You probably think it's stupid. Racing."
"I think it sounds exciting. Terrifying, but exciting."
"You scared of going fast?"
"I'm scared of everything going wrong."
He studies you for a moment. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Stuck-up. Judgmental. Like everyone else who's got their shit together." He's playing with his milkshake straw now, not quite looking at you. "But you're not. You're... nice. Actually nice, not fake nice."
"You're not what I expected either."
"What did you expect?"
"Honestly? Someone who didn't care. Someone who'd blow off tutoring or not even try." You pause. "But you're trying really hard. You care about this even though it's difficult."
"I care about graduating. Getting out of this town."
"Where would you go?"
"Anywhere. Indianapolis, maybe. Or Detroit. Somewhere with real garages, real racing circuits. Somewhere I'm not the Park kid who can't read." The bitterness creeps back into his voice.
"You can read. You're reading right now."
He looks down at the book, the red overlay, the progress you've made. "Yeah. I guess I am."
For a moment, you just sit there. The diner's nearly empty now, the jukebox playing something slow. Through the window, you can see the Mustang parked under a streetlight, all black paint and chrome, beautiful and dangerous. "Same time Thursday?" you ask.
"Same time Thursday." He pauses. "And... thanks. For not giving up on me after one session."
"I told you I wouldn't."
"Yeah, but people say a lot of things."
"I'm not people."
His smile is small but genuine. "No. You're really not."
You leave the diner at nine, and your mother's waiting up when you get home. "The library was open until nine?" she asks, voice carefully neutral.
"I was helping someone study. Lost track of time."
"Someone?"
"A classmate." Not technically a lie.
She studies your face, and you wonder if she can see it—the flutter of something new and dangerous. The feeling that tonight was about more than just teaching someone to read. "Just be careful," she says finally. "Senior year's important. Don't let anyone distract you from your goals."
"I won't, Mom."
But later, lying in bed, you think about Sunghoon's smile when he read that first sentence. About the passion in his voice when he talked about his Mustang. About the fact that you're already looking forward to Thursday. And you wonder if maybe, possibly, you're already distracted.
—
The next six weeks blur together in a pattern: School. Student council. Thursday tutoring in the library for appearances. Tuesday and Thursday nights at Miller's Diner for actual progress.
You learn things about Sunghoon: He drinks his coffee black because his dad taught him that's how men drink it, but he'd secretly prefer cream and sugar. He's left-handed. He has a younger sister, Soo-ah, who's in eighth grade and wants to be a vet. His mom left when he was ten and he doesn't talk about it. He can identify any car by the sound of its engine. He's terrified of failing English again. He thinks Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye is whiny but he understands why the character's so angry at everything.
You learn how to teach him: Breaking chapters into smaller sections works. Audio books help, but he feels guilty using them, like they're cheating. He comprehends better when he can discuss ideas out loud rather than writing them down. His spelling is creative but phonetic. When he's frustrated, he needs five minutes to walk it off before trying again. Positive reinforcement matters more than criticism. He works twice as hard as anyone you've ever met.
You learn things about yourself: that you look forward to Tuesday and Thursday nights more than any other part of your week. You started leaving your hair down instead of in a ponytail. You think about him during AP Calc. The sound of an engine makes your heart race now, wondering if it's his Mustang. You're lying to your parents about where you spend your evenings and you don't feel guilty enough about it.
By mid-October, Sunghoon's reading at a tenth-grade level—not great, but light years beyond where he started. He got a B-minus on his Of Mice and Men essay. Mr. Peterson, the English teacher, wrote "significant improvement" on the top. "I can't believe it," Sunghoon says, staring at the paper like it might disappear. You're in your usual booth at Miller's, chemistry homework spread out in front of you (because you still have actual classes), his English work in front of him.
"I can. You earned it."
"We earned it. I couldn't have done this without you."
"You did the work. I just showed you different strategies."
He looks up, and there's something intense in his expression. "It's more than that. You believed I could do it. That matters."
The air between you feels charged suddenly. You're very aware that you're sitting in a back booth of a diner where nobody from school ever comes, that it's just the two of you and Sally wiping down counters, that Sunghoon is looking at you like you're something more than just his tutor. "I should—" You gesture vaguely at your chemistry homework. "Midterm next week."
"Right. Yeah." He clears his throat, looking away. "You want help?"
"You want to help with chemistry?"
"I'm good at it. Sciences make sense. They're like cars—everything has a reason, a reaction, a cause and effect." So you trade. He helps you understand molecular bonds and chemical reactions, explaining them with an ease that surprises you. You help him with his reading comprehension questions for Catcher in the Rye.
It's past ten when you finally pack up. Sally's given up pretending she's not watching you two, a small smile on her face as she tops off Sunghoon's coffee for the third time. In the parking lot, you walk toward your car—a sensible Honda Civic your parents bought you junior year—but Sunghoon catches your wrist. "Hey," he says. "You want to see something?"
"See what?"
"The Mustang. Properly. I finished the transmission last week."
You should say no. It's late. Your mom's going to ask questions if you're not home by ten-thirty. You have homework still. "Yeah," you hear yourself say. "I'd like that."
He leads you to the Mustang, parked under the streetlight like always, but this time he opens the hood. The engine gleams underneath—chrome and steel and meticulous care. "You rebuilt all of this?" you ask, genuinely awed.
"Most of it. Dad helped with some of the specialized stuff, but yeah. Took three years." There's pride in his voice. "Want to hear her run?"
"Please." He slides into the driver's seat, and when he turns the key, the engine roars to life. It's loud and powerful and sounds like controlled chaos. He revs it once, and you can feel the vibration in your chest.
When he kills the engine and gets out, he's grinning. "What do you think?"
"I think she's beautiful."
"Yeah?" He's standing close now, close enough that you can smell motor oil and coffee and something that's just him. "You want to go for a ride sometime?"
Your heart's racing. "Where would we go?"
"Anywhere. Nowhere. There's this place, about twenty minutes out of town. The quarry. People race there sometimes." He pauses. "I could teach you to drive stick shift."
"My parents would kill me."
"They don't have to know."
It's a terrible idea. Sneaking around. Going to the quarry where kids race and drink and do all the things that good students don't do. Getting into a car with a boy your parents definitely wouldn't approve of. "Saturday?" you ask.
His smile is worth every risk. "Saturday. Pick you up at eight?"
"I'll meet you. The QuickMart on the edge of town."
"You don't want me picking you up at your house."
"My dad owns a shotgun and strong opinions about boys. So no."
He laughs—full and genuine. "Fair enough. QuickMart at eight."
You drive home with butterflies in your stomach and the sound of that engine still echoing in your ears. When you slip in the front door at 10:45, your mom's reading on the couch. "Library close late again?" she asks.
"Big project. Sorry."
She studies you over the top of her book. "You're smiling a lot for someone who's been doing homework all night."
"Just had a productive study session."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. "Get some sleep. You look tired."
In your room, you try to focus on chemistry but your mind keeps drifting to Saturday. To the Mustang. To Sunghoon's smile and the way he looked at you in the parking lot. Your phone rings. The landline extension in your room. You pick up. "Hi." It's him. You don't know how he got your number, but you're glad he did.
"Hi."
"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."
"I'm fine. It's like fifteen minutes."
"I know. But still." He pauses. "I'm looking forward to Saturday."
"Me too."
"Good. Get some sleep. I'll see you Thursday."
"See you Thursday." You hang up, and you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your best friend Wonyoung is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this. If you tell her about this. Because maybe some things are meant to be secret. Maybe some things are just yours.
—
Saturday night at 7:55 PM. You're standing in the QuickMart parking lot wearing jeans and a sweater, telling yourself this is fine. This is normal. Lots of people go to the quarry on Saturday nights. (Except you're not lots of people. You're the girl who spends Saturday nights doing extra credit or organizing student council activities or watching movies with Wonyoung while she talks about her on-again-off-again thing with Jake Sim.)
The Mustang rumbles into the parking lot at exactly eight, all black paint and chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Sunghoon leans over to open the passenger door, grinning. "You came."
"You sound surprised."
"Half-expected you to bail. Come to your senses."
"Maybe I came to my senses by showing up."
His grin widens. "Get in." You do. The interior's been restored too—black leather seats, a tape deck, the smell of new upholstery and possibility. "Buckle up," he says, and then he's peeling out of the parking lot, and you're pressed back against the seat as the engine roars.
He drives fast but controlled, taking the roads out of town with easy confidence. The radio's playing—some rock station, The Bangles bleeding into Bon Jovi. The windows are down and the October air is cold and crisp and perfect. "Where'd you tell your parents you were going?" he asks over the music.
"Wonyoung's house. Movie night."
"She covering for you?"
"She doesn't know. I'll call her later, make sure our stories match if anyone asks." You glance at him. "Where'd you tell your dad?"
"That I was going to the quarry. He doesn't care as long as I'm home by midnight and don't wreck the car."
"Different parenting styles."
"You could say that."
The quarry is exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. It's an old limestone quarry, abandoned for years, now filled with water that's probably freezing and definitely not safe to swim in. There's a flat area at the top that's become the unofficial racing strip—a quarter mile of cracked pavement with enough room for two cars to line up side by side.
There are maybe twenty cars already there when you arrive. You recognize some from school—Jay Park's Camaro, Jake Sim's pickup truck, a few others. Music blasts from someone's stereo. A group of kids stands around a bonfire that's definitely illegal. Sunghoon parks at the edge of the group, and immediately people start gravitating toward the Mustang. "Yo, Hoon!" A guy you vaguely recognize from auto shop class—Jay, you think—jogs over. "Transmission finally done?"
"Finished her last week." Sunghoon gets out, popping the hood. "Want to see?" You get out too, feeling wildly out of place in your neat jeans and sweater while everyone else is in leather and ripped denim and the kind of casual confidence that comes from belonging.
"Holy shit," Jay says, looking at the engine. "You did this yourself?"
"Mostly. Dad helped with the specs."
More people gather, asking technical questions about compression ratios and torque and things you don't understand. You stand slightly apart, and that's when you notice her. A girl about your age, leaning against a cherry-red Corvette, watching you with undisguised curiosity. She's gorgeous—leather jacket, dark lipstick, the kind of effortless cool you've never managed. She walks over. "You're new."
"I'm—yeah. First time here."
"I can tell." She's not mean about it, just observational. "I'm Ryujin. That's my car." She gestures to the Corvette. "You're Sunghoon's tutor, right?"
Apparently everyone knows. "Yeah. How did you—"
"Small town. Word travels." She studies you with sharp eyes. "You seem nervous."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Little bit. But don't worry. Nobody bites. Well, Jay bites sometimes, but only if you ask nicely." Despite yourself, you laugh. "There we go. You have a smile." Ryujin nods toward where Sunghoon's still showing off his engine. "He talks about you, you know."
Your heart skips. "He does?"
"All the time. 'My tutor this, my tutor that. She's so smart. She actually believes I can pass.'" Ryujin's expression softens. "It's good for him. Having someone who sees past the reputation."
"What reputation?"
"Park's delinquent kid. The one who can't hack it academically. The loser who's going to end up pumping gas at his dad's garage for the rest of his life." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge of anger underneath. "People are assholes."
"He's not—he's brilliant. He's just dyslexic."
"I know. But nobody else seems to get that." She glances back toward Sunghoon. "Anyway. I'm glad he brought you. He doesn't bring people here. It's his space, you know? The fact that he wanted to share it with you means something."
Before you can process that, Sunghoon's back, sliding an arm around your waist casually, naturally, like he's done it a hundred times before. "You good?" he asks.
"Maybe." They're grinning at each other, and you realize this is friendship. This is his people—the ones who see him as more than the kid who failed English three times.
"I'll race you later," Ryujin says. "Right now, I think you were going to teach your girl to drive stick." Your girl. The words settle warm in your chest.
Sunghoon leads you back to the Mustang, away from the crowd. "You ready for this?"
"To drive your baby? The car you've spent three years restoring?"
"To learn something new." He opens the driver's door. "Come on. Slide in." You do. The driver's seat feels different—powerful, dangerous. Sunghoon gets in the passenger side, talking you through the basics.
"Clutch, brake, gas. Three pedals instead of two. You're going to push the clutch all the way down, put her in first gear, then slowly let the clutch out while giving her gas. Too fast, she'll stall. Too slow, she'll—" The engine dies immediately. "—stall. That's okay. Everyone does that the first time. Try again."
It takes six tries before you manage to actually move forward without stalling. By try seven, you're doing laps around the parking area, grinding the gears occasionally but mostly getting it. "You're a natural," Sunghoon says, and he sounds impressed.
"I'm terrible at this."
"You're learning. That's different." He guides you through shifting to second, then third. "Feel that? The way she catches when you hit the right spot? That's perfect."
You do three successful laps, and on the fourth, you catch him watching you instead of the road. "What?"
"Nothing. You just—you look happy."
"I am happy."
"Good."
You park after the fifth lap, heart racing with adrenaline and something else. Something that might be dangerous. "That was amazing," you say.
"You did great."
"No, I mean—this. Being here. Learning something completely unrelated to school or college applications or my parents' expectations. Just—doing something for me."
He's looking at you with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. "You don't do things for yourself much, do you?"
"I'm busy."
"That's not an answer."
"No," you admit. "I don't. Everything I do has a purpose. An end goal. Get into Stanford. Make my parents proud. Secure my future."
"What do you want? Not your parents. You."
The question catches you completely off guard. Nobody's asked you that before. Nobody's cared to ask. "I don't know," you say finally. Honestly. "I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do, I'm not sure what I want anymore."
"That's sad."
"That's realistic."
"Maybe." He shifts in the seat, turning to face you fully. "You want to know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you're scared. I think you've built this perfect life, this perfect plan, and you're terrified of anything that might mess it up. But I also think—" He pauses. "I think you're only here, in this car, at this quarry, because part of you wants something different. Something real."
Your heart is pounding. "And if I do?"
"Then maybe you should let yourself have it."
You're sitting in his Mustang, at a quarry where people race and break rules, with a boy who makes your heart race faster than any engine, and you're tired. So tired of being good. Of being perfect. Of doing everything right. "Teach me to race," you say suddenly.
His eyes widen. "What?"
"Teach me to race. Actually race. Not just drive around a parking lot."
"That's—do you know how dangerous that is?"
"I'm asking anyway."
He studies you for a long moment. "You're serious."
"Completely."
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay. But not tonight. You need more practice first. Real practice. We'll come back next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. I'll teach you everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything." The word hangs heavy with promise. The night continues. You meet more people—Jay, who's loud and funny and clearly Sunghoon's best friend. Yuna, who drags her boyfriend Sunoo around by the hand and asks you about student council. Niki, who's only sixteen but drives better than half the seniors here.
You watch three races. Ryujin wins two of them, Sunghoon wins the third. The way he drives is like watching art—controlled chaos, perfect timing, raw skill. At eleven, he takes you back to your car at the QuickMart. "Same time next week?" he asks.
"Same time next week."
"And Thursday. Diner."
"I'll be there."
He leans across the console, and for a moment you think he might kiss you. But instead, he just tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Drive safe," he says.
"You too." You call Wonyoung from the parking lot, apologizing for the short notice, establishing your alibi. She's suspicious but covers for you without question, because that's what best friends do.
When you get home, your mom's asleep but your dad's still up, reading in his study. "Good movie?" he asks.
"Great movie."
"You and Wonyoung have fun?"
"Always."
He studies you over his reading glasses, and you wonder if he can see it—the change. The fact that his perfect daughter just spent the evening at an illegal street racing spot with a boy he'd definitely disapprove of. "Get some rest," he says finally. "You have SAT prep in the morning."
"Right. SAT prep."
In your room, you strip off your sweater, and it smells like motor oil and bonfire smoke and freedom. You should wash it immediately. Instead, you fold it carefully and put it in the back of your closet, where the smell might linger just a little longer. You lie in bed thinking about Sunghoon's hands on the steering wheel. About the way he looked at you when you said you were happy. About the fact that for the first time in your carefully planned life, you have a secret that's just yours.
And you're not sorry about it at all.
—
November arrives cold and sudden, turning Millbrook into a postcard of autumn—all orange leaves and early frost, the smell of wood smoke and approaching winter. You and Sunghoon fall into a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays: Miller's Diner. Books and milkshakes and watching him improve week by week. He's reading at grade level now. Got a B on his Catcher in the Rye essay. Mr. Peterson keeps looking at him like he doesn't quite believe the transformation.
Saturdays: The quarry. Learning to drive—really drive. Stick shift, speed shifting, the physics of acceleration and control. The first time you beat Niki in a practice race (his reaction time was slow, you didn't actually outdrive him, but still), you screamed so loud Sunghoon laughed until he cried. Weekdays: Stolen moments between classes. His hand brushing yours in the hallway. Notes passed during English (ironic, since he can actually read them now). The way your heart jumps every time you see the Mustang in the parking lot.
It's not dating. You're not calling it dating. That would make it real, and real things have consequences. But it's something. Something that makes you smile when you should be concentrating on calculus. Something that has Wonyoung giving you knowing looks across the lunch table. "You're going to have to tell me eventually," she says one Monday, stealing a fry from your tray.
"Tell you what?"
"Who he is. The guy you're sneaking around with."
Your heart stops. "I'm not—"
"Please. You smell like motor oil every Saturday night. You smile at your phone. You're distracted in student council meetings." She grins. "I'm your best friend. I know everything."
"It's complicated."
"Complicated is fun. Uncomplicated is boring." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Is it Park Sunghoon?"
You nearly choke on your water. "What? No. Why would you—"
"Because he looks at you in English class like you're the only person in the room. And you look back the same way when you think nobody's watching."
"We're—I'm tutoring him. That's all."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." But she doesn't push, because Wonyoung gets boundaries. "Just be careful, okay? I know you. You're all-or-nothing. When you fall, you fall hard." The problem is: she's right. You're falling.
—
The first time Sunghoon holds your hand (really holds it, not just brushes against it), you're at the diner on a Thursday night in mid-November. You've just finished analyzing a chapter of Lord of the Flies, and he's frustrated because the symbolism still doesn't quite click. "Why can't the conch just be a conch?" he says, stabbing at his milkshake with a straw. "Why does everything have to mean something else?"
"Because that's how literature works. Golding's commenting on society, civilization, human nature—"
"Through a fucking seashell."
"Through a symbol that represents order and democracy." You're trying not to smile at his frustration. "You're overthinking it."
"I'm underthinking it. That's my problem. Everyone else sees this deep meaning and I just see a story about kids on an island."
"The story IS about kids on an island. The symbolism is just another layer."
He looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Make me feel like I'm not stupid even when I don't get something."
"Because you're not stupid. You just learn differently."
His hand reaches across the table, covering yours. It's not accidental this time. It's deliberate, warm, sending electricity up your arm. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For everything. For not giving up. For making me believe I could actually pass this class."
Your throat is tight. "You're going to pass. You're going to graduate."
"Because of you." He doesn't let go of your hand. Neither do you. Sally comes by to refill coffee and doesn't comment on it, but you see her smile.
When you leave that night, he walks you to your car like always, but this time he doesn't step back. He stands close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him even in the November cold. "I've been wanting to ask you something," he says.
Your heart's in your throat. "Okay."
"There's a race next Saturday. Real race, not just practice. Winner takes two hundred bucks." He pauses. "I want you to come. Not to race. Just to watch. To be there."
"I'm always there on Saturdays."
"I know, but—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncertain for the first time since you've met him. "I want you there as mine. Not my tutor. Not my friend. As—as my girl."
The world narrows to just the two of you, standing in a diner parking lot under harsh fluorescent lights that suddenly feel romantic. "Sunghoon—"
"I know it's complicated. I know your parents wouldn't approve. I know I'm not the kind of guy you're supposed to be with." The words rush out. "But I like you. More than like you. Have for weeks. And I think—I hope—you might feel the same?"
You should say no. Should remind him about Stanford, about your carefully planned future, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, you reach up and kiss him. It's brief and sweet and tastes like chocolate milkshake and possibility. When you pull back, he's staring at you like you've performed a miracle. "Yeah," you say, breathless. "I feel the same."
His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss him again, longer this time, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure. "I'll be there Saturday. As yours."
"As mine," he repeats, like he's testing out the words. "I like the sound of that."
You drive home giddy and terrified, the taste of him still on your lips. Your phone's ringing when you get to your room—the landline, Sunghoon's voice on the other end. "Hi," he says.
"Hi. You just saw me twenty minutes ago."
"I know. I missed you already." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that stupid?"
You talk for an hour about nothing and everything. About his sister's soccer game and your student council drama and what it felt like to finally kiss each other after weeks of dancing around it. When you finally hang up, it's past midnight, and you have a chemistry test tomorrow you haven't studied for. You don't even care.
—
Saturday's race is different from practice runs. There's money on the line, real stakes. The crowd's bigger—maybe thirty cars, fifty people. You spot a few seniors from school and hope they don't recognize you. Sunghoon's racing against Jay, best two out of three. The Mustang versus the Camaro. Both engines roar at the starting line, and you're standing with Ryujin and Yuna, heart in your throat. "He's good," Ryujin says, watching the cars line up. "But Jay's reckless. Could go either way."
"Sunghoon's better," you say with more confidence than you feel.
"Look at you. All defensive of your man." She grins. "It's cute."
The flag drops. They're off—two bullets of metal and gasoline, neck and neck down the quarter mile. Sunghoon takes the first race by half a car length. Jay takes the second by less. The third race is for everything.
You can barely watch. Can barely breathe. The engines scream, the crowd roars, and then Sunghoon crosses the finish line first by inches. The crowd erupts. Jay's laughing, shaking Sunghoon's hand, because it's all good fun until it's not. Money exchanges hands. And then Sunghoon's walking toward you, adrenaline-high and grinning, and he picks you up and spins you around right there in front of everyone. "Did you see that?" he says, breathless.
"I saw. You were amazing."
"I had good motivation." He sets you down but doesn't let go, his forehead resting against yours. "Wanted to win for you."
"Sunghoon—" He kisses you, right there in front of everyone, and it's not brief or sweet. It's deep and claiming and says mine more clearly than words ever could.
When you break apart, half the people there are staring. Including Jake Sim, who's in your AP History class and definitely knows who you are. "Shit," you mutter.
"What?"
"Jake goes to our school. This is going to be all over by Monday."
Sunghoon's expression hardens. "Is that a problem?"
"My parents—they're going to—"
"Hey." He cups your face, making you look at him. "If you want to keep this quiet, we can keep this quiet. I get it. I'm not exactly parent-approved material." The hurt in his voice kills you.
"No. I don't—I don't want to hide." The words surprise you, but you mean them. "I'm tired of hiding. Of being perfect. Of living my life for everyone else's approval."
"You sure?"
"Completely."
His smile is slow and genuine. "Good. Because I'm done pretending you're just my tutor."
The rest of the night is perfect. You meet his friends properly—Jay and his girlfriend Jungwon, Niki who's secretly a poetry nerd, Yuna and Sunoo who are the most wholesome couple you've ever seen. They accept you immediately, and it's strange and wonderful to be part of a group that doesn't care about GPAs or college applications or any of the things that usually define you.
Around eleven, Sunghoon pulls you away from the crowd, leading you to a spot overlooking the quarry. The water's black and still below, stars reflected on the surface. "I've been thinking," he says, sitting on the hood of the Mustang and pulling you to stand between his legs. "About after graduation."
Your stomach drops. "What about it?"
"I'm not going to college. Can't afford it even if I wanted to, and honestly? I don't want to. I want to work with my dad, take over the garage eventually. Maybe open my own shop someday."
"That sounds perfect for you."
"But you're going to Stanford. All the way across the country." The reality of it sits heavy between you. You've been so focused on now—on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturday nights—that you haven't let yourself think about graduation. About what happens when your carefully planned future collides with this unexpected present.
"Maybe I don't go to Stanford," you say quietly. His eyes widen."Maybe I stay. Go to Indiana State or Purdue. Somewhere closer."
"No." He says it firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not giving up Stanford for me."
"It wouldn't be giving up. It would be choosing—"
"You'd resent me. Eventually. You'd look back and wonder what if, and you'd hate me for it." He takes your hands. "I care about you too much to let you do that."
"So what, we just break up when I leave?"
"I don't know." The honesty in his voice breaks your heart. "I haven't figured that part out yet. All I know is that I want you to go chase your dreams, even if it means losing you."
You kiss him to shut him up, to stop the conversation from going somewhere too painful. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a while there's nothing but this—the two of you, the Mustang, the stars overhead. "We have seven months," you murmur against his mouth. "Seven months before we have to figure any of that out."
"Seven months."
"So let's make them count."
"Yeah." He kisses you again, deeper. "Let's make them count."
You stay like that for a while—his hands in your hair, yours in his, the city glittering below and the night cold around you—and the kissing shifts into something else slowly, the way things do when you’ve been holding back for a long time and the holding back finally stops. "Hey," he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "You sure?"
You’ve never been more sure of anything. "Yes." He kisses you again—slower now, intentional, one hand sliding down your waist—and then he’s reaching past you to recline the passenger seat, and you climb over the console and into his lap, and the Mustang’s interior is small and warm and entirely yours.
He undresses you carefully, methodically, like he’s done everything in his life—with patience and complete attention. Your sweater first, then his jacket, his eyes on your face the whole time, watching for hesitation. There isn’t any.
"You’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so simple and so honest that it lodges somewhere in your chest and stays there.
His hands are warm everywhere they touch—down your sides, over your hips, learning you the way he’s learned everything that matters to him: slowly, thoroughly, like he means to know it forever. When his fingers find the hem of your jeans, he pauses. "Still yes?"
"Still yes." He takes his time. That’s the thing about Sunghoon—he has always taken his time with things that matter. His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of the city lights through the windshield and the sound of both of you breathing and how small and perfect this space is.
He works you open with his fingers first—slow and attentive, watching your face, adjusting when your breath catches—his thumb circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your hips roll against his hand involuntarily. You grip the headrest behind him and he says your name, just your name, low and reverent. "Okay?" he asks.
"More than," you manage. "Don’t stop." He doesn’t. He keeps going until you’re shaking and breathless, until you come with your forehead dropped against his shoulder and his name in your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it—both arms, steady—and presses his lips to your temple like it matters, which it does, which everything does with him.
When you finally shift, rising over him, his eyes stay on yours. His hands settle warm on your hips, steadying but not directing—letting you set the pace, the depth, the whole thing, because that’s always been how he is with you. He gives you the wheel.
You take him in slowly. He exhales long and low, jaw tight, hands gripping your hips hard enough to feel it, and you understand in that moment that he’s been holding back too. That there has been patience on both sides of this for months, accumulating. "You okay?" he asks, voice rough.
"Perfect," you say, and mean it in every possible sense. You move together—unhurried, finding the rhythm, his cock filling you completely, his thumb finding your clit again as you roll your hips—and it’s nothing like you expected and exactly what it should be. He tips his head back and watches you with dark eyes and that unguarded expression he only ever gives you, the one that has no performance in it at all.
His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits, and you arch into the touch. He sits up, mouth finding your throat, and the change in angle makes you gasp. "There," you breathe. "Right there—"
"I’ve got you," he says against your skin, and he does. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him, and he rocks into you from below, steady and deep, and you hold on and let go at the same time. The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, and when it breaks you’re holding his face in your hands and looking right at him and he’s looking back with something in his expression that you have no word for but will spend a long time remembering.
He follows you, his whole body pulling you closer as he does, your name on his lips like a finish line he’s been driving toward this whole time.
Afterward you stay tangled together in the reclined seat. The city still glitters through the windshield. His heartbeat slows under your palm. Your head fits perfectly in the curve of his neck, like it was made for exactly that purpose, which you are starting to believe it was. "Seven months," you say quietly, into the warmth of his chest.
He presses his mouth to the top of your head. "Seven months," he agrees. "Every single one."
—
Monday arrives with exactly the fallout you expected. Jake Sim must have told someone, who told someone else, who told everyone, because by second period the entire school knows you're dating Park Sunghoon. The reactions vary:
Wonyoung: "FINALLY. I've been waiting for you to admit it. Also, he's hot. Well done." Your lab partner in Chemistry: "I didn't know you were into bad boys." Some random freshman: "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"
The worst is lunch. You're sitting with Wonyoung and your usual student council crowd when Sunghoon appears. "Can I sit?" he asks, looking directly at you, ignoring everyone else.
The table goes silent. This is unprecedented. Park Sunghoon doesn't sit with the honor students. The honor students don't sit with the kids who've failed English three times. But you're not most honor students. "Yeah," you say, scooting over to make room. "Sit."
He does. Drops his lunch tray next to yours like he belongs there, which apparently he does now. The student council people exchange glances. Wonyoung's grinning like Christmas came early. "So," Sunghoon says, stealing a fry from your tray. "What are we discussing? Student council stuff? World domination?"
"Both," Wonyoung says immediately, because she's never met an awkward silence she couldn't fill. "We're planning the winter formal. Theme, decorations, the whole thing."
"What's the theme?"
"Winter Wonderland. Very original, I know."
"You could do Winter Racing. Decorate with checkered flags and—" He stops, looking at your expression. "What?"
"That's actually not a terrible idea."
"Don't sound so surprised."
The conversation continues, and slowly, impossibly, your two worlds start to merge. Wonyoung asks Sunghoon about cars. He asks her about whatever Jake drama is currently happening (apparently there's always Jake drama). Your student council friends warm up when they realize he's funny and not actually scary. By the end of lunch, it almost feels normal.
Until you're walking to English and Principal Morrison stops you in the hall. "Can I see you in my office?" she asks. Not quite a question.
Your stomach sinks. "Now?"
"Now."
Sunghoon squeezes your hand once before you follow Morrison down the hall. Her office still smells like coffee, but there's no warmth in her smile today. "I've been hearing things," she says once the door closes. "About you and Mr. Park."
"We're dating." You say it firmly, even though your heart's racing. "Is that a problem?"
"That depends. Is this relationship interfering with your tutoring duties?"
"No. He's doing better than ever. You've seen his grades."
"I have. Which is why I'm concerned." She leans forward. "You're an exceptional student with a bright future. Stanford. Pre-law. You've worked very hard to get where you are."
"I'm aware."
"Park Sunghoon is a nice young man, but he's not on the same path you are. I'd hate to see you distracted. To see your focus shift away from your goals." The implication is clear: he's not good enough for you. He's going to drag you down.
"With respect, Mrs. Morrison, my personal life is my business." Your voice is steady even though you're shaking. "I'm maintaining my grades. I'm fulfilling my student council responsibilities. What I do outside of school isn't up for discussion."
"I'm just trying to look out for you—"
"I don't need looking out for. I need people to trust that I can make my own decisions." You stand. "Is there anything else?"
She sighs. "Just—be careful. That's all I'm saying."
"I will be. Thank you." You leave her office furious and shaking, and Sunghoon's waiting in the hall even though he's definitely supposed to be in class.
"What did she say?" he asks.
"That I'm making a mistake. That you're going to ruin my future." The words taste bitter.
His expression shuts down. "Maybe she's right."
"Don't." You grab his hand. "Don't do that. Don't let other people's opinions make you doubt this."
"I'm not good enough for you. Everyone thinks it. Hell, I think it sometimes."
"Good enough according to what? Their standards? Fuck their standards." The profanity feels good, rebellious. "You make me happy. That's what matters."
"Your parents are going to lose it when they find out."
"They'll find out when I'm ready to tell them." You kiss him quick, not caring who sees. "And when they do, I'm not changing my mind."
His smile is small but real. "You're kind of badass when you're angry."
"I'm learning from you."
"Nah. This was always in you. You just needed permission to let it out."
—
Thanksgiving arrives, and with it, the dreaded family dinner where your parents expect you to discuss your college applications and your perfectly planned future. Instead, you spend the morning texting Sunghoon while your mother prepares turkey. Sunghoon: What are you wearing?
You: Why, are you coming over to see me?
Sunghoon: No, but I'm thinking about you. Want to picture it accurately.
You: Sweater and jeans. Very exciting.
Sunghoon: Everything about you is exciting.
You: Smooth talker.
Sunghoon: I'm working on my English skills. My tutor's really good.
You: Your tutor thinks you're pretty great too.
Sunghoon: Just pretty great?
You: Fishing for compliments?
Sunghoon: Maybe. Is it working?
You: You're incredible. Happy now?
Sunghoon: Very. What time's dinner?
You: Six. Why?
Sunghoon: Because I'm picking you up at eight. There's a place I want to show you.
You: It's Thanksgiving. I can't just leave family dinner.
Sunghoon: Sure you can. Tell them you're going to Wonyoung's.
You: I use that excuse too much.
Sunghoon: Then tell them the truth. That you're seeing your boyfriend.
The word stops you. Boyfriend. He's never used it before. You've never defined what this is, too scared to put labels on something so new and fragile. You: Is that what you are? My boyfriend?
The little text bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Finally: Sunghoon: I want to be. If that's okay with you.
Your heart soars. You: It's more than okay. I'll see you at eight, boyfriend.
Sunghoon: See you at eight, girlfriend.
Dinner is exactly as expected—your dad asking about Stanford applications, your mom discussing scholarship opportunities, your older brother (home from MIT for the holiday) pontificating about the importance of networking. Around seven-thirty, you clear your throat. "I'm going out after dinner," you announce.
Your mother looks up from the pumpkin pie. "Out where?"
"To see someone."
"Wonyoung?"
"No. A friend. From school."
Your father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What friend?"
This is it. The moment of truth. You could lie, make up another excuse, keep hiding. Instead: "His name is Sunghoon. He's my boyfriend." The silence is deafening.
"Boyfriend?" your mother repeats faintly.
"Since when do you have a boyfriend?" your brother asks.
"Since October. We've been seeing each other for about two months."
Your father sets down his fork carefully. "Who is this boy? Do we know his family?"
"Park's Auto Repair. His dad owns it."
Recognition flashes across your father's face. "The Park boy? The one who's failed English multiple times?"
"He's passing now. Because I've been tutoring him."
"That's what this is about?" Your mother's expression clears with relief. "You're tutoring him. That's not dating, honey."
"It started as tutoring. It became dating. There's a difference."
"Absolutely not." Your father's voice is firm. "You are not dating that boy."
Your heart pounds, but you keep your voice steady. "I am. And I'm going to see him tonight."
"You are not leaving this house."
"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."
"We can take away your car. Your allowance. We can make this very difficult for you."
The threat hangs in the air. Your mother looks distressed, your brother shocked, your father furious. "Do what you need to do," you say quietly. "But I'm still going." You stand, grabbing your coat, and your father stands too.
"If you walk out that door to see that boy, there will be consequences."
"I understand."
"You're throwing away your future for someone who isn't worth it."
That snaps something in you. "He's worth more than you know. He's kind and smart and he works harder than anyone I've ever met. The only people who can't see that are people who judge based on grades and class and things that don't actually matter."
"Grades matter. Your education matters. Stanford matters."
"I know. And I'm still going to Stanford. I'm still maintaining my 4.0. I'm still doing everything I'm supposed to do." You pause at the door. "I'm just also choosing to be happy." You leave before they can respond.
The Mustang's idling at the end of your driveway, and when you climb in, Sunghoon takes one look at your face and knows. "You told them."
"I told them."
"And?"
"And my dad's pissed. My mom's horrified. My brother thinks I've lost my mind." You buckle your seatbelt. "But I did it. I chose you."
His expression does something complicated. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of living my life for other people's approval." You take his hand. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere special. You'll see."
He drives out of town, past the quarry, along back roads you've never seen. The radio plays soft—Fleetwood Mac, "Landslide"—and his hand stays linked with yours. After twenty minutes, he pulls onto a dirt road that leads to a field. In the distance, you can see Indianapolis's skyline glittering, all lights and possibility. "What is this place?" you ask.
"My spot. When everything gets too much—school, my dad, all of it—I come here." He parks, and you both get out. The November air is freezing, but he pulls a blanket from the trunk, spreading it on the hood of the Mustang. You climb up, and he settles behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. The city sparkles in the distance, close enough to see but far enough to feel like a different world.
"I've been coming here since I was fifteen," he says quietly. "Whenever I felt like I didn't fit anywhere, I'd drive out here and look at the city. Remind myself that there's more than just Millbrook. More than just people who think I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"I know that now. Because of you." He holds you tighter. "You changed everything for me. Not just teaching me to read—though that's huge. But making me believe I'm worth something. That I have value beyond fixing cars."
"You always had value. I just helped you see it."
"Same thing you did for me, you did for yourself." He turns you to face him. "Before us, you were so focused on being perfect that you forgot to be happy. Now look at you. Standing up to your parents. Choosing what you want instead of what you're supposed to want."
"I'm terrified."
"Good. Being terrified means it matters."
You kiss him as the city lights blur behind your closed eyes, and it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—scary and exhilarating and exactly where you're supposed to be. "I'm falling in love with you," you whisper against his mouth. The admission feels huge, terrifying.
He pulls back to look at you, his expression soft and open and completely vulnerable. "Good," he says. "Because I fell in love with you weeks ago. Just been waiting for you to catch up." You laugh, and cry, and kiss him again, and in the distance Indianapolis glitters like a promise that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
—
Your parents aren't speaking to you. Well, they're speaking—terse, polite conversations about dinner times and whether you need the car—but the warmth is gone. Your mother looks at you like you're a stranger. Your father's disappointment is a physical presence at every meal.
They took away your allowance but not your car (you need it for student council, and they're not quite willing to sabotage that). They've forbidden Sunghoon from coming to the house. They've made it clear that this relationship is temporary, a phase, something you'll grow out of when you come to your senses. You've made it equally clear that you disagree. The upside is: You're no longer sneaking around. The downside: Everything is harder now. But you have Sunghoon, and somehow that makes it bearable.
—
The first real snow falls on a Tuesday in mid-December. You and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner, working through a Lord of the Flies essay that's due Friday. He's gotten good at this—organizing his thoughts verbally, using voice-to-text for first drafts, then going back to clean up spelling and grammar. "So Piggy represents intelligence and reason," he says, "but nobody listens to him because he doesn't fit their idea of what a leader should be."
"Exactly. What does that say about society?"
"That we're idiots who value the wrong things?" He grins. "That sound about right?"
"Bit cynical, but not wrong." You're making notes for him to reference later. "What evidence supports that?"
He flips through the book—using his red overlay, reading more fluently than he did three months ago. It's not perfect. It's probably never going to be easy. But it's worlds better than where he started. "Here," he says, pointing to a passage. "Where they're voting for chief and everyone picks Ralph because he's good-looking and has the conch, even though Piggy's clearly smarter."
"Perfect. Use that quote, explain why it matters, connect it to real-world examples."
"Real-world examples like people thinking I'm dumb because I can't read?"
Your heart squeezes. "Yeah. Like that."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "You know what's weird? I used to hate English. Hated everything about it. But now—" He gestures at the books, the notes. "It's not so bad. Some of it's actually interesting."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, Golding's kind of depressing, but he's got a point. People do judge based on stupid shit. They make assumptions. And the conch thing—order versus chaos—that actually makes sense when you think about it."
You're grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "You're doing literary analysis. Voluntarily."
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I'm not shocked. I'm proud."
His smile is soft, genuine. "Thanks. For not giving up on me."
"Never." Sally brings your milkshakes—chocolate for him, strawberry for you, a routine she's memorized by now. The diner's nearly empty, just a couple of truckers at the counter and you two in your usual booth.
"How are things at home?" Sunghoon asks carefully.
"Tense. My mom keeps leaving college brochures on my desk like I've forgotten about Stanford. My dad barely looks at me." You stir your milkshake. "But I'm not backing down."
"I hate that I'm causing problems with your family."
"You're not. Their expectations are causing problems. I'm just finally standing up to them."
"Still." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "If you ever want to—if this gets too hard—"
"Don't." You squeeze his fingers. "I'm not giving up on us. Not for them. Not for anyone."
"Even if they cut you off? Refuse to pay for Stanford?"
The fear in his voice breaks your heart. "I'll figure it out. Loans, scholarships, whatever it takes."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"But I will. Because you're worth it." You mean every word. "Besides, I'm not doing this just for you. I'm doing it for me. For the first time in my life, I'm choosing what I want instead of what everyone else wants for me."
His expression softens. "What do you want?"
"You. Stanford. A future where I don't have to choose between love and ambition." You pause. "Is that too much to ask?"
"No. It's exactly right."
You work for another hour, then Sunghoon walks you to your car like always. The snow's still falling, turning the parking lot into a winter postcard. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you close. "You cold?" he asks.
"A little." He shrugs out of his jacket—that same leather jacket he always wears—and drapes it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like him, motor oil and cologne and something that's just Sunghoon. "You're going to freeze," you protest.
"I'll survive. Besides, you look good in my jacket." You do. You've seen yourself in mirrors, in car windows—his too-big jacket swallowing you up, making you look dangerous and claimed and exactly like someone who'd date Park Sunghoon.
You kiss him in the falling snow, and it's perfect. Movie-perfect. The kind of moment that would be cheesy if it wasn't so real. "I love you," he says against your mouth.
"I love you too."
"Even though I'm causing problems with your parents?"
"Especially because of that. You make me brave."
His smile is everything. "You were always brave. You just needed permission to show it."
—
The winter formal is the third Saturday of December, your mother assumes you're going with Wonyoung or solo. She's bought you a dress—beautiful, conservative, exactly the kind of thing the future Stanford student should wear. "I'm going with Sunghoon," you tell her Friday night at dinner.
She nearly drops her fork. "Excuse me?"
"To the winter formal. Sunghoon's my date."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going either way. You can't stop me."
Your father sets down his newspaper. "We can forbid you from going at all."
"Then I guess I'm forbidden." You stand, taking your plate to the sink. "But I'm still going. So you can either accept that I'm going with Sunghoon, or you can spend the evening knowing I'm there against your wishes. Your choice." You leave before they can respond, and you're shaking but proud. Standing up to them is getting easier, but it still takes everything you have.
Saturday arrives clear and cold. You get ready at Wonyoung's house—she's going with Jake (they're on-again this week), and she helps you with your hair and makeup. "You're really doing this," she says, watching you in the mirror. "Going with him. In front of everyone."
"Yeah."
"Your parents are going to lose it."
"They already have."
"And you're okay with that?"
You think about it—really think about it. About the future you'd planned, the one where you did everything right and made everyone proud. About the future you're building now, messier and scarier but entirely yours. "Yeah," you say finally. "I'm okay with it."
The dress your mother bought hangs in your closet at home. Instead, you're wearing something Wonyoung helped you find—still nice, still appropriate, but edgier. A dark red dress that your mother would call too much and you call perfect. Sunghoon picks you up at Wonyoung's at seven, and when he sees you, he stops mid-step. "Wow."
"Good wow or bad wow?"
"Incredible wow." He's wearing actual dress clothes—dark slacks, button-down, tie. He looks unfamiliar and handsome and still completely him. "You're beautiful."
"You're not so bad yourself."
He hands you flowers—simple roses from the grocery store, but the gesture makes your heart melt. "Ready?"
"Completely."
The dance is in the school gym, transformed with the Winter Racing theme that won the student council vote (Sunghoon's idea, your influence). Checkered flags, silver and white decorations, lights that make everything sparkle. When you walk in together, conversations stop. People stare. This is unexpected—the valedictorian and the kid who failed English, together at the most visible school event of the year. But Sunghoon's hand is firm in yours, and you're done hiding. "Want to dance?" he asks.
"I should warn you—I'm terrible at it."
"Then we'll be terrible together."
He leads you to the dance floor just as a slow song starts. His hands settle on your waist, yours on his shoulders, and you sway to music that's probably supposed to have actual dance steps but you're both improvising. "People are staring," you murmur.
"Let them."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"Used to. But then I figured out that people's opinions don't change who I am. I'm still the guy who rebuilt a Mustang from scrap. Still the guy who's finally passing English. Still the guy who's somehow dating the smartest, most beautiful girl in school." He pulls you closer. "Their opinions don't matter."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I have a really good tutor." You laugh, and the tension breaks. The next song is faster, and Wonyoung drags you both into a group dance with her and Jake and some other student council people. Sunghoon's terrible at dancing but enthusiastic, and watching him attempt choreography he's clearly making up is the highlight of your night.
Around nine, you slip outside for air. The December night is freezing, and you're shivering in your dress when Sunghoon's jacket settles around your shoulders. "You need to stop giving me your jacket," you say. "You're going to get hypothermia."
"Worth it." He stands behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "You having fun?"
"The most fun. You?"
"Better than I expected. Though I still think the refreshments are weak. Diner milkshakes are better."
"Obviously."
You stand there in comfortable silence, watching your breath fog in the cold air, and you think about how much has changed since September. How you've changed. "What are you thinking?" Sunghoon asks.
"That I'm happy. Really, genuinely happy. And that scares me."
"Why?"
"Because happiness like this doesn't last. Because we're graduating in June and you're staying here and I'm going to California and—" Your throat tightens. "Because I don't know how to keep this when everything's pulling us apart."
His arms tighten around you. "We'll figure it out."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we will." He turns you to face him. "I love you. That's not going to change just because you're three thousand miles away."
"Long distance is hard."
"So? Lots of things are hard. Reading's hard. Racing's hard. Standing up to your parents is hard. But we do them anyway because they matter." He cups your face. "You matter. We matter. And I'm not giving up on us just because it's going to be difficult."
You kiss him, tasting determination and promise and the future you're both trying to hold onto. "Seven months," you say. "We have seven more months before Stanford."
"Then let's make them count."
The rest of December passes in a blur of finals and family tension and stolen time with Sunghoon. You ace your finals (because some things don't change). He passes English with a B-minus (because some things do). Christmas is awkward. Your parents got you practical gifts—a new laptop for college, organizational systems, things that say we're investing in your future whether or not we approve of your present.
You spend Christmas night at the quarry with Sunghoon and his friends, sitting around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps that Ryujin brought. "To surviving senior year," Jay toasts, raising his mug.
"To graduation," Niki adds.
"To getting the hell out of Millbrook," Ryujin says.
"To the people who make staying worthwhile," Sunghoon says, looking directly at you.
Everyone drinks, and you lean into Sunghoon's side, warm despite the December cold, surrounded by people who've become your friends as much as his. This is what family should feel like, you think. Not obligation and expectation, but choice and acceptance and love. "What are you thinking?" Wonyoung asks. She's on Jake's lap (they're very on-again), but her eyes are on you.
"That I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
"Even though it's complicated?"
"Especially because it's complicated."
She smiles. "Good answer."
Later, Sunghoon drives you home, but instead of dropping you off, he parks down the street. "I got you something," he says, pulling a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket. "For Christmas."
"Sunghoon, we said no gifts—"
"I know. But I saw this and thought of you." You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a keychain—simple silver, with a tiny Mustang charm attached. "It's from my car," he explains. "Well, a replica. Because wherever you go, whatever happens, you'll have a piece of us. A piece of this."
Your eyes are burning. "It's perfect."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You lean across the console to kiss him. "I love it. I love you."
"I love you too."
You sit there in his Mustang, engine off, snow falling outside, and you make promises you hope you can keep. That distance won't change things. That you'll make it work. That love is enough. You want to believe it. You have to believe it. Because the alternative—losing him—is unthinkable.
—
January through March pass faster than you want them to. Stanford acceptance letter arrives in early March—thick envelope, congratulations, everything you've worked for. Your parents are ecstatic. They throw you a celebration dinner, invite relatives, act like your relationship with Sunghoon is a phase that's ending now that you've gotten into your dream school. You don't correct them. You just smile and accept congratulations and hold the letter that represents your future while thinking about the boy who represents your present.
Sunghoon's proud when you tell him. Genuinely, completely proud. "Stanford," he says, kissing you in the diner parking lot. "That's huge."
"It doesn't feel huge. It feels like goodbye."
"It's not goodbye. It's—" He pauses, searching for words. "It's see you later."
"That's optimistic."
"I'm learning optimism from you."
Spring arrives with brutal honesty about the future. Graduation is June seventh. You leave for Stanford's summer orientation June twentieth. That gives you less than two weeks after graduation before everything changes. The quarry races continue through April, and you've gotten good. Not as good as Sunghoon or Ryujin, but good enough to win against Niki (who's actually trying now) and to place second against Jay (who's still reckless but respects your skill). "You should race for real," Ryujin says one Saturday night in mid-April. "There's a circuit in Indianapolis. Real tracks, real prizes. You could do it."
"I'm going to California in June."
"But you're here now."
You look at Sunghoon, who's watching you with that expression that means he's proud and scared and trying not to show either. "One race," you say. "Before I leave. A real one."
His smile is beautiful and sad. "Yeah. One real race."
You tell your parents you're staying after school for a student council project on the last Friday of April. Instead, you drive to Indianapolis with Sunghoon, Ryujin following in her Corvette, to register for your first real race. The track is terrifying and exhilarating. Professional. Dangerous. Everything the quarry isn't. "You don't have to do this," Sunghoon says as you're filling out forms.
"I want to."
"Why?"
"Because I've spent my whole life playing it safe. Doing the smart thing. The responsible thing." You sign your name with a flourish. "I want one irresponsible thing to remember. One time I did something just because it scared me."
"Racing scares you?"
"Terrifies me. That's why I have to do it."
The race is scheduled for the second Saturday in May. That gives you two weeks to practice, to prepare, to possibly come to your senses (you don't). You practice at the quarry every Saturday, and Sunghoon teaches you things he's learned from years of racing. How to take curves at speed. When to brake and when to accelerate. How to listen to the engine, to feel when the car's about to lose traction. "You're good at this," he says after a particularly clean run. "Natural."
"I have a good teacher."
"Best teacher you ever had?" He's grinning, cocky.
"Most humble, definitely."
The night before the race, you can't sleep. Sunghoon calls at midnight. "You nervous?" he asks.
"Terrified."
"Good. Use that. Fear keeps you sharp."
"What if I crash?"
"You won't."
"But if I do?"
"Then I'll be there to pull you out and tell you you're an idiot for racing in the first place." His voice softens. "But you won't crash. You're too good for that."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because I've watched you do impossible things. Ace AP classes. Stand up to your parents. Take a kid who couldn't read and teach him to love literature. Racing is just one more impossible thing you're going to conquer." You fall asleep with your phone pressed to your ear, his breathing steady on the other end, feeling brave and terrified and ready.
Race day arrives sunny and perfect. The track in Indianapolis is packed—real racers, real crowds, real stakes. You're racing in the amateur division, but that doesn't make it less intimidating. Your parents think you're at a college prep seminar. Wonyoung knows the truth and made you promise to be careful. Sunghoon's in the pit area, having helped prep the Mustang (you're borrowing his car for this, because yours is sensible and slow and entirely wrong for racing). "You ready?" he asks, checking the tire pressure for the third time.
"Ask me after."
"You're going to be great."
"You're biased."
"Completely. Doesn't make it less true."
Ryujin appears, already in her racing suit. "You're up in fifteen. Stop overthinking it."
"I'm not overthinking—"
"You're absolutely overthinking. It's what you do." She grins. "Just drive like you do at the quarry. Pretend you're trying to beat Niki's sorry ass."
"I heard that!" Niki calls from somewhere nearby.
The fifteen minutes pass too fast. Suddenly you're in the Mustang, helmet on, strapped in tight. The engine's roar is familiar now, comforting. You can do this. The flag drops. You're off, and for the first few seconds you can't think, can barely breathe. Then muscle memory kicks in. Sunghoon's lessons, hours of practice, raw instinct.
The track blurs. You're not first—not even close—but you're not last either. Sixth out of twelve. Holding your own. Lap two: you pass someone. Fifth place. Lap three: someone passes you. Back to sixth. Lap four (final lap): You see an opening. A gap between two cars. It's risky. Probably stupid. You take it.
The Mustang responds perfectly, threading the needle, and suddenly you're fourth. The finish line approaches and you're laughing inside the helmet because you're doing it, you're actually doing it— You cross the line in fourth place. Not first. Not even podium. But fourth out of twelve in your first real race, and when you pull into the pit area, Sunghoon's there pulling you out of the car and spinning you around and kissing you right there in front of everyone. "Fourth place!" he's saying. "In your first fucking race!"
"I can't believe I did that."
"I can. I knew you would." He's grinning so wide it must hurt. "You were amazing."
Ryujin finished second (because of course she did), and she's laughing at both of you. "Not bad for a brainiac. You've got real potential."
"Thanks."
"You racing again?"
The question makes your stomach drop. Because the answer is no. You're leaving in five weeks. This was it. Your one race. Your one irresponsible thing. "Probably not," you say quietly.
Ryujin's expression shifts to understanding. "Right. Stanford." She squeezes your shoulder. "Then I'm glad you got to do this one. Fourth place is nothing to sneeze at."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a celebration. Jay brings beer (illegal but who cares), and you all sit in the parking lot reliving the race, analyzing turns, celebrating small victories. This is freedom, you think. This is what it feels like to do something just because you want to, not because it's part of a plan or looks good on applications or makes anyone proud. This is what it feels like to be young and reckless and alive.
Later, Sunghoon drives you back to Millbrook, and you're quiet, processing. "You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how in five weeks this is over. This—" You gesture between you. "—is over."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It doesn't have to be over."
"How? You're here. I'm going to be three thousand miles away."
"We'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. We'll make it work."
"Do you really believe that?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "I want to. I'm trying to."
"But?"
"But I'm scared." The admission costs him. "I'm scared that you'll get to California and realize there's a whole world of guys who aren't broken. Who can read without colored filters. Who graduated on time and don't work at their dad's garage."
"Sunghoon—"
"I'm scared you'll forget about the small-town kid who fell in love with you over milkshakes and car engines."
You reach across the console, taking his hand. "I could never forget you. You changed my life."
"For now. But in a year? Two years?"
"Forever," you say firmly. "You changed me forever."
He pulls over at your usual spot—the overlook of Indianapolis, the city glittering in the distance. Turns to face you fully. "I love you," he says. "I'm always going to love you. But I also love you too much to make you choose between me and your dreams."
"What does that mean?"
"It means—" He swallows hard. "It means when you leave for Stanford, I'm not going to hold you back. I'm not going to guilt you or make you feel bad for living your life. I want you to experience everything. To be free."
"I don't want to be free. I want to be with you."
"You can't have both. Not really. Not with three thousand miles between us."
Tears are streaming down your face now. "So what, we just break up? Pretend this never happened?"
"No. We love each other for the next five weeks. We make every moment count. And then—" His voice cracks. "And then we let each other go."
"I don't want to let you go."
"I don't want to let you go either. But we have to."
You climb into his lap in the front seat of the Mustang, kissing him desperately, trying to memorize everything—the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he holds you like you're precious and breakable and strong all at once. "Five weeks," you whisper against his mouth.
"Five weeks," he agrees. "Let's make them perfect."
He drives. Not back to town—not yet. He takes the back roads out past the quarry, past the field where you used to watch Indianapolis glow, until he finds a stretch of empty road where the stars are visible and the nearest person is miles away. Then he parks. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The Mustang idles and then goes quiet and the May night presses warm against the windows. "Come here," he says softly.
You go. You cross the console and fit yourself against him and he holds you so tight it almost hurts, his face buried in your hair, both of you breathing like you’ve been running. This time it isn’t urgent the way the first time was—that first night at the overlook, the months of held breath finally released. This time it’s slower and sadder and more deliberate, the way you do something when you know you’re doing it for the last time in a long time.
He undresses you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s filing it away somewhere safe. Every piece of clothing that comes off, his hands follow—mapping your shoulders, your waist, the curve of your spine—and you do the same for him, learning by touch what you already know by heart. His chest, the line of his collarbone, the old scar on his ribs from a car part that slipped when he was sixteen. "I love you," you say, against his shoulder. Not for the first time. But with a weight to it you haven’t used before.
"I love you," he says back, and pulls you closer. He lays you back in the reclined seat and takes his time. His mouth traces down your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast—lips finding your nipples, soft at first and then less so, until your fingers are in his hair and you’re arching up toward him. He smiles against your skin and keeps going.
His hand slides down your stomach, fingers stroking through your folds with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing now, who has paid close attention every time before this. He finds your clit and works it slow and steady until your hips are rocking against his hand and you’re whispering his name at the dark of the car ceiling. "Sunghoon—"
"I know," he says. "I’ve got you. I always have you." He pushes two fingers into your pussy and curls them, thumb still on your clit, and you come apart quietly—the way you do now, the way you’ve learned to, teeth pressed into your lower lip, breathless and shaking and his. He holds you through it, watching your face like he’s trying to memorize that too.
Then he settles between your thighs and presses into you slowly—taking his time even now, or maybe especially now—and you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer and closer until there’s no space between you at all. He moves like the night is long and he intends to use all of it. Deep and unhurried, his cock filling you completely with every thrust, his forehead resting against yours so you’re breathing the same air, his eyes open and on yours the whole time. It’s almost too much—the eye contact, the closeness, the specific weight of knowing what this is. You don’t look away. Neither does he.
He shifts his angle and you gasp and his jaw goes tight and he keeps it there—that exact angle, the head of his cock dragging against the right place every time—until the tension winds up tight and sharp and breaks in a long wave that makes you clutch his shoulders and hold on. He follows you—"I love you," he says, rough and honest and helpless, right at the end—and stays there, arms around you, both of you catching your breath while the Indiana night hums outside.
You stay tangled together for a long time. Long enough that the windows fog. Long enough that somewhere in the dark a car passes on the far road and its headlights sweep briefly across yours and neither of you moves. "Don’t let go yet," you say quietly.
His arms tighten. "Not yet," he says. "Not yet."
—
The last five weeks of senior year pass in a blur of lasts. Last student council meeting. Last AP exam. Last time sitting in your assigned seat in English class. Last ordinary Tuesday at Miller's Diner. You and Sunghoon make a pact: No talking about Stanford. No discussing the future. Just now. Just these five weeks. It's denial and it's beautiful and it's breaking both your hearts.
Prom happens the third weekend of May. You go together—officially, publicly, to hell with anyone who has opinions. Your parents don't speak to you for three days after, but you don't care because you have pictures of you and Sunghoon in formal wear, his arms around your waist, both of you smiling like nothing bad is coming.
Senior Week is a blur of parties and celebrations. The quarry fills up every night with graduates celebrating freedom and dreading change. You race twice more—not officially, just for fun—and win once against Jay (he claims the track was slippery).
Wonyoung throws a party at her house the Saturday before graduation. Her parents are gone for the weekend (conveniently), and half the senior class shows up. "I can't believe this is almost over," she says, slightly drunk on the punch that someone definitely spiked. "We're leaving. All of us. Going to different colleges, different states. Everything's changing."
"Not everything. We'll still be friends."
"Promise?"
"Promise." But even as you say it, you wonder if it's true. If friendships survive distance and change and growing up. If anything survives that.
The Tuesday before graduation, you and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner for the last time. You both know it without saying it—after graduation, this routine ends. Sally brings your milkshakes without asking. "Last week of school?"
"Last week of everything," Sunghoon says.
She pats his shoulder sympathetically. "You kids going to be okay?"
"We're going to try to be."
When she's gone, you're both quiet. There's no homework to do. No tutoring needed. Sunghoon passed English with a B. He's graduating. Everything you worked for together is complete. "I've been thinking," he says finally. "About us. About what happens after."
"You said no future talk."
"I know. But we need to talk about it. We can't just pretend—"
"I know." You take a shaky breath. "What have you been thinking?"
"That I love you. That I'm always going to love you. But that trying to hold onto something when we're both moving in different directions is just going to hurt more in the end."
The tears are already falling. "So what are you saying?"
"That I think we should make a clean break. After graduation. You go to Stanford, I stay here, and we don't drag it out with phone calls and promises we can't keep."
"I could keep them. I would keep them."
"For how long? A semester? A year? Eventually you'd meet someone there. Someone smart and ambitious who's going places. Someone who fits your future better than a mechanic from Millbrook."
"Don't do that. Don't diminish yourself."
"I'm being realistic. You deserve someone who can give you everything. I can only give you parts and pieces and long-distance phone calls."
You're crying harder now. "You give me everything that matters. You make me happy. Isn't that enough?"
"Not when it means holding you back."
"You're not—"
"I am. Your parents are right about that." He reaches across the table, taking both your hands. "You're meant for amazing things. And I'm so proud to have been part of your journey. But I can't be the thing that keeps you from flying."
"I don't want to fly without you."
"You don't have a choice. We both know this was always temporary. We just pretended it wasn't."
You're sobbing now, and Sally's watching from behind the counter with sad eyes, and Sunghoon's crying too even though he's trying to hide it. "I don't want this to end," you manage.
"Neither do I. But it has to." He stands, pulling you up with him, holding you while you both fall apart. "But we still have four more days. Let's not waste them being sad."
—
Graduation Day arrives. You're wearing your honor cords, valedictorian medal, all the symbols of everything you've achieved. Sunghoon's in his cap and gown next to you in the alphabetical lineup, grinning like a kid because he's actually here, actually graduating. "We did it," he says.
"You did it. This was all you."
"Couldn't have done it without you."
The ceremony is long. Principal Morrison gives a speech about futures and potential. You give your valedictorian speech about change and growth and becoming who you're meant to be. (You wrote it thinking about Sunghoon. Everyone assumes it's about college.) When they call his name—"Park Sunghoon"—the cheering is loud. His dad is in the stands, looking proud and slightly shocked. His sister's jumping up and down. You're clapping so hard your hands hurt.
He walks across the stage, accepts his diploma, and when he looks out at the audience, he finds you. Smiles. Mouths "we did it." You mouth back "you did it."
After the ceremony, there are pictures and celebrations. Your parents are polite to Sunghoon when he appears in family photos, but the frost is still there. His dad shakes your hand, thanks you for helping his son, doesn't quite meet your eyes. "Party at the quarry tonight," Jay announces to everyone. "Everyone's invited. Last blowout before we all scatter." You and Sunghoon exchange glances. Tonight. This is it.
The quarry is packed for graduation night. Someone's brought a whole sound system. The bonfire's huge. There's alcohol and celebration and the particular bittersweet feeling of knowing everything's about to change. You stay close to Sunghoon all night. Dancing when the music's good, sitting on the hood of the Mustang when you need quiet, kissing like you're trying to memorize the taste of him.
Around midnight, he pulls you away from the crowd. "Come with me. I want to show you something." He drives out to the overlook—your spot, where Indianapolis glitters in the distance. Parks the Mustang and leads you to sit on the hood, arms around you, both of you looking at the city. "I'm going to miss this," he says quietly. "Every part of this."
"Me too."
"You changed my life, you know. Before you, I thought I was stupid. Broken. Going nowhere. But you saw something in me that nobody else did. You made me believe I could be more."
"You were always more. I just helped you see it."
"Same thing." He turns you to face him. "I'm going to let you go tomorrow. It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. But I need you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. That these eight months were the happiest I've ever been." You're crying again, and he wipes your tears with his thumbs. "I need you to promise me something," he continues. "Promise me you'll go to Stanford and be brilliant. Promise me you'll chase every dream. Promise me you won't look back and regret this. Regret us."
"I could never regret us."
"Promise me anyway."
"I promise." Your voice is shaking. "But only if you promise me something too."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll be happy. That you won't let anyone make you feel small again. That you'll remember you're brilliant and talented and worthy of everything good."
"I promise." You kiss him one last time at the overlook, the city glittering behind you, and it's desperate and perfect and goodbye.
The next morning, you're packing for Stanford. Your room is full of boxes, your whole life sorted into keep and leave behind. There's a knock on your door. Your mom. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
She sits on your bed, looking at all the boxes. "I've been thinking. About you and that Park boy."
Your stomach drops. "Mom—"
"Let me finish." She takes a breath. "I don't approve. I want to be clear about that. I think he's a distraction. I think he represents everything you're supposed to be moving away from."
"Thanks for the honesty," you say bitterly.
"But." She looks at you, really looks. "I've also watched you this year. You've been happier. More confident. More yourself than I've seen in a long time. And I can't ignore that he's part of that." You don't know what to say. "I'm not saying I approve. I'm not saying I think this will last. But I am saying—" She pauses. "I'm saying I see that he matters to you. And that you matter to him. And that's worth something."
"We broke up," you say quietly. "Yesterday. Decided it was better to end it than try to make long distance work."
Her expression softens into something that might be sympathy. "I'm sorry."
"Are you really?"
"I'm sorry you're hurting. Even if I think it's for the best." She leaves, and you sit among your boxes, holding the keychain Sunghoon gave you for Christmas, crying for everything you're losing.
—
You leave for Stanford orientation on June twentieth. Your parents drive you to the airport, help you check your bags, hug you goodbye. "We're proud of you," your dad says. "So proud."
"Make the most of this opportunity," your mom adds. "Don't waste it." You nod, unable to speak around the lump in your throat.
The flight to California is long. You press your forehead against the window and watch Indiana disappear beneath you. Somewhere down there is Millbrook. Miller's Diner. The quarry. A black Mustang and a boy who taught you to fly. You pull out your phone, scrolling to his contact. He hasn't called or texted since graduation night. Clean break, like he said.
Your finger hovers over his name. One call. One message. Just to hear his voice. You don't do it. You're strong enough to keep the promise you made. Instead, you clutch the Mustang keychain and cry quietly into your complimentary ginger ale while the flight attendant pretends not to notice.
Stanford is beautiful. Your dorm is nice. Your roommate is friendly. Orientation is overwhelming and exciting and everything you hoped for. But at night, alone in your new bed in your new life, you dream about engines and milkshakes and a boy who made you brave enough to claim your future. You just wish that future could have included him.
—
FOUR YEARS LATER
Stanford Law School graduation is held outdoors in perfect California sunshine. You're wearing your JD regalia, cum laude honors cord, everything you worked for. Your parents are in the stands, beaming. Your brother flew in from Boston where he's doing his medical residency. Wonyoung's here too—she's at UCLA, came up for the weekend to celebrate.
The ceremony is long. When they finally call your name, the cheering is loud, and you walk across the stage thinking about all the paths that led you here. Four years of undergraduate. Three years of law school. Summers clerking at firms in San Francisco, making connections, building a future. You have a job lined up at a prestigious firm. You have your whole career ahead of you.
You did everything you planned. Everything you were supposed to do. And you're proud. You are. But sometimes, late at night, you still dream about a diner in Indiana and a boy who taught you that plans aren't everything.
You haven't spoken to Sunghoon since the day you left. Kept your promise to make a clean break. Forced yourself not to check his social media (you blocked it all the first week at Stanford because you knew you'd be too tempted).
Wonyoung updates you occasionally. Sunghoon's still in Millbrook, working at his dad's garage. Took it over last year when his dad had a heart attack. Business is good. He's doing well. She never mentions if he's seeing anyone. You never ask.
After graduation, there's a reception. Food, drinks, celebration. You're talking to a professor about your upcoming job when your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. Unknown: Congratulations, Dr. soon-to-be lawyer. I always knew you'd do amazing things.
Your heart stops. You know that phrasing. That voice. You step away from the reception, hands shaking as you reply. You: Sunghoon?
Unknown: Yeah. It's me. Sorry for texting out of the blue. I just—I saw Wonyoung's Instagram. You graduating. I wanted to say I'm proud of you.
You: How did you get my number?
Unknown: Wonyoung. Made her promise not to tell you I asked for it. Didn't want to pressure you.
You: It's been four years.
Unknown: I know. Too long. Not long enough. Both.
Your heart is racing. You look around at your graduation party, at your future unfolding exactly as planned, and you make a decision. You: Are you in California?
Unknown: Flew in this morning. I'm actually in Palo Alto. At a coffee shop near campus. I understand if you don't want to see me. I just thought—hoped—maybe you'd want to grab coffee. Catch up.
This is crazy. You have a reception to get back to. People waiting. A whole celebration planned. You: Where?
He sends you an address. It's ten minutes from where you're standing. "I need to go," you tell Wonyoung, grabbing your purse.
"Go where? We're celebrating you—" She sees your expression. "Oh my god. He's here, isn't he?"
"How did you know?"
"Because you only look like that when it's about him." She grins. "Go. I'll cover for you with your parents."
"You knew he was coming?"
"He asked for your number last week. Told me he wanted to congratulate you. I didn't think he'd actually show up." She pushes you toward the exit. "Go. Find out what four years has done to you both."
The coffee shop is small and crowded with students. You spot him immediately, sitting at a corner table, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that's so different from the leather jacket and ripped jeans you remember but somehow still completely him. He sees you and stands. Older. Broader. Still beautiful. "Hi," he says.
"Hi." For a moment you just stare at each other, and then he's crossing the distance and pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. "You're here," you say into his shoulder. "You're really here."
"I'm here." He pulls back to look at you. "You look amazing. Different. More—I don't know. More yourself."
"You look good too. Really good."
You sit, and for a minute it's awkward. Four years is a long time. You're not the same people who said goodbye in Indiana. "So," he starts. "Law school. That's huge."
"Thanks. What about you? Wonyoung said you took over the garage?"
"Yeah. Dad's heart couldn't take the long hours anymore. So now it's Park & Son Auto Repair." He smiles, proud. "We're doing well. Expanded last year. Hired three new mechanics."
"That's amazing."
"Not as amazing as law school."
"Different amazing."
The conversation flows easier after that. You tell him about Stanford, about your classes, about the firm job you're starting in San Francisco in August. He tells you about the garage, about his sister (she's at Purdue studying veterinary science), about life in Millbrook (some things change, most things don't). "I've been following you," he admits after an hour. "Not in a creepy way. But Wonyoung posts about you sometimes. I couldn't help checking."
"I blocked your social media that first week at Stanford."
"I know. I noticed."
"I had to. If I didn't, I would have looked every day. Tortured myself with missing you."
"Did you? Miss me?"
You look at him—really look. At the boy who taught you to be brave. Who believed in you before you believed in yourself. Who let you go because he loved you too much to hold you back. "Every single day," you admit. "For four years. Every day."
His expression does something complicated. "Me too."
"Then why didn't you call? Text? Anything?"
"Because I made you a promise. To let you go. To let you have your future without me pulling you back."
"That was a stupid promise."
"Maybe. Or maybe it was what we both needed." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "You did it. Everything you set out to do. Would you have done that if I'd been calling every week? Visiting every break? Being a constant reminder of Millbrook?"
"I don't know," you admit.
"I do. You needed to be free to become who you were meant to be. And look at you." His smile is soft, proud. "You're brilliant. You're successful. You're everything I knew you would be."
"I'm also alone." The admission hurts. "I dated. Nothing stuck. Nobody was—"
"Was me?"
"Was you."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm still in Millbrook. Still working at a garage. Still the guy who can barely read without colored overlays."
"I don't care about any of that."
"You should. You're about to start your career in San Francisco. You're going to be surrounded by successful people. People who—"
"Are you seriously still doing this? Four years later, you're still telling me I'm too good for you?"
"I'm being realistic."
"You're being scared." You squeeze his hand. "I'm scared too. I don't know how we'd make this work. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. But—" You pause, heart racing. "But I've spent four years doing the practical thing. The smart thing. The thing everyone expected. And I've been successful and professional and completely miserable."
"You're not—"
"I am. Because I've been trying to fill a hole that's shaped like you." Tears are streaming down your face now. "I love my career. I love what I do. But I don't love doing it alone. I don't love going home every night to an empty apartment. I don't love dating men who check all the boxes except the one that matters."
"What box is that?"
"Making me happy. Making me feel alive. Making me feel like myself." You're full-on crying now. "You did that. Four years ago, in a town I couldn't wait to leave, you made me happier than I've been before or since."
He's crying too. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't want practical. I want you."
"I'm in Millbrook. You're starting a job in San Francisco."
"Then we'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. I'll fly home every few months. You can come to California. We'll make it work."
"That's what we said four years ago."
"No. Four years ago you decided we couldn't make it work. You didn't even give us a chance." You stand, pulling him up with you. "I'm not asking for perfect. I'm not asking for easy. I'm asking for a chance to try."
He studies your face, searching for certainty. Whatever he sees must convince him because suddenly he's kissing you, right there in the coffee shop, and it's desperate and perfect and tastes like four years of missing him. When you break apart, you're both laughing and crying. "I can't believe you flew three thousand miles to see me graduate," you say.
"I've been wanting to for four years. Today I finally worked up the courage."
"I'm glad you did."
"Me too." He kisses you again, softer. "So what now?"
"Now we try. For real this time. No clean breaks. No letting each other go."
"Long distance is hard."
"So? Lots of things are hard. We do them anyway because they matter." You smile, using his words from four years ago. "You matter. We matter."
"I love you," he says. "Never stopped."
"I love you too. Let's not waste any more time pretending we don't."
—
SIX MONTHS LATER
You're back in Millbrook for Christmas break, sitting in Miller's Diner in your old booth. Sally brings milkshakes without asking—chocolate for Sunghoon, strawberry for you. "Some things never change," she says, grinning.
"Best things don't," Sunghoon replies.
The past six months have been hard. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. Your work hours are brutal. His garage has been expanding and demanding more time. But you've made it work. FaceTime calls every night. Visits once a month (you fly to Indiana or he flies to California, alternating). Texts throughout the day, sharing the small moments. It's not perfect. It's often frustrating. But it's worth it. "I've been thinking," Sunghoon says, playing with your fingers across the table.
"About?"
"About the future. Our future."
Your heart skips. "Okay."
"The garage is doing well. Really well. Well enough that I could hire a manager. Take a step back from the day-to-day."
"What would you do instead?"
"Move to California. Be with you."
You nearly drop your milkshake. "What?"
"I've been talking to some shops in San Francisco. There's actually a demand for mechanics who specialize in classic car restoration. I could start my own business. Build it up." He pauses. "But only if you want that. I don't want to pressure you. I know your career is important. I know you need space and independence and—"
You kiss him to shut him up. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I want you to move to California. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."
His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm done with long distance. I want you there when I come home from work. I want weekends together. I want normal."
"Normal is overrated."
"Normal with you isn't."
He pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, and your breath stops. "I was going to wait until Christmas," he says. "Make it romantic. But I can't wait any longer." He opens the box. Inside is a ring—simple, beautiful, with a tiny diamond that catches the diner's lights.
"Four years ago, I let you go because I thought it was the right thing. Turns out, letting you go was the stupidest thing I ever did." He takes your hand. "I don't want to let you go again. Ever. So—will you marry me? Put up with late-night phone calls about carburetor problems? Let me mess up your very organized closet with my disorganized life? Build a future together that's messy and complicated and completely ours?"
You're crying and laughing and nodding all at once. "Yes. Yes, absolutely yes." He slides the ring onto your finger, and it fits perfectly. Like it was always meant to be there.
Sally's watching from behind the counter, grinning. "About damn time," she calls over.
Sunghoon laughs, pulling you around the table to sit in his lap. "We did it backwards. Fell in love, broke up, spent four years apart, and now we're getting engaged."
"Who says there's a right way to do this?"
"Fair point." He kisses you softly. "I love you. Have since that first day in the library when you called me brilliant."
"I love you too. Have since you looked at me like I could save you."
"You did save me. In every way that matters."
You sit in Miller's Diner, in the booth that's been yours for years, with a ring on your finger and a future stretching out ahead of you. It's not the future you planned when you were eighteen and valedictorian and sure you had everything figured out. It's better.
Because plans are just maps, and the best destinations are the ones you find by taking the scenic route. The ones that surprise you. The ones that feel like coming home.
And Sunghoon—dyslexic, street-racing, brilliant Sunghoon—feels exactly like coming home. "What are you thinking?" he asks, reading your expression like he's always been able to.
"That I'm glad I took the assignment. That day in Principal Morrison's office."
"Best assignment you ever got?"
"Best decision I ever made was showing up to tutor you. Second best was getting in this Mustang with you that first Saturday night."
"Third best?"
"Loving you. Choosing you. Over and over, every single time."
His kiss tastes like chocolate milkshake and promise and forever. "Let's get out of here," he says. "I want to take you to the overlook. Show you how Indianapolis looks on a winter night."
"Haven't we been there a thousand times?"
"Yeah, but never as fiancés." He grins. "Every view's better when you know you're keeping it forever."
You leave Miller's Diner hand in hand, and Sally calls out "Congratulations!" as the door swings shut behind you. The Mustang's parked outside, still beautiful, still loud, still the car he built from nothing with patience and skill and determination. Kind of like what you built together. "Ready?" he asks, opening the passenger door for you.
You slide in, the leather seat familiar and perfect. He climbs in the driver's side, starts the engine, and it roars to life. "Ready," you say. And you are. Ready for California. Ready for the future. Ready for whatever comes next, as long as it's with him.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and the Mustang's taillights disappear into the Indiana night, carrying two people who fell in love over milkshakes and literature and the radical act of seeing each other clearly.
Some stories end with goodbye. This one starts with it—and becomes something better.
the one where you visit your best friend jungkook on tour in vegas, finally give in to three years of wanting, and learn the hard way that what happens in vegas definitely does not stay in vegas.
pairing: idol!jungkook x fem!reader
genre: friends to lovers au, porn with plot, angst, smut (mdni!)
word count: 10,145
warnings/tags: 18+, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, best friends to lovers, pining for three years, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), ball sucking, nipple play, clit stimulation, fingering, grinding and dry humping, cum play (he eats his own cum from her, spits it in her mouth), hair pulling, hickies/marking, fingering, missionary, cowgirl, doggy style, jungkook and reader get into a fight, vegas hotel aesthetic, backstage access, the morning after, viral vlog gone wrong, reader is from los angeles, reader is nicknamed la and sunshine
a/n: hi everyone! I'm so excited to have finished this story, I've been working on it for a while trying to make it perfect!!! I had so much fun writing it ++ any vegas jungkook look always ends up being my favorite so I had to write something for it. vegas air x jungkook is definitely a dangerous combo!!! anyway, I hope you guys like my fic. I'm thinking of opening a taglist?? comment if you want to be tagged for any of my future works. tysm for reading... don't forget to reblog ⋆. 𐙚 ˚<3
The flight from LAX to LAS takes just over an hour, but you have been awake since four in the morning, watching the dark ceiling of your apartment, listening to the distant hum of the freeway. You told yourself you weren't going to do this. You told yourself you were going to be mature, respect the boundaries of his tour, let him have this without you hovering at the edges like some ghost of Los Angeles past.
But then you saw his story. Posted at 2 AM, the timestamp glowing accusatory in your dark bedroom. Backstage at Allegiant Stadium, the concrete corridors painted that particular shade of industrial beige that exists in every venue in every city in the world. He was holding that stupid vintage camcorder he insists on using for everything, the one that makes everything look like a memory even as it's happening, and he was complaining about the dry Vegas air, about how his skin feels tight, about how he misses the humidity of Seoul, of home, of-
Of you. He didn't say it. But you heard it anyway.
You booked the ticket before the video looped a second time. You packed a bag with clothes you didn't bother to fold, just stuffed them in like you were running from something, and you drove to the airport with the windows down, the Los Angeles winds whipping your hair into a frenzy, the city sprawling behind you in its perpetual golden-hour haze.
Now you are standing in the loading dock of Allegiant Stadium, ducking under yellow caution tape that says CREW ONLY in letters that have faded from sun exposure. The desert heat hits differently here, drier, more aggressive, sucking the moisture from your skin the moment you step out of the rideshare. You can hear them - distant, muffled, the thump of bass vibrating through the concrete bones of the building, the soundcheck for a show that won't happen for hours.
You should have told him. You know you should have told him. But there's something delicious about the surprise, about the look that will break across his face when he sees you, about the possibility that he might be as hungry for this collision as you are.
The security guard starts toward you, hand raised, mouth open to tell you to leave, but you flash the laminate that Hoseok sent you three hours ago in a text that just said come with seventeen exclamation points. The guard squints at the pass, squints at you, and waves you through with a shrug that says he's seen stranger things in this city.
Backstage is a labyrinth. You move through it like you're dreaming, past roadies coiling cables with practiced efficiency, past catering tables laden with fruit you know no one will eat, past the wardrobe racks that smell like dry cleaning and sweat. You find the corridor that leads to the stage-left wing, the one he's posted from, and you press yourself against a concrete pillar that is cool against your spine, and you wait.
The music stops. Starts again. Stops. They're running 2.0 now, you think, or maybe it's Aliens, the melody distorted through the walls, stripped of vocals, just the skeleton of the song. You check your phone. One hour until doors, three until showtime - an eternity.
You watch the makeup artist - Miyoung, you remember her name from his stories - touch up a dancer's jawline with a small brush, precise and unhurried. You drift toward her like you're caught in her orbit, and she looks up, recognizes something in your face, maybe, or just sees another lost girl in a venue full of them.
"You look like you need coffee," she says, not unkindly.
"I look like I need a lot of things," you reply, and she laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the industrial hum.
"Sit," she says, patting the chair next to her station. "I'll fix your face. You look like you flew in this morning."
"I did."
She makes a considerable noise and tilts your chin up with gentle fingers. The brush is soft against your skin, cool, soothing. She works in silence for a while, dusting something golden across your cheekbones, lining your eyes with a precision you could never manage yourself.
"You're the LA girl," she says finally. It's not a question.
You freeze. "He talks about me?"
Miyoung smiles, something knowing and soft. "He talks about the weather in LA. About the traffic. About this coffee shop near your apartment that he wants to try. About how the light looks different there, how it makes everything look like a movie." She steps back, assesses her work. "There. Now you don't look like you just survived a redeye."
You look in the mirror. You look like yourself, but sharper, more luminous, like someone worth flying for.
"Thank you," you say, and she squeezes your shoulder before turning back to her kit.
Time moves strangely backstage. You help a roadie tape down a cable. You accept a bottle of water from a staff member who doesn't ask your name. You watch the dancers stretch, their bodies bending in ways that seem to defy physics, and you think about your own body, about the way it feels heavy with wanting, weighted down by all the things you haven't said.
And then soundcheck ends. The distant thrum of voices, seven of them overlapping, laughing, complaining about the monitors, about the heat, about the dry air that makes their throats scratch. You press yourself harder against the pillar, heart hammering against your ribs, and you wait for him to appear around the corner.
But it's Namjoon first, tall and tired, glasses slipping down his nose, still in his rehearsal clothes. He sees you before you can decide whether to hide or run, and his face shifts from confusion to recognition to something like delight.
"LA?" he says, and his voice carries.
You push off the wall, suddenly nervous, suddenly aware of every hour of sleep you missed, every reason this was a bad idea. "Surprise?"
Namjoon crosses the distance between you in three long strides and pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off your feet, that smells like his cologne and the faint metallic tang of the venue. "You're insane," he says into your hair, but he's laughing. "He's going to lose his mind."
"I wanted to-"
"Surprise him," Namjoon finishes, setting you down but keeping his hands on your shoulders, studying your face with that particular intensity he has, the one that makes you feel like he's reading the footnotes of your thoughts. "I know. I can tell." He squeezes once. "Be gentle with him. He's been... he's been looking at his phone a lot."
Before you can ask what that means, there's a whoop from down the corridor, and Hoseok is running toward you, arms windmilling, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts.
"You came!" he shouts, and you brace yourself as he collides with you, spins you, sets you down only to step back and present his cheek with theatrical expectation.
You laugh, the sound surprising you, and you give him a light slap - firm enough to sting, playful enough to mean nothing - before pulling him into a hug that smells like sweat and peppermint gum. "I came," you confirm.
"Jungkook-ah doesn't know?"
"Not yet."
Hoseok's eyes gleam with mischief. "Oh, this is going to be good. This is going to be so good."
The others filter past - Jimin with a wave, Taehyung with a curious tilt of his head, Yoongi and Jin with nods that somehow feel like approval. They don't question your presence, or if they do, they keep it to themselves. You're part of the furniture here, part of the landscape of Jungkook's life that they've all learned to navigate around.
And then, there he is.
He's at the end of the corridor, still holding that camcorder, the one with the duct tape on the side where he dropped it in Tokyo. He's talking to it, narrating his life in that soft, sleepy voice he gets after he sings, something about the venue, about the soundcheck, about how the dry air makes his throat feel like sandpaper.
He doesn't see you at first. He's looking at the lens, at himself, performing even when he thinks no one is watching. You have time to study him - the way he has slimmed down since the last time you saw him, all sharp angles and new edges, the way his forehead is finally visible again with this haircut, the one you told him suited him best, and the tiredness in his shoulders that he carries like a secret, like something he's ashamed of letting show.
You step out from behind the pillar.
"LA?"
Your name hangs in the air - the nickname he gave you three years ago in Budapest, then cemented during those long weeks in Los Angeles when they filmed the album, when you were around so much you became part of the furniture, part of the language. They say it like a word, like a place, like something that means her and home and the one who keeps leaving all at once. The camcorder lowers slowly. His face shifts through seventeen emotions: confusion, disbelief, hope, fear, sunlight breaking through clouds.
"You're not-" He stops. Steps forward. "You're actually here."
You shrug, missing casual by miles. "You said you missed humidity."
He stares. The camcorder hangs forgotten, still recording. You see the pulse in his throat, his hand tightening on the strap until his knuckles whiten.
Then he's moving.
He crosses the space in a rush that feels gravitational, arms around you, lifting you off your feet, spinning you once, twice, laughing into the curve of your neck. He smells like rehearsal - sweat and cologne and something uniquely him, the fabric softener you bought him last Christmas.
"You're insane," he says, setting you down but not letting go, hands gripping your waist like you'll evaporate. "When did you- how did you-"
"Hoseok," you admit. Hoseok cackles behind you.
"Hoseok," Jungkook repeats, but he's not angry, only present, eyes scanning your face like he's memorizing it, like he's been starving and you're the first meal. "I can't believe you. I can't believe you're here."
"Surprise," you say softer, and his expression shifts, becoming tender and vulnerable.
"Yeah." He breathes. "Surprise."
He doesn't let go. The camcorder bumps your hip. He looks down at it, forgotten, then back at you with a question.
"Keep filming," you say.
He lifts the camera, captures both of you in the frame. You see yourself on the small screen - flushed, bright-eyed. See him looking at you instead of the lens.
"Day three in Vegas," he says, voice rough. "Soundcheck finished at Allegiant Stadium. We ran 2.0 and Aliens and-" he glances at you, swallows, "-LA is here. She just showed up. Like a ghost. Like a miracle."
"Not a miracle," you protest, smiling.
"Miracle," he insists. He turns the camera off, pulls you back into his arms, face buried in your hair. "Stay," he mumbles.
"I'll stay for now," you say, and he exhales like you've granted him something precious.
The hours blur. You find your place at the end of the southwest walkway, pressed against the scaffolding where the lights don't reach, where the curtain hangs heavy and dark between you and the world. Through the screen you can see them - seven figures moving through their formations on the central stage, then dispersing down the four walkways that stretch like arms reaching for the crowd.
From here the stadium opens up around you, three hundred sixty degrees of screaming, of light sticks creating oceans of color, of faces tilted upward like they're looking at something holy. You watch him move down the northeast walkway, then the northwest, then back to center, and you can imagine the sweat on his brow, can see the way he scans the crowd between lyrics, the way his shoulders relax when he finds your shadow in the wings.
You watch them run through Into the Sun - his voice rising through his verse like something carved from light, like a prayer offered up in a language only the faithful understand. He sounds angelic, truly, the kind of voice that makes you understand why people build religions around beauty, why they kneel before things they cannot comprehend. Through the screen his face flickers, close-up, ethereal, and you think of Hungary, of that bar in Budapest where you met, where he was just a boy with a pretty smile and you were just a girl who didn't know enough to be impressed.
He thought you were cute. You thought he was funny. The night ended in laughter and phone numbers exchanged on a napkin you still have somewhere, pressed between the pages of a book you never finished.
Now thousands of people scream his name, reaching toward the walkway like they could pull him down and keep him. You watch girls cry, boys scream, bodies pressed against barriers, living for this moment, this proximity to something they've only ever seen through glass.
And you realize - with something that feels like vertigo - that you are living someone's dream. That the boy they're screaming for is the same one who texts you memes at 3 AM, who sends you voice notes complaining about his laundry, who fell asleep on your couch last November and drooled on your throw pillow.
The thought makes you feel strange, temporary, like a glitch in the system. Like eventually the universe will notice and correct its error.
But then he's moving toward you, down the southwest walkway, and through the distance you see his eyes find yours, and he smiles - not the performance smile, but something smaller, real, meant only for you.
For a moment, the stadium fades. It's just his face - looking at you like you're the only person in the room.
Then the song ends, and he's turning, and the crowd roars, and you're just a shadow in the wings again, watching someone else's miracle from behind a curtain.
After, when the lights go down and the crowd roars and fades, you find yourself swept up with the others, with pizza that tastes like cardboard and the chaos of post-show adrenaline. You're part of the furniture here - helping Namjoon find his glasses, listening to Hoseok complain about his feet, letting Yoongi show you a meme.
"Where's Jin?" you ask at one point, noticing the empty chair.
"Asleep," Taehyung says, scrolling through his phone. "Said he's going to sleep for a year. So tired."
You laugh, and Jungkook watches you from across the room, eyes following the shape of your smile.
It's barely past eleven when Namjoon stretches, joints popping. "Food," he announces.
"That bar in the hotel, the one with the good sliders. Who's coming?"
"I'm in," Hoseok says, already reaching for his jacket.
"Me too," Jimin adds.
Taehyung looks at you, then at Jungkook, something knowing in his expression. "LA? You hungry?"
You are, suddenly - starving in a way that has nothing to do with food. You look at Jungkook. He's watching you, waiting.
"Yeah," you say. "I'm coming."
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The bar is in the lobby of their hotel, some trendy spot with leather booths and neon signs that look vintage but aren't. It's nearly midnight but Vegas doesn't sleep, the place half-full of tourists in sequins and people who lost money and are drinking their way back to even.
You slide into a booth after Namjoon, and Jungkook slides in after you, thigh pressed against yours in a way that feels deliberate. The others arrange themselves - Taehyung and Jimin on one side, Hoseok beside Namjoon - and a waiter appears with waters and menus.
He's tall, dark-haired, the kind of handsome that moves through spaces like he owns them. His eyes find yours immediately, skipping over the five famous faces at the table like they don't register, like you're the only one in the room.
"Can I get you anything else?" he asks, but he's looking at you, his smile slow and deliberate. "Another drink? Something... special?"
You order another gin and tonic, and he touches your hand when he takes the empty glass, his fingers warm, lingering. "Excellent choice. I'll make sure it's perfect for you."
You feel Jungkook shift beside you, his thigh going rigid against yours, his arm pressing harder into your shoulder.
"Thanks," you say, and the waiter smiles again, all teeth, before finally turning away.
"Friendly," Taehyung observes, his eyes amused, watching Jungkook."Very friendly," Jimin adds, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
"He's just doing his job," you say, but under the table Jungkook's hand finds your knee, his grip tight, his thumb pressing hard enough to make you look at him.
"What?" you mouth.
He shakes his head, jaw tight, reaching for his water with his free hand. "Nothing."
But his hand doesn't move from your knee, and when the waiter returns - your drink balanced on his tray, his smile even wider - Jungkook's fingers dig in just slightly, a warning, a claim.
"Here you are," the waiter says, setting the glass down, his hand brushing yours as you take it. "Made it just for you. Extra lime, like you asked."
"You remembered," you say, surprised.
"I pay attention," he says, his voice dropping, intimate in the noise of the bar. "To things worth remembering."
Jungkook makes a sound, low in his throat, almost a growl. The waiter glances at him, finally, recognition flickering - oh, that’s Jeon Jungkook - but he doesn't back down. If anything, his smile widens, a challenge in his eyes.
"Anything else I can get you?" he asks, but he's looking at you, only you.
"We're good," Jungkook says, his voice flat, final, his hand sliding from your knee to your thigh, his palm hot through your jeans, claiming territory. "Thanks."
The waiter nods, slowly, his eyes lingering on you one last time before he turns away.
"Possessive," you murmur, not looking at Jungkook, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Not," he lies, his hand staying on your thigh, his thumb tracing patterns that feel like writing, like spelling something out in a language only you two speak.
"You literally just-"
"Drink your gin," he interrupts, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on the waiter's back across the bar. "Before I do something stupid."
"Like what?"
He finally looks at you, his expression dark, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. "Like go over there and explain that you're not... that he shouldn't..."
"That I'm not what?"
He stares at you, his jaw working, his hand tightening on your thigh. "Available," he says finally, the word torn out of him. "That you're not available."
The silence between you stretches, filled with the noise of the bar, the laughter of his friends, the weight of three years of pretending.
"Am I not?" you ask, your voice quiet, barely audible.
His eyes search yours, desperate, hungry, all the things he's never let himself show you. "Are you?"
You don't answer. You can't. But you don't move his hand from your thigh, and when the waiter passes again, you don't look up, and Jungkook's fingers relax, just slightly, like he's breathing again.
"So," Jimin interrupts the two of you, leaning forward, eyes bright with mischief. "LA flies to Vegas unannounced. This is a rom-com plot."
"It's a horror movie," you say. "I'm the ghost who haunts his tour."
"You're not haunting," Jungkook says, "You're... visiting."
"Visiting," Taehyung repeats, tasting the word. "Very casual. Very normal."
You kick Jungkook's ankle. He kicks back, grinning.
The conversation moves around you - tour logistics, the venue tomorrow, Jin asleep upstairs dreaming of hibernation. You eat a slider that tastes like salt and grease and watch Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's animated, hands moving as he talks, but every few minutes his attention drifts back to you, checking, making sure you're still there.
Hoseok orders a third plate of sliders. He eats them with the focus of a man possessed, and when he finally sits back, patting his stomach with a groan, he stretches his arms over the back of the booth and sighs, long and loud.
"God, I love Vegas," he says. "No consequences. What happens here, stays here, right?"
He says it with a grin, rubbing his stomach, and you realize he's talking about the sliders - about the gluttony, the grease, the way he's going to feel this in the morning. It's a joke about guilt, about indulgence, about pretending the things you do in this city don't follow you home.
But Jungkook looks at you, and you look at him, and for a second the noise of the bar fades out entirely. His eyes are dark in the dim light, and you know he's thinking about all the things that could happen here, all the things you've never let happen anywhere else.
You look away first. Take a long sip of your drink.
"Speaking of," Namjoon says, and his voice is careful, deliberate, breaking the spell.
"We should head up. Early call tomorrow."
"Already?" Jimin whines, but he's already sliding out.
"Come on," Hoseok says, standing. He looks at you, then at Jungkook, and his smile softens into something almost gentle. "Don't stay out too late."
They leave in a cluster, Taehyung waving over his shoulder, Jimin making a kissy face that Jungkook flips off. And then it's just you and him, alone in the booth, the neon buzzing overhead.
"You didn't have to stay," you say, tracing a water ring on the table.
"I wanted to." He pauses. "I have stuff for you, actually. Merch. The good stuff. It's in my room."
"In your room," you repeat.
"In my room."
You look at him. He's watching you carefully, no smile now, just open want and the fear that you'll say no.
"Okay," you say.
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The elevator ride is silent. The corridor is silent. His room is on the thirty-fourth floor, corner suite, Vegas sprawled out below like a circuit board, like a promise.
You stand at the window while he dumps his bag on the bed, spreads out offerings - a hoodie that smells like him, a hat, stickers, a photocard.
"Here," he says, patting the space beside him.
You sit. The bed dips. You're close enough to feel his heat, see the tiredness in his eyes, feel your hand trembling when you pick up the photocard.
"Someone had a fan tonight," he says, and his voice is casual, too casual, the way it gets when he's hiding something sharp.
You blink, looking up from the photocard you've been turning over in your fingers. "What?"
"At the bar." He doesn't look at you. He's arranging the stickers in a neat row, aligning their edges with precision that feels like avoidance. "The waiter - he couldn't stop looking at you."
You laugh, surprised, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Are you serious? You had like seventy-two thousand people screaming your name tonight."
"Seventy-two thousand and one," he corrects, and there's a smirk tugging at his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "But I'm serious. The waiter, Sunshine. He was into you."
"I didn't notice." You set the photocard down, reach for the hoodie, bring it to your nose to breathe in the smell of him-fabric softener and something else, something warm. "I was too busy watching you eat like you hadn't seen food in a week."
"Of course you didn't notice." He says it softly, almost to himself, and something in his tone makes you look up.
"What?"
"Nothing." He stands suddenly, moves to the window, his back to you. "It's just... you never do. Notice things."
You frown, the hoodie forgotten in your lap. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you fly in, you fly out, and you act like you're just passing through." He's still not looking at you, his reflection fractured in the glass, doubled by the city lights behind him. "Like this-" he gestures vaguely at the space between you, at the room, at everything "-like it's just... convenient. Like I'm just convenient."
"Jungkook-"
"Three months." He turns now, and his face is carefully blank, the mask he wears for interviews, for cameras, for strangers. "Three months since you were in Seoul. And you didn't even tell me you were thinking about coming tonight. Hoseok knew before I did."
"I wanted to surprise you-"
"Surprise me," he repeats, and there's a note in his voice you can't name. "Or keep your options open? In case you changed your mind?"
You stand up, blood starting to rush in your ears. "That's not fair."
"Is it?" He takes a step toward you, then stops, like he's afraid of what he'll do if he gets closer. "Last time you were in Tokyo, you left early. Said you had work. But I saw the pictures. You were at the beach with friends. You just... didn't want to stay."
"That was different-"
"Was it?" Another step. His hands are fisted at his sides. "Or the time before that, in New York? You said you'd come to the show, but you got 'caught up' with your ex-"
"He needed help moving-"
"And you needed to be there." He's close now, close enough that you can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the flush high on his cheeks. "You needed to be there for him, but you can't be here. Not really. Not when it counts."
"That's not-" You shake your head, defensive, confused by the velocity of this, by how fast the ground is shifting beneath you. "I'm here now. I flew here. For you."
"For now," he says, and his voice cracks, just slightly, just enough. "For tonight. And then what? Tomorrow you'll be back in LA, and you'll text me when you're bored, when you need a distraction, when you want to feel like someone wants you-"
"Stop-"
"But actually showing up?" He's not yelling, but his voice has gone tight, strange, the way guitar strings sound before they snap. "Actually staying? Letting this be real? You'd never risk it. Because then you might have to want me back. You might have to need me. And god forbid, Sunshine-god forbid you ever need anyone."
The words hit like a slap. You stare at him, breathing hard, the makeup Miyoung applied feeling suddenly like a mask, like armor you don't know how to remove.
"That's not fair," you whisper, but your voice breaks.
"Isn't it?" He turns away again, paces to the window, and his reflection is fractured, doubled, and you can't tell which one is the real him. "At least the waiter looked at you. At least he saw you. You act like I'm invisible unless you need something. Unless you're lonely, unless you're sad, unless you want someone to tell you you're pretty at 3 AM-"
"Fuck you," you say, louder now, anger rising up to meet the hurt. "That's not- I'm not-"
"What?" He spins around. "What are you, Sunshine? Tell me. Because from where I'm standing, you're the girl who keeps me on a shelf. Who takes me down when she's bored and puts me back when she's done. And I keep letting you. I keep waiting by the phone like some fucking-"
"Stop it!" You grab your bag from the chair, hands shaking. "I'm not doing this. I'm not-"
You get three steps toward the door before his hand closes around your wrist.
"Let go."
"Why?" His grip tightens, not hard, just enough to stop you, enough to make you feel the heat of his palm against your pulse point. "So you can run again? Back to LA, right? Back where it's safe? Where you don't have to feel anything?"
You wrench your arm, but he doesn't let go. You're facing each other now, breathing hard, inches apart, and you can see the shine in his eyes that he won't let become tears, can see the way his jaw is clenched so tight it must ache.
"Say it," he says, low, rough. "Say you're running."
"I'm not-"
"Say it."
And you can't. Because you're not running, you've never been able to run from him, not when he's looking at you like this - like you're breaking his heart and saving it all at once.
"I hate you," you whisper.
"No, you don't," he says, and then his mouth is on yours.
It's hard and desperate and tastes like years of waiting, and for a moment you melt into it, your body betraying you, your hands fisting in his shirt and pulling him closer. But then your brain catches up, the words he just threw at you still sharp in your chest, and you push against his shoulders, breaking the kiss with a gasp.
"Wait," you breathe, your lips tingling, your heart hammering. "Wait, you don't get to do that."
He's breathing hard, his eyes dark, his hands still gripping your waist. "Do what?"
"Blame me," you say, your voice shaking. "You don't get to tell me I never stay, that I never risk anything, and then just kiss me like that fixes it. Like I'm the only one who messed this up."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I-"
"It is," you cut him off, pushing against his chest until he steps back, giving you space. "You want to talk about me leaving? About me not expressing my feelings? Well what about you, Jungkook? When have you ever told me to stay? When have you ever actually said what you want?"
He stares at you, chest heaving, and you see something flicker in his eyes - hurt, defensiveness, the mirror of your own accusations.
"I've been here," he says, his voice low, dangerous. "I've been right here, watching you date assholes who don't deserve you, watching you leave and come back and leave again. What was I supposed to do? Beg you?"
"Yes!" you shout, the word tearing out of you. "Maybe! Or at least tell me! Tell me you want me to stay instead of just letting me go, letting me think you don't care-"
"I care," he snaps, stepping toward you again, crowding you back against the wall. "I care so fucking much it makes me sick. Is that what you want to hear? That I've been in love with you for three years and I've been dying every time you walk away?"
Your breath catches. "Then why didn't you say-"
"Because you were always leaving!" He's close now, so close, his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in. "And you seemed fine with it. You seemed fine with whatever we are."
"I'm not bored," you whisper, your voice breaking. "I was never bored. I was scared. I'm still scared."
"Of what?"
"Of this," you say, gesturing between you. "Of wanting you this much. Of needing you and having you leave instead."
"I'm not leaving," he says, his voice softer now, raw. "I've never left. You're the one who-"
"Because you never asked me to stay," you interrupt, and there are tears in your eyes now, hot and humiliating. "You never said don't go. You just let me."
He stares at you, his expression shifting, softening, the anger draining out of him like water. "I didn't think I had the right," he admits, quiet. "I didn't think you wanted me to ask."
"Well I did," you say, your voice small. "I do."
He leans in then, slow, giving you time to pull away, and brushes his lips against yours - softer this time, questioning. You don't pull away. You kiss him back, tentative, tasting the salt of tears you can't tell are his or yours.
"Stay," he whispers against your mouth, his hands moving to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "Don't go back to LA. Not yet. Stay with me."
"You don't mean that," you say, but you're kissing him again, deeper now, your hands sliding up his chest.
"I do," he insists, breaking the kiss to look at you, his eyes fierce. "I've never meant anything more. Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow. Stay-"
"Stop talking," you breathe, and pull him back to you, your mouth crashing against his, hungry, desperate.
He groans, his hands dropping to your waist, lifting you, and you wrap your legs around him, the friction of him against you making you both gasp. He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, and then you're falling, hitting the mattress with him on top of you, settling between your legs with a weight that feels perfect, inevitable.
"Wait," you gasp, tearing your mouth away, your head spinning. "Wait, I'm still mad at you."
"Good," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, sucking hard enough to mark. "Be mad. Yell at me. But don't leave."
"I'm not-" you break off with a moan as he grinds against you, his hips rolling in a way that makes you see stars. "I'm not leaving, but you- you have to-"
"Have to what?" He lifts his head, his eyes dark, challenging. "Tell me what you want, Sunshine. Use your words."
"I want you to stop talking in circles," you manage, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him back to you. "I want you to show me. Show me you want me."
He kisses you again, hard, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, and you meet him with equal fervor, your teeth clicking, your breath mingling. He pulls back just enough to strip your shirt over your head, and you help him, your bra following, and then you're bare and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and then his mouth is on your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth, and you cry out, arching into him.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him there. "Jungkook-"
He switches sides, his hand replacing his mouth on the first breast, pinching and rolling your nipple while he sucks hard on the other, and you're whimpering now, your hips bucking up against him, seeking friction.
"Still mad?" he asks against your skin, his voice smug, teasing.
"Yes," you breathe, but you're pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. "Take this off. I want to feel you."
He sits back, stripping his shirt off, and you sit up too, reaching for him, your hands running over his chest, his shoulders, the ink on his arms. He shivers under your touch, his eyes falling closed, and you lean in, pressing your mouth to his collarbone, his throat, biting gently at his jaw.
"Tell me," you whisper against his skin. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you," he says, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips. "I want your mouth on me. I want to be inside you. I want everything, Sunshine, I've wanted everything for so fucking long-"
You push him back, guiding him until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and you sink to your knees in front of him, your hands working at his jeans. He lifts his hips, helps you strip him, and then he's naked in front of you, hard and thick and straining toward you, and you want him in your mouth more than you want to breathe.
"Fuck," he breathes as you wrap your hand around him, stroke him once, twice. "Sunshine, you don't have to-"
"I want to," you say, looking up at him through your lashes. "I've wanted to. Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't stop," he groans, his head falling back. "Please, god, don't stop-"
You lean in and lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, from base to tip, and he shouts, his hips jerking forward. You take him into your mouth, sucking lightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and his hands are in your hair, not pushing, just holding, his fingers trembling.
"Your mouth," he pants, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, your mouth, I've thought about this-"
You take him deeper, inch by inch, until he's hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, hollowing your cheeks. He cries out, a raw, guttural sound, and you pull back slowly, letting him feel every inch, then sink back down, finding a rhythm.
"So good," he babbles, his hips stuttering. "So fucking good, you're perfect-"
You pull off with a wet sound, catching your breath, and he whines at the loss, his eyes opening, fixed on you with desperate hunger. You meet his gaze, then lower your head to his balls, heavy and drawn up tight. You lick at them, soft and wet, and he groans, long and low, his knees spreading wider.
"Sunshine- fuck, that's- don't stop-"
You take one into your mouth, sucking gently, rolling it on your tongue, and the sound he makes is inhuman, a broken moan that echoes off the walls. You lavish attention on them, sucking one and then the other, taking them both into your mouth and rolling them gently, and he's babbling now, incoherent, his hands tight in your hair.
"I'm gonna come," he warns, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'm close, please-"
You pull off with a wet sound, denying him, and he whines, high and desperate, his hips chasing your mouth.
"Not yet," you say, your voice filthy, and you start kissing your way up his body - his hip bone, the sharp line of his stomach, the ridge of his ribs. You push him back onto the bed, your hands firm on his chest, and he goes willingly, sprawling back against the sheets, his cock twitching against his stomach, wet and aching.
"Sunshine," he groans, his voice wrecked. "Please, I need to-"
"You don't get to finish yet," you interrupt, straddling his thighs, pinning him down. "Not when you've been such an ass."
"Then punish me," he challenges, his eyes dark, his chest heaving. "Go ahead."
You lean down, your mouth finding his nipple, and you suck hard, teasing with your teeth, and he shouts, his back arching off the bed, his hands flying to your hair. "Fuck- fuck, that's-"
He snarls, flipping you over suddenly, his strength surprising you, pinning you beneath him. You gasp, your back hitting the mattress, and he's between your legs, his hands rough on your thighs, spreading you open.
"My turn," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You got to play. Now I get to taste."
He doesn't wait for permission. He dives in, his mouth hot and filthy on your cunt, licking a broad stripe up your folds that has you screaming, your hands fisting in the sheets. He groans against you, the vibration making you see stars, and then he's spitting on you, wet and obscene, rubbing it into your clit with his thumb before he goes back to sucking you into his mouth.
"Look at you," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to speak, his chin wet with you, his eyes fixed on your face. "Look how fucking desperate you are. Grinding on me like you couldn't wait to get this pussy on my tongue."
"Jungkook-" you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.
"You want me to eat you out?" he asks, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "You want me to make you come all over my face? Say it."
"Yes," you gasp, your face burning, your body aching. "Yes, please, eat me out, I need it-"
He goes back to work with a vengeance, his tongue circling your clit before he sucks it hard into his mouth, his fingers sliding into you, curling to find that spot that makes you cry out. He's messy, filthy, spitting on you again to make you wetter, his fingers fucking you in time with the suction of his mouth, and the sounds he's making - groaning like he's the one being worshipped-are driving you insane.
"So fucking sweet," he pants against your thigh, his fingers never stopping, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. "Tastes so good. Been dreaming about this, dreaming about having you like this, making you scream-"
"Don't stop," you beg, your voice breaking, your hands in his hair, holding him there. "Please, don't stop, I'm so close-"
"Come for me," he demands, his tongue flat against you, licking broad and filthy. "Come on my tongue, Sunshine. Let me drink you down."
You do. You let go, and the orgasm crashes through you, violent and overwhelming, your back arching, your vision whiting out, your body clamping down around his fingers in rhythmic pulses. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out until you're whimpering, oversensitive, trying to close your legs.
"Can't take it," you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. "Too much-"
He crawls up your body, his face wet with you, and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself, filthy and perfect. You can feel him, hard and thick against your thigh, already ready again, desperate and throbbing.
"Let me get a condom," he mutters against your mouth, his hand reaching toward the nightstand.
You catch his wrist, stopping him, your heart hammering against your ribs. "No," you breathe, your voice raw, desperate. "Please. I want to feel you. Just you."
He freezes, his eyes snapping to yours, dark and blown wide. "Sunshine," he warns, his voice rough, strained. "You sure? I can't- fuck, I need to be careful with you-"
"I'm sure," you insist, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, your heels digging into his lower back. "I'm on the pill. And I trust you. I want to feel you come inside me, Jungkook. Please."
He groans, a broken, guttural sound, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling against you. "Fuck," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "You can't say shit like that. You can't-"
"Then do it," you challenge, rolling your hips against him, feeling the hot, hard length of him slide against your wetness. "Fuck me bare. Fill me up. Show me you mean it."
He snarls, his restraint snapping, and then he's pushing into you, slow and deep and completely unhindered, and the feeling is overwhelming - hot and thick and perfect, skin against skin with nothing between you. You both cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," he pants, his eyes rolling back, his jaw clenched tight. "Fuck, you feel- you're so hot, so wet, I can feel all of you-"
"Move," you beg, your voice breaking, your legs tight around him. "Please, Jungkook, move, I need you-"
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound that tears from your throat is primal, needy. The friction is perfect, intense, every ridge of him dragging against your walls, and he's groaning with every thrust, his head thrown back, his chest heaving.
"So good," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours, setting a brutal rhythm. "So fucking good, you're taking all of me, fuck- you're so tight around me, squeezing me-"
"Yes," you gasp, your head thrown back, your back arching off the bed. "Yes, just like that, don't stop, harder-"
He gives you harder, his hips pistoning against yours, the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall. He's hitting something deep inside you, a spot that makes your vision blur at the edges, and you're clawing at his back, your legs wrapped tight around him, pulling him deeper with every thrust.
"Touch yourself," he demands, his voice ragged, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own pleasure mounts. "I want to see you touch yourself while I fuck you."
You slide your hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, swollen and sensitive, and you rub tight, desperate circles. The added sensation is too much, just enough, and you're climbing again, the pleasure building in waves that crash higher and higher.
"Jungkook," you warn, your voice high, broken. "I'm gonna- I'm close-"
"Not yet," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his own release. "Not yet, I need to feel you from behind, need to see that ass while I fuck you-"
He pulls out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, and he flips you over with rough hands, pulling your hips up until you're on your knees, your face pressed against the mattress. He spreads you open with his hands, groaning at the sight of you, wet and open and waiting for him.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading your folds. "Look how fucking wet you are for me, dripping down your thighs-"
"Please," you whimper, pushing back against him, seeking friction, seeking him. "Please, Jungkook, I need you inside me-"
He pushes in with one long, smooth thrust, deeper from this angle, hitting places that make you scream into the mattress, your fingers fisting in the sheets. He's groaning, long and low, his grip on your hips bruising as he pulls you back onto his cock, meeting his thrusts.
"So deep," he pants, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, you're so deep like this, taking all of me, fuck-"
He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, wet and filthy. He's hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, the one that makes your legs shake, your vision blur, and you're pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, desperate for more.
"Touch yourself," he demands again, his hand coming around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough and filthy. "Come for me, Sunshine. Come on my cock while I fuck you like this-"
"Yes," you gasp, your voice muffled against the mattress. "Yes, don't stop, I'm so close-"
He doesn't stop. He fucks you harder, his fingers working your clit in tight, desperate circles, and you're climbing, climbing, the coil tightening, tightening, until-
You come with a scream, your back arching, your body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that draw out his own climax. But he doesn't stop, keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you're whimpering, oversensitive, your body trembling.
"One more," he growls, his voice strained, his thrusts becoming jerky, desperate. "One more position, I want to see your face when I come-"
He pulls out, flipping you over again, and pulls you up until you're straddling him, your hands braced on his chest. He guides himself back into you, his hands on your hips, and you sink down onto him, taking him deep, so deep you feel impossibly full.
"Ride me," he demands, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched. "Ride my cock, Sunshine. Show me how much you want it-"
You do. You roll your hips, finding a rhythm, your hands bracing on his chest, your nails digging into his skin. He's groaning, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your waist, guiding you, lifting you and pulling you back down onto him.
"Fuck," he grits out, his hips bucking up to meet you, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm. "You're so fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock, fuck- I'm close, I'm so close-"
He groans, long and low, and then he's coming, his whole body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you, hot and thick and filling you completely. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his forehead pressed against your chest, his breath hot and fast against your skin.
"Fuck," he pants, still twitching inside you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, Sunshine, I wish you could taste me inside of you."
You whimper at the thought, at the filth of it, but before you can respond, he's flipping you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, and diving between your thighs. You gasp, shocked, as he licks at your folds, messy and desperate, gathering the wetness of you both on his tongue.
"Jungkook-" you breathe, your hands flying to his hair, but he's relentless, lapping at you with long, filthy strokes, his tongue delving inside to taste where he just filled you, where you're still warm and full of him.
He lifts his head, his chin wet, his eyes dark and fixed on yours, and then he's crawling up your body, his hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. He leans down and spits into your mouth, the taste of you both mingled on your tongue, warm and filthy and intimate, and you moan around it, swallowing, your whole body trembling.
He kisses you then, hard and desperate, his tongue sweeping through your mouth, sharing the taste, the intimacy of it overwhelming, perfect. You kiss him back with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you, tasting yourself and him together, the most vulnerable thing you've ever shared.
When he finally pulls back, he's breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching your face like he's memorizing you.
"Stay," he whispers, his voice rough, his thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. "Not just for now. Stay."
You close your eyes, your heart hammering, and for the first time, you let yourself want it too. "Okay," you whisper. "I'll stay."
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The Vegas sun is too bright. It cuts through the gap in the curtains like a warning, landing directly on your face, and you groan, pulling the sheet over your head. Your body aches in places you forgot existed. Your mouth tastes like him, like the filthy things you said to each other in the dark.
You become aware, slowly, that you are not alone in the bed.
He's awake. You can tell by the quality of the silence, the way he's holding himself still, pretending to sleep. You can feel his eyes on you even through the sheet.
"Stop staring," you mumble, your voice wrecked.
"I'm not staring," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm admiring."
You peel the sheet down just enough to glare at him. He's on his stomach, chin propped on his hands, the blanket low on his hips, the ink on his arm shifting as he breathes. He looks annoyingly perfect. Rested. Like he didn't spend hours fucking you until you couldn't remember your own name.
"You're too smug," you say, pulling the sheet back up. "This is weird."
"What's weird?"
"This." You gesture vaguely at the space between you, at the wreckage of the room, your clothes scattered like evidence. "Weird."
He laughs, soft and warm, and reaches out, his hand finding your hip under the sheet. "It's not weird. It's us. Just... finally."
"Don't say finally like that. Like it's inevitable. Like you knew."
"I did know," he says simply, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. "I've known for three years. You were the one who needed convincing."
You bury your face in the pillow, your face burning. "I hate you."
"You don't." He tugs at the sheet, trying to pull you closer. "Come here."
You let him pull you, let yourself be arranged against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your head. You breathe him in, memorizing this, knowing you shouldn't.
"I have to go back," you say, the words quiet, into his skin.
He goes still. "What?"
"To LA. My flight's at noon."
"Today?" His voice changes, something cracking. "You just got here."
"I know." You close your eyes, your heart hammering. "But I have work. I have... I can't just stay, Jungkook. I can't just-"
"Can't you?" He pulls back, his hands finding your face, tilting it up to look at him. His expression is wrecked, all the softness gone, replaced by something desperate. "Can't you just... stay? For once?"
"I can't." Your voice breaks. "I want to. God, I want to. But I can't."
He stares at you, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his eyes searching yours like he's looking for something to hold onto. "So that's it? We do this, we finally do this, and you just... leave?"
"Jungkook-"
"Don't." He lets go, rolling onto his back, his arm thrown over his eyes. "Don't say my name like that. Not if you're going."
The silence stretches, heavy and awful, filled with the hum of the city below, the reality of morning after.
"I'll be back," you whisper, not sure if it's true, not sure if you're promising something you can keep.
"When?"
"I don't know."
He laughs, but it sounds broken. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
You sit up, the sheet pooling around your waist, your chest tight, your eyes burning. You should get dressed. You should leave. You should do what you always do.
But you can't move. You can't make yourself stand up and walk away from this, from him, from the only thing that's ever felt like home.
"Look at me," you say, your voice rough.
He doesn't. He keeps his arm over his eyes, his jaw tight, his whole body radiating hurt.
"Jungkook. Look at me."
Slowly, painfully, he lowers his arm. His eyes are red-rimmed, wet, and it breaks something in you to see it, to know you put that there.
"I'm not running," you say, the words careful, deliberate. "I'm not... this isn't me leaving because I don't want this. I want this. I want you. But I have things I can't just drop. You know that. You have things too."
"So what do we do?" he asks, his voice small, younger than you've ever heard him.
"I don't know," you admit. "But... we figure it out? Together?"
He stares at you, his expression shifting, hope warring with fear. "Together," he repeats, like he's testing the word.
"Yeah." You reach for his hand, your fingers interlacing with his. "I'm not good at this. I'm going to mess it up. But... I want to try. If you do."
He doesn't answer immediately. He looks at your joined hands, at the morning light catching on your skin, at the wreckage of the room around you.
"There's a show in LA," he says finally, his voice quiet. "In three months."
Your breath catches. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He looks up at you, his expression softening, something like a smile touching his mouth. "Maybe... maybe you could be there. In the audience. Not backstage, not hiding. Just... there. Watching."
"I could do that," you whisper, your heart hammering.
"And after," he continues, his thumb brushing your knuckles, "maybe we could get dinner. Somewhere public. Where people might see."
"Jungkook-"
"I want people to see," he says, his voice firmer now, his eyes holding yours. "I want them to know. I'm tired of hiding this. I'm tired of pretending you don't matter."
You stare at him, this boy who waited, who wanted, who finally let himself have you only to watch you leave. You think of three months, of phone calls and time zones and the particular ache of missing someone who exists in a different world.
"Okay," you say, the word barely audible. "Okay. I'll be there. Front row."
"Please," he counters, a ghost of his smirk returning. "I want to see your face when I sing."
"Deal."
You lean down, kiss him slow and careful, tasting the salt of tears neither of you shed, the promise of something you don't know how to keep. When you pull back, he's smiling, sad but real, his hand still holding yours like he's afraid to let go.
"Go," he says softly. "Before I convince you to stay."
"I don't need much convincing."
"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "That's what scares me."
You dress in silence, wearing the hoodie he gave you last night, your clothes scattered like breadcrumbs, evidence of what you did here. He watches from the bed, the sheet wrapped around his waist, his eyes following you like he's memorizing you, like he's already missing you.
At the door, you turn. He's still watching, his expression open, vulnerable, nothing like the boy who performs for millions.
"Three months," you say.
"Three months," he echoes.
You smile, small and real, and walk out the door before you can change your mind.
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The camera wobbles as he adjusts it on the hotel dresser, angling it toward the bed. He's shirtless, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep and something else, something sated and sad all at once. The morning light filters through the curtains, golden and lazy, illuminating the wreckage of the room - clothes on the floor, sheets tangled, evidence of a night he can't talk about.
"Morning routine," he says, his voice rough, still sleep-thick. "Vegas edition."
He moves through the room collecting things - his phone charger, a water bottle, the vintage camcorder he uses for everything. He doesn't make the bed. He doesn't notice the white bra peeking out from beneath the rumpled white sheets, the strap just visible, the lace detail catching the light.
He sits on the edge of the bed, the camera still rolling, and runs a hand through his hair. "Good show last night," he says, his smile small, private, meant for someone who isn't there. "Really good night."
He stands, stretches, his back to the camera, and the sheets shift, the bra sliding more fully into view - delicate, feminine, utterly wrong for a hotel room where a boy band member sleeps alone.
"Anyway," he says, turning back, oblivious. "Day four today, I'll see you all very soon." He reaches for the camera, hand covering the lens. "Cut."
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The video is everywhere within minutes. Screenshots, zoomed-in crops, slow-motion replays. The hashtag starts trending before lunch.
@/kookielover97: um. um. UM. WHAT IS THAT IN THE BED????
@/bangtantheories: THE SHEETS ARE WHITE. THE BRA IS WHITE. HE DIDNT EVEN NOTICE. HE POSTED THIS. HE ACTUALLY POSTED THIS.
@/jungkookbiased: zoom in. zoom in on the bed. second frame from the end. that is NOT a tank top. that is NOT his. WHOSE IS THAT
@/rkivesarchive: ENHANCE. ENHANCE. the lace detail. the strap width. that's a WOMEN'S bra. a women's BRA.
@/kookenthusiasts: he slept in that bed. someone else slept in that bed. HE SMILED LIKE THAT AND SOMEONE SLEPT IN THAT BED.
@/jimingotjams: the bra appears to be a standard white t-shirt bra, possibly Calvin Klein or similar mid-range brand. not expensive. not fancy. someone PRACTICAL was there
@/seokjinsfishingrod: practical. someone practical. someone who doesn't need to impress him. someone who already KNOWS him.
@/theorythread: let's analyze the timeline. he posted the vlog at 11am vegas time. his flight was at 2pm. that means he filmed this MORNING. after someone LEFT. the bed is unmade. the bra is UNDER the sheets. they SLEPT there. together
@/kookielover97: IM SO JEALOUS
@/bangtantheories: the smile. watch the smile again. that's not a performance smile. that's a "i got laid and i'm sad about it" smile. that's a "someone left me" smile. WHO LEFT YOU JUNGKOOK???
@/armydetective: the hoodie he was wearing in his last story. the oversized one. the MERCH one. someone was wearing it. someone was wearing HIS hoodie. and left their BRA.
@/tatasandtaetas: SHE TOOK THE HOODIE. SHE LEFT THE BRA. THIS IS CINEMA.
♤ ♡ ♧ ♢
The text comes through as you're above the clouds, the plane humming around you, his hoodie still soft against your skin. You pull out your phone, expecting a goodbye, a safe flight, something sweet.
Instead: a photo. His hand. Your bra - the white one you couldn't find this morning, the one you left behind in your hurry - wrapped in his fingers, the comments visible on his laptop screen in the background. No words. Just proof.
Then another text.
JK: 2.7 million views
JK: They found you
Your stomach drops. You open the link he sends and there it is - the vlog, the screenshot, the zoomed-in crop of white on white, your bra visible in the wreckage of the bed you shared. The comments are already endless. Bra girl. Who is she. Find her.
You: oh my god
You: jungkook you didn't notice???
JK: I noticed now
JK: I'm keeping it
JK: let them look. let them wonder. I know who you are
You stare at the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs, the hum of the plane filling your ears. Somewhere below, the internet is on fire. Somewhere behind you, he's holding onto the only piece of you he has left, refusing to let go.
JK: three months
JK: front row
JK: I'll see you there
You close your eyes, the phone warm in your hand, his words settling somewhere deep in your chest. Outside the window, clouds stretch endless and white. Ahead, Los Angeles waits. And three months from now, so does he.
the premise ✧ a forced vacation turns into an absolute nightmare when you catch your boyfriend of five years cheating on you at an exclusive VIP after-party. Shattered and desperate to escape, you find an unlikely and completely infuriating savior in Yang Jungwon—the devastatingly handsome, arrogant drummer you bickered with earlier that night.
✧ contains ✧ drummer / makeup artist dynamic, heavy angst, emotional betrayal, hurt / comfort, sarcastic but deeply protective male lead, unhinged flirty banter, drunken shenanigans, comedic panic, hilarious walk of shame, intense romantic tension, forced proximity, taking care of you while drunk
✧ trigger warning ✧ explicit infidelity / cheating (ex-boyfriend), emotional manipulation (by the ex), heavy alcohol consumption
wc 𖹭 14k
⤷ ゛chapter 1 ˎˊ
The silence of the room was dense, almost suffocating in its absolute stillness. Lately, your reality had been a relentless, kinetic blur—an exhausting cacophony of early morning alarms, the grating friction of your oversized luggage wheels dragging across unforgiving pavements, and the chaotic energy of crowded dressing rooms. As a makeup artist in constant demand, your life had been measured in meticulously blended palettes and punishing itineraries, moving seamlessly from one demanding client to the next with barely a fraction of a second to draw a steady, conscious breath.
Now, perched on the edge of the plush hotel bed with the coastal sun pooling warm and golden across the linens, the sudden absence of urgency felt entirely alien. A profound lethargy seeped into your bones, yet your mind remained agonizingly wired. You stared down at your hands, half-expecting your fingers to twitch, reaching for a powder brush out of sheer, unadulterated muscle memory.
It’s supposed to be a vacation, you thought, the silence of the suite feeling vast and disjointed. So why does this tranquility feel so much like an ambush?
Your gaze shifted, drifting toward the nightstand and landing inevitably on the sleek, cold surface of your phone. It sat there, stubbornly blank. You reached out, your thumb tapping the glass with a hesitant rhythm. The screen flared to life, illuminating the time, the date, and an aching, hollow void where a notification ought to have been.
Nothing. Not a single word from Sunghoon.
You let out a frayed sigh, pulling your knees tightly to your chest in an attempt to anchor yourself. The chasm between the two of you had been expanding for a while now, a quiet, creeping frost that had systematically settled over the foundation of your relationship. You had rationalized it, naturally. You were both drowning in the turbulent waters of your respective ambitions. You were perpetually on the road, masking other people's exhaustion while ignoring your own, and his life was entirely consumed by the ice.
As a figure skating coach, Sunghoon's days began long before dawn, his hours dictated by relentless training schedules, impending competitions, and the heavy expectations placed upon his athletes. His world was one of rigid discipline and sub-zero temperatures, and lately, it felt as though that same biting chill had seeped into the very fabric of your shared life.
It’s just the nature of our careers right now, you had told yourself repeatedly, clinging to the excuse like a lifeline. We’re just overwhelmed. We’re merely out of sync.
But as you stared at the glaring emptiness of the lock screen, those carefully constructed rationalizations began to disintegrate, leaving behind a sharp, undeniable sting of rejection. It wasn't merely the absence of a superficial morning greeting; it was the palpable erosion of your intimacy. You were finally still, the relentless noise of your professional life temporarily muted, and in this newfound, terrifying quiet, his absence was the loudest sound of all.
Am I the only one still trying to hold onto this fraying thread? you wondered, a bitter lump forming in your throat. Does he even realize I'm gone?
You flipped the phone face-down onto the mattress, as if obscuring the screen could somehow neutralize the heavy, sinking weight in your chest. This getaway was supposed to be a desperate attempt to recalibrate, to scrub the residual burnout from your system. Instead, the isolation was merely amplifying the fractures in your life you had been too busy to notice.
Miles away, submerged in an entirely different frequency of chaos, the backstage of the venue thrummed with heavy, electric anticipation. The muffled, rhythmic roar of the crowd seeped through the concrete walls—a sound that usually sparked nerves, but tonight, it only fueled the warm, familiar camaraderie simmering in the cramped dressing room.
Jungwon sat slouched behind a makeshift practice pad, absentmindedly twirling a pair of hickory drumsticks between his nimble fingers. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the wood against rubber served as a grounding heartbeat beneath the noise. He felt entirely in his element, anchored by the steady presence of the people around him.
"You're going to need a personal security detail tonight, Jungwon-ah," Jay suddenly quipped, breaking the comfortable silence. He was leaning against a battered leather sofa, his fingers effortlessly running through a complex blues scale on his unplugged Stratocaster. He looked up, an amused glint in his sharp eyes as he appraised their drummer. "With the way your shoulders are looking these days, the girls in the front row are going to completely lose their minds the second you take your jacket off."
From the opposite corner of the room, Beomgyu snorted in agreement. The deep, resonant vibration of his bass guitar briefly rattled the loose floorboards as he joined the banter. "Seriously, it’s getting out of hand," Beomgyu teased, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief. "Are you trying to be a musician or a professional bodybuilder? Have some mercy and leave a little bit of the spotlight for the rest of us."
Even Yujin, the youngest, who was meticulously taping down the wires of his keyboard, paused to offer a bright, knowing giggle, fully enjoying the spectacle of his older members teaming up.
Jungwon rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked any real defensive heat. The affection in the room was palpable, a thick, invisible thread of brotherhood that tied them all together through countless late-night rehearsals and grueling tours. He looked down at his drumsticks, attempting to compose his expression into one of humble indifference.
"It’s really not like that, Beomgyu hyung," Jungwon countered smoothly. He tossed a drumstick into the air and caught it with practiced, effortless precision. "And you're exaggerating, Jay hyung. I’m just trying to prioritize a healthier lifestyle, that's all. Stamina is the most important thing for a drummer, you know. I have to keep up with the setlist."
He delivered the excuse with a nonchalant shrug, aiming for sheer modesty. Yet, despite his best efforts to downplay the compliments, a telltale dimple pressed into his cheek. A distinct, feline curve of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—a subtle, unapologetically proud smirk that completely betrayed his satisfaction with his own hard-earned discipline.
"Right. A healthier lifestyle," Jay deadpanned, exchanging a knowing, brotherly look with Beomgyu. "Make sure you tell that to the tight, sleeveless shirts you suddenly favor."
"Just focus on your tuning, Yujin, don't listen to them," Jungwon shot back playfully, pointing a drumstick at the keyboardist to deflect the teasing.
A collective burst of laughter echoed through the small space, cutting through the pre-show adrenaline. Jungwon leaned back, letting the familiar, affectionate mockery wash over him. In the high-stakes, unpredictable world of performing, this dynamic—this unshakeable bond and easy laughter—was his sanctuary. It was a stark, vibrant contrast to the isolating quiet he had known before they formed the band, an energetic warmth that made him feel entirely, undeniably alive.
The pulsing, rhythmic vibration of the venue’s soundcheck reverberated through the plush carpet of the VIP lounge, doing absolutely nothing to settle your restless nerves. You wandered aimlessly past an array of velvet booths and softly lit bars, a complimentary, all-access platinum lanyard hanging around your neck like an unfamiliar weight. Your most lucrative client, one of the event’s primary sponsors, had insisted you take it. "Live a little," she had demanded.
Yet, as you navigated the sea of impeccably dressed industry insiders and overly enthusiastic elites, you had never felt more entirely out of your element. The idleness was a physical itch. At this exact hour, you should be gripping a setting spray, barking time warnings, and managing three different crises at once. Instead, you were aimlessly circling an open bar, completely clueless about the band playing tonight, and agonizingly aware of your own unproductivity.
I should just go back to the hotel and organize my brushes, you thought, aggressively swiping a stray hair out of your face while looking down at your stubbornly silent phone. At least that makes sense.
You took a sharp, frustrated turn down a dimly lit corridor leading toward the private balconies.
Thud.
The collision was abrupt and solid, jarring the breath right out of your lungs. You stumbled backward, dropping your phone in the process, your hands instinctively flying out to steady yourself against what felt remarkably like a brick wall disguised in a tailored leather jacket.
"Whoa, careful there."
A hand shot out, gripping your elbow with lightning-fast reflexes to keep you from hitting the floor. You blinked, your vision refocusing on the person you had just essentially tackled.
He was standing there with a half-empty glass of iced Americano in his free hand, miraculously unspilled. He had sharp, distinctly feline eyes that were currently observing you with an infuriatingly high level of amusement. But it was the smirk—a slow, arrogant curving of his lips that pressed a deep dimple into his cheek—that immediately sent a hot flash of irritation shooting up your spine.
"Usually, people ask for an autograph or at least pretend to ask for directions before they throw themselves at me," he noted smoothly, his voice laced with a thick, teasing drawl. He released your arm, taking a deliberate sip of his drink as he looked you up and down. "But I admire the direct approach. Very bold."
You stared at him, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the statement. "Excuse me?" you sputtered, the absurdity of the situation temporarily overriding your usual polite professionalism. "I didn't throw myself at you. You were standing in the middle of a blind corner like a decorative pillar."
His smirk widened, transforming into something incredibly dangerous and unmistakably smug. Jungwon shifted his weight, leaning casually against the wall as if he had all the time in the world, despite being scheduled to take the stage in less than twenty minutes. He found this genuinely hilarious.
"A decorative pillar," he repeated, rolling the words around as if tasting them. He let out a short, breathy chuckle. "That's a new one. I'm usually told I'm the main attraction. Are you lost, or is this a new strategy to get my attention?"
You let out a dry, exasperated breath, stooping down to snatch your phone off the carpet. You genuinely had no idea who this guy was. To you, he was just another overly confident VIP guest with a great bone structure and an ego the size of the arena outside.
"Trust me, the last thing on earth I want right now is your attention," you fired back, dusting off the screen of your phone. You looked back up at him, narrowing your eyes. "And for the record, if I were trying to get someone's attention, I wouldn't do it by nearly giving myself a concussion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find somewhere to sit where I won't be ambushed by walking ego trips."
Instead of looking offended, Jungwon’s eyes practically sparkled with mischief. You had just handed him a golden opportunity, and as a natural-born provocateur, he was absolutely not going to let it slide.
"Walking ego trips? Ouch. You wound me," he deadpanned, placing a hand flat against his chest in mock offense, though the arrogant twinkle in his eye completely ruined the act. He took a deliberate step closer, blocking your path just enough to be a menace. "You really have no idea who I am, do you?"
"Should I?" you challenged, crossing your arms defensively. "Are you the bartender? Because unless you're planning to hand me a drink to make up for my near-death experience, you're just standing in my way."
Jungwon threw his head back and let out a genuine, booming laugh that echoed off the hallway walls. The sound was bright, contrasting sharply with his menacing demeanor.
"The bartender," he managed to say, catching his breath as he looked at you with renewed, highly entertained interest. He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping an octave into a low, conspiratorial whisper that sent an involuntary shiver down your arms. "Tell you what. You go find your seat out there. And when the show starts, you can decide for yourself if I look better mixing a cocktail or making thirty thousand people scream."
Before you could even process the ridiculous weight of that statement, he offered you a final, devastatingly cheeky wink, effortlessly sidestepped you, and sauntered down the hall toward the backstage doors, leaving you standing there utterly bewildered and fiercely annoyed.
Who on earth does he think he is? you fumed internally, your heart suddenly hammering an entirely different, erratic rhythm against your ribs.
You had every intention of remaining utterly unimpressed. You braced yourself against the plush backrest of your seat, folding your arms into a tight, defensive knot, fully prepared to maintain a fortress of cynicism for the remainder of the setlist. But the moment the first heavy, resonant kick drum reverberated through the colossal speakers, your defiance began to violently fracture. It wasn't merely music; it was a physical force, a tidal wave of kinetic energy that bypassed your ears and crashed directly against your ribs, demanding to be felt.
Despite your desperate efforts to focus on the intricate guitar riffs or the blinding, kaleidoscopic lasers sweeping the arena, your gaze was magnetically, almost betrayingly, pulled back to the center of the stage.
Up there, surrounded by a fortress of cymbals and snares, Jungwon was a completely different entity. The arrogant provocateur from the dimly lit hallway had vanished, seamlessly replaced by an artist entirely consumed by his own orbit. He didn't just play the instrument; he commanded it. His entire body moved with a fluid, explosive grace, anchoring the band with a masterclass in controlled chaos.
What frustrated you the most wasn’t his undeniable, raw talent—it was his lethal awareness of it. He possessed a terrifyingly precise understanding of his own gravity. Whenever the wandering live cameras panned to his face, projecting his larger-than-life image onto the massive screens flanking the stage, he knew exactly how to act. A subtle, dangerous tilt of his head, a fierce, piercing glare through his sweat-dampened fringe, a fleeting bite of his lower lip before launching into a blistering drum fill—every micro-expression was a calculated strike, brilliantly engineered to whip the crowd into a state of absolute delirium. He was effortlessly pulling the strings of thirty thousand heartbeats, and he was entirely, unapologetically reveling in the power of it.
You found yourself leaning forward, the ice in your glass melting completely forgotten as the heavy rhythm began to dictate your own pulse.
Then, the tempo abruptly shifted. The rest of the band pulled back, their instruments fading out as the stage was suddenly submerged in a heavy, expectant darkness. A single, piercing white spotlight crashed down from the rafters, isolating Jungwon on his raised riser. The arena fell into a breathless, collective hush.
For a fraction of a second, he sat perfectly still. His chest heaved heavily with exertion, the wooden sticks resting lightly, almost reverently, against the snare. He tilted his head back, peering up into the blinding light, and then—it happened.
A smile broke across his sweat-dampened face. But it wasn’t the sharp, mocking smirk that had infuriated you in the dimly lit hallway. It was a radiant, entirely unguarded grin of pure, unfiltered euphoria. It was so impossibly wide and genuine that it carved a deep, devastating dimple into his cheek.
That single, charming indentation was completely jarring. It violently contradicted his fierce, untouchable aura, softening the sharp, aggressive angles of his jaw and revealing a boyish, breathless joy that was deeply, dangerously magnetic. Under the harsh glare of the stage lights, that little dip in his cheek felt like a secret he was unconsciously sharing with the entire arena.
You felt a sudden, traitorous warmth bloom in your chest, a strange, fluttering sensation that completely short-circuited your brain. It was infuriatingly unfair. How could one tiny, endearing feature possess the power to so thoroughly dismantle your irritation? You could actually feel your meticulously constructed defenses melting away, leaving a helpless, fluttering ache in the pit of your stomach as you stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated passion radiating from that dimpled smile was so intensely attractive it made your head spin.
And then, before you could even process the sudden softening of your own heart, he unleashed hell.
The drum solo was a staggering, thunderous assault on the senses. It was a blinding blur of motion, an intricate, impossibly fast barrage of rhythm that sounded like a collapsing thunderstorm. The sheer velocity and power of his strikes filled every cubic inch of the venue, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling the breath right out of your lungs. He was a force of nature, his sculpted arms flexing and straining with every brutal, rapid-fire hit, yet that beautiful, breathless smile never quite left his face. He was entirely consumed by the music, a manic, brilliant blur of passion and precision.
The raw, primal intensity of it, juxtaposed with the lingering memory of that sweet, euphoric dimple, was utterly intoxicating.
As he struck the final, shattering crash cymbal, throwing his head back as the sound exploded outward, the arena erupted into a roar so deafening it felt apocalyptic.
Up in the safety of the balcony, your arms had long since uncrossed. Your hands were gripping the velvet armrests so tightly your knuckles had turned a stark white. You sat entirely paralyzed, your lips parted in silent shock, your heart hammering a frantic, echoing response to the rhythm he had just laid down. The sheer magnitude of his stage presence had completely obliterated your annoyance, leaving behind a terrifying, breathless awe.
Dammit, you thought, letting out a shaky, defeated exhale as you stared at the panting, wildly triumphant figure on the jumbotrons, your chest still tight from the way he had just smiled. He really is that dangerous.
The blinding surge of the arena’s house lights snapping back on felt almost violent, instantly shattering the hypnotic, electric spell that had held the entire venue captive. The deafening roar of the crowd slowly dissolved into a chaotic, buzzing murmur as thirty thousand people began moving toward the exits. Up in the VIP balcony, you remained frozen in your seat, your ears still ringing with the phantom echo of that final, earth-shattering cymbal crash.
You slowly exhaled, your trembling hands finally releasing their death grip on the velvet armrests. The adrenaline was beginning to drain from your system, leaving behind a strange, hollow exhaustion and a lingering flutter in your chest that you were desperately trying to ignore. You reached into your bag, intending to gather your belongings and make a swift, solitary escape back to the agonizing quiet of your hotel room.
Before your fingers could even brush the fabric of your coat, the sharp, continuous vibration of your phone jolted you out of your daze.
You froze. A sudden, pathetic jolt of electricity shot straight to your heart.
Sunghoon.
It had to be him. It was late, his grueling training sessions on the ice were likely over, and he was finally, finally checking in. Your hand actually trembled as you dug the device out of your bag, your mind already racing with a dozen different ways to respond to his delayed apologies. You were ready to be a little cold, a little distant, just to let him know how much his absence had stung all day.
You pulled the phone out and flipped the screen over.
Your shoulders instantly slumped. The breath you had been holding deflated into a dry, bitter sigh.
Meh.
It wasn't Sunghoon. Not even close. The glaring caller ID flashed with the name of your most lucrative client—the primary festival sponsor, a woman whose wealth and influence practically dictated the entire city's social calendar.
Swallowing the heavy, acidic lump of disappointment, you aggressively blinked away the sting behind your eyes. You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to adopt its usual, polished professional cadence. "Hello? I just wanted to say thank you for the tickets, the show was—"
"I need you," she interrupted, her voice entirely stripped of its usual refined composure. She sounded breathless, frantic, and dangerously close to a meltdown. "Please tell me you brought your emergency kit on this trip. Tell me it's in your hotel room."
You frowned, sitting up straighter as your professional instincts ruthlessly overrode your lingering post-concert haze and relationship woes. "I always travel with a condensed kit. Why? What’s going on? Are you hurt?"
"Not hurt, just entirely ruined!" she gasped, the sheer panic in her tone piercing through the poor cellular connection. "My makeup artist for the after-party just canceled. A family emergency, completely unavoidable, but I am hosting the absolute highest-tier VVIPs tonight and my face is melting off from the humidity in this private viewing box. I am begging you. I know you are on a strict vacation mandate, but I will pay you triple your usual rate. Quadruple. Write your own check, I do not care."
I’m supposed to be on vacation, you thought, a profound wave of weariness washing over you. I am supposed to be resting.
You closed your eyes, pressing two fingers against your throbbing temples. You could easily say no. You were legally, contractually, and physically entitled to say no and walk away. But as you pictured the deafening silence of your hotel suite—the unread messages, the glaring absence of your boyfriend, and the dangerously confusing memories of a certain dimpled drummer that were threatening to occupy your mind—the chaotic, demanding familiarities of your job suddenly felt like a lifeline.
Work was safe. Work was a realm where you had absolute control.
If I go back to that room alone tonight, I’m just going to drown in my own head, you realized with a heavy, sinking clarity.
"Take a deep breath," you instructed, your voice instantly dropping an octave into the steady, authoritative tone that made you so highly sought after in the industry. The reluctance melted away, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. "Where are you heading to prep?"
"The Imperial Penthouse at the Four Seasons," she breathed out, a profound wave of relief suddenly washing over her words. "I already have my security detail waiting for you at the VIP exit. They will drive you straight to your hotel to grab your kit, and then escort you directly to my suite."
Of course she did. She was a billionaire; she moved cities, not just cars.
"Have a double espresso waiting for me," you replied dryly, already standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Give me exactly twenty-five minutes. Don't touch your face, don't even wipe your forehead. I'll fix it."
You ended the call, slipping the phone back into your pocket. The lethargy that had plagued you all morning was entirely gone, incinerated by the sudden spark of purpose. You weren't a lost, lonely girlfriend waiting around for a text anymore. With your shoulders squared and your mind rapidly cataloging foundation shades, you turned on your heel and marched toward the exit, ready to dive headfirst back into the high-stakes mess you knew best.
However, as you navigated the labyrinthine, dimly lit corridors leading toward the VIP exit doors, a sudden shift in the crowd's current forced you to halt. A formidable wall of broad-shouldered venue security was advancing down the hall, aggressively carving a clear path through the lingering event staff.
It was the band.
They walked with the exhausted, buzzing swagger of musicians fresh off a triumphant set. You caught a fleeting glimpse of Jay laughing heartily at something Beomgyu said, but your breath completely hitched in your throat when your gaze inevitably landed on the figure trailing slightly behind them.
Jungwon.
He had a white towel slung carelessly around his neck, his dark, sweat-dampened hair clinging messily to his forehead. The ferocious, untouchable performer from the stage was gone, replaced once again by the dangerously observant provocateur from the lounge. And as if guided by some infuriating, deeply cursed magnetic radar, his sharp, feline eyes flicked through the bustling corridor and locked precisely onto yours.
Time seemed to maliciously slow down. You froze in your tracks, the heavy makeup kit in your mind momentarily forgotten.
He didn't break stride, but the exact second he recognized you, that devastatingly arrogant, deeply indented smirk crept right back onto his face. He maintained the eye contact, holding your gaze captive as he tilted his head just a fraction, raising a single, teasing eyebrow. He didn't have to utter a single syllable; the cocky, triumphant message was broadcasted loud and clear across the hallway.
Well? Do I look better making thirty thousand people scream? You definitely know exactly who I am now, don't you?
It was the most overwhelmingly confident, silent 'I told you so' in the history of human communication.
A hot, prickly flush of pure, concentrated indignation spiked violently in your chest. Cih, you scoffed internally, your jaw clenching so tightly it actually ached. He is absolutely, unapologetically unbearable.
Refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered, you shot him the most lethal, aggressively unimpressed glare you could muster. You lifted your chin defensively, pivoted sharply on your heel, and marched straight out the double glass doors into the cool night air, desperately trying to ignore the phantom echo of his smug, knowing chuckle trailing right behind you.
The heavy, soundproof doors of the green room finally clicked shut, abruptly severing the chaotic, buzzing noise of the backstage corridors. The instant they were enclosed in the familiar, dimly lit sanctuary of their dressing room, the collective adrenaline that had sustained them began to rapidly crash, giving way to a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
Beomgyu was the first to surrender, collapsing onto the sprawling leather sectional with a dramatic, breathless groan, his long limbs sprawling out to claim maximum territory. Jay followed suit, leaning heavily against the vanity counter, though a sharp, immensely satisfied grin still played on his lips. He grabbed a chilled bottle of water from the cooler and tossed it across the room with practiced aim.
Jungwon caught it effortlessly, a breathless chuckle escaping his chest as he sank into the plush armchair in the corner. He draped the white towel over his head, using it to aggressively dry his damp hair, completely shedding the ferocious, untouchable persona he had worn on stage.
"I'm filing a formal, written complaint with management," Beomgyu announced to the ceiling, his voice raspy but dripping with theatrical grievance. "We need to put a legal cap on how much raw energy the drummer is allowed to exude. Did you guys see him during the bridge? I felt like an extra in his personal documentary. You were absolutely glowing out there, you little menace."
Jay tipped his head back, letting out a rich, resonant laugh that instantly warmed the cramped space. "I warned you," he said, gesturing toward Jungwon with the neck of his own water bottle. "I told you the sleeveless shirt, combined with whatever possessed him tonight, was going to be an occupational hazard for the rest of us. You didn't just play the drums today, Jungwon-ah. You absolutely devoured the entire arena. I’ve never seen you that dangerously dialed in."
Even Yujin, who was usually the quietest during their post-show comedowns, nodded vigorously from his spot on the rug where he was stretching out his wrists. He looked up at Jungwon with wide, unmasked admiration. "Seriously, Jungwon hyung. It was like you were in a completely different dimension. The crowd was eating out of the palm of your hand. I almost missed my chord progression because I was too busy watching you completely destroy that solo."
Jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a faint, embarrassed pink beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The arrogant, teasing provocateur who had ruthlessly taunted a stranger in the hallway completely dissolved, leaving only the genuine, grounded core of who he was when he was surrounded by his brothers.
"You guys are heavily exaggerating," Jungwon mumbled, attempting to project a shield of humble indifference, though the bright, undeniable joy in his feline eyes betrayed him completely. He took a long sip of water, the cold liquid soothing his raw throat. "The crowd's energy was just incredible tonight. It's easy to lose yourself when they give so much back."
"Don't deflect, you brat," Jay teased gently, walking over to push Jungwon's damp fringe out of his eyes with a heavy, affectionate hand. The older guitarist’s gaze was exceptionally soft, entirely stripped of any rockstar pretense. "You were the absolute anchor tonight. You held us all together. You always do, but tonight... tonight was entirely your orbit."
A warm, profound sense of contentment settled heavily in Jungwon's chest, a feeling far more intoxicating than the roaring adulation of thirty thousand strangers. This—this messy, exhausted, deeply loyal camaraderie—was his true sanctuary. Looking at Beomgyu now bickering playfully with Yujin over who deserved the first turn in the shower, and feeling the steady, grounding weight of Jay’s hand on his shoulder, Jungwon felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude for the chaotic family they had forged through years of relentless practice and shared dreams.
He let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning back into the cushions as that signature, deep dimple pressed back into his cheek. The adrenaline was finally fading, his muscles were throbbing with a dull ache, and somewhere in the city, an incredibly stubborn, angry girl with a makeup kit was probably still cursing his very existence.
But sitting right here, entirely enveloped by the loud, comforting banter of the people who knew him best, Jungwon had absolutely never felt more at home.
The Imperial Penthouse at the Four Seasons was a sprawling, opulent sanctuary of polished marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the glittering city skyline. Yet, to you, it was merely another workspace. The moment you had crossed the threshold, the residual adrenaline from the concert and the lingering irritation sparked by a certain dimpled drummer had been ruthlessly locked away.
You had your condensed kit splayed meticulously across the massive vanity, your hands moving with the swift, practiced, and almost surgical precision that justified your exorbitant rates. Your client sat before the brightly lit mirror, sipping her promised double espresso, the frantic panic from her phone call completely subdued by the rhythmic, soothing sweep of your brushes.
"I seriously do not know what I would do without you," she sighed, leaning back slightly as you expertly blended a flawless, velvet-matte contour along her jawline. "You are an absolute artist. A literal lifesaver."
"Just doing my job," you replied softly, your voice a calm, professional murmur as you reached for a setting powder.
"Oh, please. Don't be modest," she dismissed with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand, peering at your reflection through the mirror. She observed you for a moment, her sharp eyes taking in your focused expression. "Tell me something. A woman as stunning, successful, and incredibly talented as you... you must have someone. A boyfriend? A fiancé hiding somewhere?"
You paused, just for a fraction of a second, tapping the excess powder off your brush. "I do. A boyfriend. We've been together for four and a half years. Approaching five, actually."
The client arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a look of genuine, unfiltered incredulity crossing her features. "Five years? And no ring?" She let out a short, elegant scoff. "Darling, if a man manages to catch a woman like you—someone with her own empire, her own talent—and hasn't rushed to permanently lock that down by year three, what exactly is he doing with his time? You are absolutely not someone a man should keep waiting."
Thump.
The words weren't laced with malice—they were merely draped in the casual, unapologetic bluntness of a billionaire who always demanded exactly what she wanted precisely when she wanted it. Yet, the question struck the very center of your chest with the devastating, visceral force of a physical blow.
Your hand, hovering just inches from her cheekbone with a velvet powder puff, imperceptibly froze. The air in the lavish penthouse suddenly felt infinitely thinner, a suffocating tightness wrapping around your ribs.
Five years.
The number echoed loudly, mockingly, in the hollow chambers of your mind. It sounded like an absolute eternity, a monumental testament to loyalty and endurance. But right now, beneath the glaring vanity lights, it didn't feel like a milestone. It felt like an anchor. It felt as though you had been fiercely treading water in the exact same spot for months, exhausting yourself just to keep your head above the surface while the current threatened to drag you under.
The client's offhand remark violently tore a specific, deeply buried memory from the recesses of your mind, playing it behind your eyes with agonizing clarity.
It was your third anniversary. You were sitting in a dimly lit, impossibly expensive restaurant. The soft, flickering glow of the tabletop candle had reflected beautifully in Sunghoon’s dark, intense eyes as he reached across the white linen tablecloth to envelop your hands in his. He hadn't held a velvet box that night, but his voice had possessed an earnest, desperate conviction that had completely stolen your breath.
“Just a little longer,” he had murmured, his thumb drawing gentle, comforting circles into your knuckles. “Once this Olympic qualifying cycle is over, once my skaters are set and the pressure drops. I promise, I’m going to marry you, okay? I know it's hard right now, but I won't make you wait much longer. You're everything to me.”
You had believed him. You had anchored your entire heart to that promise, wearing it like an invisible shield against the lonely nights and the canceled dates.
But the qualifying cycle ended. And then a new season began. Then a grand prix. Then a national championship.
The desperate, passionate promises of your third anniversary had slowly, silently dissolved into the background noise of his early morning rink schedules and your perpetual, grueling itineraries. The vibrant, all-consuming love you once shared hadn't exploded; it had simply, tragically calcified into a quiet, heavily scheduled routine of polite texts and missed calls.
What exactly is he doing with his time?
The question violently rattled against the fragile cage of your composure. You were halfway across the country on a forced vacation you hadn't even wanted to take, staring at a phone screen that had remained stubbornly, devastatingly blank all day. You were absolutely no closer to that beautiful promise than you had been two years ago. The realization was a sudden, freezing plunge into ice water.
You weren't waiting anymore. You were just stuck.
Pull yourself together, a desperate, frantic voice commanded in your head. Do not fall apart here. Not now.
You swallowed hard, your throat clicking painfully as you forced the suffocating lump down. You took a slow, steadying breath, pulling a masterfully crafted, polite smile onto your lips as your professional facade slipped flawlessly back into place.
"We're both just incredibly focused on our respective careers right now," you replied smoothly, your voice miraculously level despite the violent tremor tearing through your heart. The lie tasted like dry ash on your tongue. "Timing is everything, I suppose."
"Hm. If you say so," the client murmured, closing her eyes as you gently pressed the powder puff beneath them. "Just remember, darling. Talent like yours shouldn't be put on standby for anyone."
You didn't answer her. You merely lowered your eyes, focusing entirely on the flawless canvas of her skin, fighting an agonizing, silent war against the sudden, burning sting of tears threatening your vision.
With a final, feather-light sweep of a fluffy brush across her cheekbones, you took a deliberate step back, letting the warm, ambient light of the penthouse catch the flawless, velvet finish you had just orchestrated.
"You're all set," you announced quietly. The sharp, mechanical snap of your makeup kit closing echoed in the sprawling room, signaling the end of your temporary distraction.
The client leaned closer to the illuminated mirror, turning her head from side to side. The frantic, overwhelmed woman from the phone call was entirely gone, replaced by a radiant, untouchable powerhouse ready to command a room. She let out a breathy, immensely satisfied laugh.
"Magnificent," she declared, picking up a diamond-encrusted clutch from the vanity. She turned to face you, her sharp eyes scanning your slightly rumpled, practical work clothes, before a brilliant, commanding smile took over her features. "Leave the kit here. You can send the hotel staff to fetch it tomorrow. You are coming down to the after-party with me."
You blinked, caught completely off guard by the sudden invitation. Your hands instinctively tightened around the handle of your case. "Oh, no, thank you," you replied quickly, shaking your head with a polite, practiced smile. "I really shouldn't. You're hosting VVIPs, and I’m barely dressed for a hotel lobby, let alone an exclusive event. I just want to head back to my room and—"
"And do what?" she interrupted, her tone dropping its harsh edge, softening into something surprisingly observant. "Sit in a painfully quiet suite and overthink about a man who is making you wait?"
The bluntness of her words completely knocked the wind out of you. You parted your lips to offer a defensive, professional retort, to politely insist that you were perfectly fine, but the words withered and died in your throat.
Because she was absolutely right.
If you went back to your hotel room right now, you knew exactly what was waiting for you. The dense, suffocating silence. The plush, empty bed. And the sleek, cold surface of your phone, sitting on the nightstand, utterly devoid of a single message from Sunghoon. If you went back to that isolation, the fragile dam holding back your crushing realization about the last five years of your life would completely shatter. You would be left drowning in your own tears, suffocating under the weight of broken promises and cold realities.
You didn't want to think anymore. You didn't want to rationalize his absence, and you absolutely did not want to feel the hollow, aching loneliness that had become your constant companion.
You desperately needed noise. You needed chaos, loud music, and a room so incredibly crowded that you wouldn't have the space to feel sorry for yourself.
"I..." you started, your voice wavering slightly before you forced it to steady. You slowly let go of the handle of your makeup kit, letting it rest on the marble counter. You looked down at your simple attire—a sleek, black long-sleeved top and tailored trousers. It wasn't a designer gown, but it was chic enough to blend into the shadows.
You let out a long, heavy exhale, consciously releasing the agonizing tension that had been locked in your shoulders for hours.
"You know what? Fine," you finally conceded, a bitter, exhausted smile touching the corners of your lips. "I suppose I could use a drink. Or three."
"That is the spirit, darling!" she beamed, immediately looping her arm through yours with a surprisingly warm familiarity, dragging you toward the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse. "We are going to get you a glass of the most absurdly expensive champagne they have. Tonight is about celebrating, not waiting around."
As you stepped into the private elevator and watched the floor numbers plummet toward the VIP lounge, you closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool glass wall. You were going to turn your brain entirely off tonight. No thoughts of figure skating, no agonizing over unanswered texts, and absolutely no dwelling on the past.
You were just going to let the heavy, pulsating rhythm of the night wash away the exhaustion, completely unaware that the very same rhythm you were seeking out was currently being celebrated by a certain dimpled drummer in the exact same room downstairs.
The sprawling VIP lounge of the Four Seasons had been transformed into an exclusive, sensory overload. Heavy, pulsating bass thumped through the floorboards, reverberating against your ribs the moment you stepped out of the private elevator. The room was a dizzying kaleidoscope of low amber lighting, clinking crystal glasses, and the suffocating perfume of the city's absolute elite.
True to her word, your client had immediately procured you a glass of champagne that likely cost more than your monthly rent, before instantly being swallowed by a sea of socialites and industry executives.
Left to your own devices, you retreated to the edge of the sprawling marble bar, taking a long, deliberate sip of the sparkling liquid. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat, a desperately needed anchor in the midst of the chaos. You closed your eyes for a brief second, allowing the sheer volume of the room to drown out the relentless, agonizing ticking of your own thoughts.
"You know, for someone who claimed to have zero interest in my existence, you certainly have a habit of magically appearing wherever I am."
The smooth, impossibly confident drawl slid through the heavy noise, sending a sudden, involuntary spark of irritation straight down your spine.
You didn't even need to turn your head to know who it was. You opened your eyes, letting out a dry, exasperated sigh before slowly pivoting on your heel.
Jungwon was leaning casually against the bar right next to you. The sweat-drenched intensity of his stage performance had been washed away, replaced by an effortlessly sharp, off-duty aesthetic. He was wearing a relaxed, unbuttoned silk shirt that practically breathed arrogance, and in his hand, he held a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid.
He took a slow sip, his sharp, feline eyes trailing over your simple, practical attire with an agonizingly slow, deliberate assessment. And then, right on cue, that infuriating, devastatingly deep dimple made its appearance as a smug smirk stretched across his face.
"Following me now?" he teased, tilting his head slightly, completely unfazed by the lethal glare you were currently directing at him. "Or did you finally decide to take my advice and come see if I look better mixing cocktails?"
"I would rather drink battery acid than watch you do anything," you fired back instantly, your voice dripping with a polished, icy sweetness. "And for the record, I was dragged here by a client. If I had known this was the designated watering hole for inflated egos, I would have stayed in my room."
Jungwon let out a bright, booming laugh that genuinely startled you, the sound rich and warm against the chaotic backdrop of the party. He leaned in a fraction closer, invading your personal space with a practiced, predatory grace.
"Ouch. Still so combative," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, teasing register. "You must have a terrible poker face. Because from where I was sitting up on that stage, it looked an awful lot like you couldn't take your eyes off me."
Before you could unleash the scathing retort currently burning on your tongue, a heavily manicured hand suddenly clamped down firmly onto your shoulder.
"Darling! There you are!"
Your client materialized beside you, her eyes practically sparkling with the thrill of the party. She looked between you and Jungwon, the sudden, sharp silence between you two immediately registering on her highly attuned social radar. She took in Jungwon’s leaning posture, his teasing smirk, and your flushed, thoroughly aggravated expression.
A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.
"Well, well," she purred, her gaze lingering on Jungwon with an appreciative nod before snapping back to you. "I leave you alone for five minutes, and you've already found the most magnetic boy in the room. I must say, the sheer tension between you two is absolutely palpable. You look remarkably good together. A very... volatile match."
What?
Your jaw practically unhinged. "No—we are not—he is just—" you stammered, the professional, composed facade you had maintained all day completely shattering under the weight of her ridiculous observation.
Jungwon, of course, was thoroughly enjoying your misery. He didn't bother to correct her. Instead, he simply offered your client a devastatingly charming, polite bow. "Thank you, ma'am. She’s just a little shy."
"I am going to actually kill you," you hissed under your breath, your cheeks burning with a hot, furious flush as he threw you a triumphant wink.
"Oh, youth," the client laughed, utterly oblivious to the silent war waging between you. She tapped your arm lightly. "I need to go greet the CEO of Zenith Holdings, they just arrived. Mingle, darling! Live a little!"
With that, she swept away into the crowd, leaving you stranded once again with the very source of your mounting headache.
"A volatile match," Jungwon repeated thoughtfully, swirling the ice in his glass as he looked at you with renewed amusement. "I like the sound of that."
"I need air," you muttered, abruptly placing your champagne flute onto the marble counter with a sharp clink. You couldn't do this. The sheer force of his personality was demanding too much energy from a battery that was already dangerously depleted. "Do not follow me."
You didn't wait for his response. You turned your back on his infuriatingly attractive smirk and pushed your way through the dense crowd, desperate to find a quiet corner. You slipped through a set of heavy glass doors that led out to the sprawling, dimly lit corridors wrapping around the venue.
The deafening noise of the party instantly muffled into a dull, distant thrum. The hallway was relatively empty, lined with decorative pillars and shadowed alcoves.
You let out a shaky, exhausted breath, pressing your palms against your heated cheeks as you walked aimlessly down the corridor.
Just calm down, you told yourself, the heavy silence finally allowing your intrusive thoughts to rush back in. Where are you, Sunghoon? Why won't you just look at your phone?
"Are you sure nobody is going to walk past?"
The voice was faint, a hushed, sultry whisper drifting from a shadowed alcove just a few feet ahead of you.
You froze. Your blood turned instantly to ice.
"My father's security has the main elevators blocked off," a man's voice murmured back. The tone was low, dripping with a dark, intoxicating hunger. "And besides... I told you I was entirely unattached tonight."
Your heart skipped a violent, terrifying beat, entirely seizing in your chest. You knew that voice. You knew the exact pitch, the subtle, breathy cadence of it. You had listened to it whisper absolute devotions in the dark, and you had heard it make desperate, sweeping promises over candlelit tables.
No. It can't be. He’s at the rink. He’s three hundred miles away.
A sickening, instinctual dread gripped your throat, but your feet moved of their own accord. You took one silent, agonizing step forward, turning the corner of the heavy marble pillar.
The air left your lungs in a violent, silent rush.
They were right there, brazenly pressed into the shadows of the hallway. Sunghoon—your Sunghoon—had his hands gripping the waist of a stunning woman draped in a silver designer gown. You instantly recognized her face from the event banners; she was the heiress of Zenith Holdings, the primary sponsor of the entire festival.
He had her pinned effortlessly against the textured wallpaper, their lips bruised and swollen, completely and desperately entangled in each other.
The world literally dropped out from beneath your feet. A deafening, high-pitched ringing consumed your ears, drowning out the faint music from the party. The betrayal wasn't just a shock; it was a physical mutilation. It felt as though someone had reached directly into your chest and violently ripped your heart out with their bare hands.
Five years. He ignored me all day because he was here.
"Sunghoon?"
Your voice cracked, frail and devastated, slipping out before you could even register that you had spoken.
The movement in the alcove halted instantly. The heiress gasped, shoving him back and hastily smoothing down her ruined dress, her eyes wide with shock as she looked at you.
But Sunghoon didn't flinch.
He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes landing on you standing trembling in the middle of the corridor. You waited for the panic. You waited for the horrified realization, the desperate apologies, the frantic scrambling of a man who had just been caught destroying the life he had promised to build with you.
Instead, what you saw absolutely terrified you.
There was nothing.
His expression was entirely blank. The warmth, the quiet affection you had anchored your entire youth to, was completely eradicated. It was replaced by a glacial, horrifyingly composed mask of mild irritation. He looked at you not as a lover he had betrayed, but as a minor, unforeseen inconvenience on his schedule.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice entirely devoid of an ounce of guilt. It was smooth, callous, and utterly chilling.
"What am I—" you choked out, a raw, burning sob tearing at the back of your throat. Your hands shook so violently you had to grip the edge of the pillar to stay upright. "Sunghoon, what is this? Who is she? You—you didn't answer my texts all day. You're supposed to be at the rink!"
Sunghoon let out a slow, deeply exhausted sigh. He casually adjusted the lapels of his pristine suit, his demeanor so relaxed it felt like psychological warfare. He turned to the heiress, offering her a low, polite nod. "Give us a moment, please."
The woman didn't need to be told twice. She shot you a brief, entirely unapologetic look before hurriedly clicking her heels down the opposite end of the hallway, leaving you entirely alone with a stranger who wore your boyfriend's face.
"Don't do this right now. Don't make a scene," Sunghoon warned, his tone dropping into a cold, authoritative register the second the heiress was out of earshot. "You know exactly how the industry works. She’s the primary sponsor for the new Olympic facility. It’s networking."
"Networking?" you repeated, the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the lie acting as a sudden spark to the agonizing grief in your chest. The devastation began to rapidly curdle into a blinding, white-hot rage. "You were kissing her in a public hallway, Sunghoon! Do not treat me like I am stupid! We have been together for five years!"
"And what have those five years been, exactly?" he countered ruthlessly, his dark eyes narrowing into cruel, unforgiving slits. He took a deliberate step toward you, his height and presence suddenly feeling entirely suffocating. "You are never there. You are always flying across the country to fix somebody else's face. We’re practically strangers who share an anniversary date. It was only a matter of time before this ran its course. You should have known that."
The absolute cruelty of his words struck you with the force of a bullet. He wasn't just cheating on you; he was rewriting your entire history. He was weaponizing the sacrifices you had made for both of your careers to justify his own calculated, brazen betrayal.
"You promised," you whispered, the tears finally breaking free, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. The words tasted like blood on your tongue. "You promised me on our third anniversary. You said I just had to wait."
"Grow up," Sunghoon replied, his voice a lethal, emotionless whisper that shattered the absolute last remnants of your breaking heart. He looked at you with a chilling, detached finality, entirely unmoved by your tears. "Promises don't build arenas. Connections do. Now, please leave. You are embarrassing yourself."
The silence that followed Sunghoon’s final, devastating statement was asphyxiating. You stood there, completely hollowed out, the tears tracking hot and unheeded down your cheeks. He hadn't just broken your heart; he had meticulously, clinically dismantled your entire reality and stepped on the pieces. You couldn't even formulate a response. Your throat was locked in a paralyzing vice of grief, your lungs violently rejecting the air in the corridor.
You felt entirely small, utterly pathetic, standing before a man who was looking at you as though you were nothing more than dirt on the sole of his polished shoe.
"I specifically recall her saying she needed air, not a front-row seat to whatever pathetic display of insecurity this is."
The voice was a low, lethal drawl that sliced through the heavy, suffocating tension like a physical blade.
Sunghoon’s glacial expression finally faltered, his jaw snapping shut as his head turned sharply toward the sound. You blinked rapidly through your blurred vision, your trembling hands still gripping the edge of the marble pillar.
Stepping out of the shadows, entirely unhurried and radiating absolute menace, was Jungwon.
He hadn't stayed at the bar. Despite your explicit demand, he had followed you. And just moments prior, as he had navigated the secluded hallway, he had crossed paths with the fleeing heiress. He had watched the billionaire's daughter frantically smoothing down her silver dress, her lipstick smeared, as she scrambled past him in a desperate bid to escape the scene.
Jungwon hadn’t stepped aside to give her room. Instead, as she scurried past, he had merely paused, fixing the woman with a slow, deeply visceral scowl. The deep-seated disgust that had twisted his features—a harsh, condemning furrow of his brows and a cold curl of his lip—had been so intensely palpable that the heiress had physically flinched, averting her eyes in sheer, humiliated panic before practically running back to the party.
Now, he stepped into the dim light of the alcove, and the atmosphere in the corridor violently shifted.
The playful, arrogant provocateur who had relentlessly teased you just minutes ago was completely eradicated. In his place was the man from the stage—the commanding, untouchable force who possessed a terrifying understanding of his own gravity. But this time, he wasn't trying to charm an arena; he was directing every ounce of that lethal, magnetic intensity straight at the man who had just shattered you.
Jungwon didn't look at you. He walked straight past you, his broad shoulders deliberately cutting off Sunghoon’s line of sight to your trembling frame, effectively placing himself as an impenetrable wall between you and your boyfriend.
"Embarrassing herself?" Jungwon repeated, rolling Sunghoon's cruel words around in his mouth as if they tasted like absolute poison. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle that held absolutely no warmth. He tilted his head, his sharp, feline eyes dragging up and down Sunghoon’s pristine suit in a slow, agonizingly deliberate assessment of pure disdain. "That's a fascinating choice of words coming from a man who has to resort to groping sponsors in a public hallway just to fund his career."
Sunghoon’s posture instantly stiffened, a dark, dangerous flush of anger finally cracking his composed facade. He squared his shoulders, trying to use his height to intimidate, but Jungwon didn't so much as blink.
"Excuse me?" Sunghoon demanded, his voice a low, warning hiss. "This is a private conversation. I highly suggest you mind your own business before you find yourself thrown out of this hotel."
"And I highly suggest you lower your voice when you speak to her," Jungwon fired back instantly, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly calm, absolute zero register that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He took a single, deliberate step closer to Sunghoon, entirely unfazed by the threat. "You want to talk about building arenas? About connections? Let me make something incredibly clear to you. You are wearing a nice suit, standing in a nice hotel, but beneath all of that, you are just a remarkably cheap, cowardly little man who couldn't handle the fact that the woman standing behind me is ten times the person you will ever be."
The absolute conviction in Jungwon's voice sent a sudden, violent shiver down your spine. The tears were still falling, but the paralyzing grip of Sunghoon’s cruelty was suddenly, jarringly interrupted by the sheer, protective weight of Jungwon’s presence.
Sunghoon scoffed, though the sound was tight and noticeably strained. He looked past Jungwon, aiming a bitter, condescending glare at you. "Is this what this is? You're throwing a tantrum over my networking while you have some washed-up musician following you around like a stray dog? You really are pathetic."
Before Sunghoon could even finish the sentence, Jungwon moved.
It wasn't a physical strike, but the sudden, aggressive shift in Jungwon’s posture was so predatory that Sunghoon instinctively took a step back, hitting the textured wallpaper of the alcove. Jungwon leaned in, his face inches from Sunghoon’s, the dark intensity in his eyes absolutely lethal.
"If you ever speak to her like that again," Jungwon whispered, every syllable coated in a heavy, undeniable promise of violence, "I won't just ruin your little networking event. I will make sure thirty thousand people out there know exactly what kind of trash is coaching their national team. Do we have an understanding?"
Sunghoon’s jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle ticking violently beneath his skin. He stared at Jungwon, a silent, furious war waging between them, but he didn't dare push back. The cowardly core that Jungwon had just accurately diagnosed was paralyzed by the sheer, unadulterated dominance of the drummer standing in front of him.
Without waiting for a response, Jungwon finally turned his back on Sunghoon, dismissing him with an air of absolute, crushing finality.
He looked at you, and the instant his eyes met yours, the terrifying, icy fury in his gaze completely dissolved. The transformation was so jarring it made your breath catch. The harsh lines of his face softened into something entirely different—something remarkably gentle, observant, and profoundly careful.
He didn't smirk. He didn't offer a witty, arrogant quip. He simply looked at your tear-stained cheeks, the trembling of your hands, and the shattered pieces of your heart practically bleeding out onto the marble floor.
He didn't ask if you were okay, because the answer was agonizingly obvious.
Instead, he gently reached out, his warm, calloused fingers wrapping firmly but lightly around your wrist. The point of contact sent a sudden, grounding shockwave through your numb system.
"We're leaving," Jungwon stated quietly, his voice a steady, unwavering anchor in the midst of your collapsing universe.
And without looking back at the man who had just destroyed your past five years, Jungwon gently pulled you away from the shadows, leading you away from the wreckage and straight into the unknown.
The heavy, pulsating rhythm of the bass violently assaulted your senses the moment Jungwon pulled you back through the velvet-draped doors of the VIP lounge. The sheer, suffocating volume of the party should have been overwhelming, but you were completely numb to it. The only thing tethering you to reality was the steady, burning warmth of his calloused fingers wrapped firmly around your wrist, dragging you away from the wreckage of your life.
He didn't lead you back into the suffocating sea of socialites. Instead, he expertly navigated the shadowed perimeter of the venue, steering you toward a deserted, dimly lit stretch of the mahogany bar that was completely shielded from prying eyes.
The second the dense crowd was no longer pressing in on you, the survival instinct that had kept you walking suddenly shattered.
"Let go," you choked out, aggressively wrenching your arm out of his grasp.
The sudden loss of his grounding touch left you shivering, the icy, agonizing reality of what had just happened rushing rapidly back into your lungs. You wrapped your arms tightly around your own waist, physically trying to hold your fracturing pieces together.
"I have to leave," you stammered, your chest heaving with erratic, shallow breaths as you blindly turned toward the exit. "I need to go back to my room right now."
But Jungwon didn't move. He stood his ground, his broad shoulders forming an impenetrable barricade between you and the heavy glass doors. He looked down at your trembling frame, a rare, genuine flicker of hesitation crossing his usually unreadable features. He wasn't smirking. He was observing you with the careful, tense caution of someone watching a building on the absolute verge of collapse, entirely unwilling to let you walk out into the night alone in this state.
That hesitation—that terrible, quiet look of pity—was the absolute final straw.
Your pride, already pulverized and bleeding out on the hotel floor, flared into a desperate, defensive rage.
"Then what?!" you snapped, your voice cracking violently as a fresh, humiliating wave of tears spilled over your lashes. You glared at him, your hands balling into trembling fists at your sides. "Why are you looking at me like that? Haven't I been pathetic enough for one night? You saw the whole thing! You saw exactly what he thinks of me. So go ahead, tell me how stupid I am for waiting five years! Are you going to mock me again? Because I swear to God, I do not have the energy for your arrogant ego right now!"
Your breathing was ragged, your throat burning with the sheer, agonizing force of your outburst. You braced yourself for the inevitable punchline. You waited for the arrogant drummer to roll his eyes, to throw a sharp, witty insult that would finally, completely break you.
Jungwon simply stared at you. He let the silence stretch, absorbing your frantic, jagged energy without flinching.
Then, he let out a slow, heavy sigh. He casually leaned his hip against the edge of the bar, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Mock you?" he repeated, his tone dripping with that familiar, dry drawl. He arched a single, lazy eyebrow. "Please. Give me a little more credit than that. My material is significantly better than pointing out the agonizingly obvious."
He casually turned his head, snapping his fingers lightly to catch the bartender's attention, and ordered a glass of ice water. When he looked back at you, the arrogant edge of his voice had entirely evaporated. What remained was a low, steady cadence—a sarcastic wrapping hiding a surprisingly deep, grounding core.
"I was actually going to point out," he continued smoothly, taking the glass from the bartender and sliding it across the marble counter toward you, "that your makeup is miraculously, entirely intact for someone whose five-year plan just violently imploded in a hotel hallway. It’s objectively impressive. What kind of setting spray is that? Industrial grade?"
You blinked. The sheer, unapologetic absurdity of the question collided violently with the blinding panic in your chest, momentarily short-circuiting your tears. You stared at him, utterly bewildered by his refusal to coddle you.
Jungwon uncrossed his arms and took a deliberate step closer. He wasn't invading your space, but his presence was a heavy, magnetic anchor demanding that you stop spiraling into the dark.
"Listen to me," Jungwon murmured, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that completely paralyzed you. The sarcasm melted away, leaving a raw, fiercely protective honesty. "You are currently a lot of things. You are furious. You are devastated. You are probably in desperate need of a very dark room and a very loud scream. But you are not pathetic. The only pathetic thing in this entire building is the coward who just traded a masterpiece for a cheap sponsorship deal."
The absolute conviction in his words slammed into your chest, a sudden, desperate influx of oxygen into your suffocating lungs.
Jungwon tilted his head, that devastating, boyish dimple finally pressing into his cheek, though the smile accompanying it was soft, remarkably gentle, and entirely reserved for you.
"And honestly?" he added, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, teasing whisper. "If you run away crying right now, you're just going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he ruined your night. And I personally despise letting men with terrible, cheap suits win."
You stared at the glass of ice water sliding across the marble, the condensation weeping down its sides. Jungwon’s words hung in the space between you, a sturdy, defiant lifeline thrown into the middle of a raging hurricane. He was entirely right. Fleeing into the night in tears was a surrender, an agonizing confirmation that Sunghoon held the power to destroy you.
But as you stared at the clear liquid, the survival instinct that had kept you upright suddenly mutated into a desperate, reckless urge to feel absolutely nothing at all. The clarity of sobriety was unbearable. If you stayed in your own head for one more second, the reality of those five wasted years would crush your ribs into dust.
You slowly pushed the glass of water back toward him.
"I don't want water," you murmured, your voice frighteningly hollow. You turned your gaze, locking eyes with the bartender. "Bring me a double shot of whatever you have that burns the most. And leave the bottle."
Jungwon’s easy, leaning posture instantly dissolved. He dropped his arms, a deep, genuine scowl replacing his soft smile. "Whoa, okay. Hold on. I said don't let him win, I didn't say aggressively poison your own liver. That’s a terrible coping mechanism."
"I am not coping," you replied sharply, snatching the heavy crystal glass the bartender placed in front of you. The amber liquid sloshed violently against the rim. "I am turning my brain off. You can either stay and watch, or you can leave. I genuinely do not care."
You didn't give him a chance to argue. You tipped your head back and swallowed the liquor in one agonizing, punishing gulp. The alcohol tore down your throat like liquid fire, a harsh, grounding burn that successfully, if only momentarily, drowned out the agonizing echo of Sunghoon’s cruel voice.
You slammed the glass back down. "Again."
For the next hour, the sprawling, chaotic lounge devolved into a smeared, impressionistic canvas of neon lights and heavy bass. You systematically set out to eradicate every conscious thought in your head, chasing the numbing, heavy blanket of intoxication with ruthless efficiency. The crushing grief in your chest slowly dissolved into a hazy, detached static.
Beside you, Jungwon hadn't left. He hadn't touched his own drink, either. He merely sat there, serving as a silent, formidable guard dog, aggressively glaring at any suited executive who even thought about approaching your corner of the bar. He tried to cut you off twice, his sarcastic reprimands laced with genuine exasperation, but you batted his hands away with the sloppy, stubborn defiance of a broken heart.
Just one more, you promised yourself, the edges of your vision beginning to aggressively tilt. Just until I can't remember his face.
But the gravity of the room was failing. The thumping bass of the music no longer felt like a rhythm; it felt like a heavy, physical weight pressing down on your shoulders. You reached for the bottle one last time, but your fingers missed the glass entirely.
The floor suddenly pitched sideways.
You didn't even have time to register the fall. The very last, fragmented sensation your failing brain managed to process was a strong, firm arm wrapping securely around your waist before you could hit the marble floor, and the faint, distinctly comforting scent of cedar wood and mint.
Then, the world plunged into absolute, merciful darkness.
Consciousness returned not as a gentle awakening, but as a brutal, agonizing collision with reality.
A blinding, piercing pain instantly cleaved through your skull, demanding immediate retribution for the night's reckless intake. You let out a dry, raspy groan, blindly burying your face deeper into the pillow to escape the harsh slivers of daylight slicing through the curtains.
Your mouth tasted like ash, and your limbs felt like they were cast in heavy lead. You tried to mentally retrace your steps—the concert, the penthouse, the crushing betrayal in the hallway, the bar. The memories were terrifyingly fragmented, violently punctuated by the burn of expensive whiskey and the faint, grounding scent of cedar wood.
Your vision swam for a precarious second before the room slowly came into focus.
You froze.
The air in your lungs completely stalled. Every single alarm bell in your hungover brain began to scream in chaotic unison.
You were lying in a bed, but the sheets pooled around your waist weren't the crisp, stark white cotton of your standard hotel suite. They were charcoal-grey, silken, and undeniably expensive. You slowly, rigidly turned your head. The room was massive—featuring dark furniture, a sprawling leather seating area, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a completely different angle of the city.
This was absolutely, unequivocally not your room.
Panic, sharp and terrifying, instantly sliced through the haze of your hangover. You shot up, immediately clutching the thick duvet to your chest, your heart hammering a frantic, echoing rhythm against your ribs.
You looked down.
And then, your heart completely, terrifyingly stopped.
You weren't wearing your sleek, black long-sleeved top. You weren't wearing your tailored work trousers. You were sitting there in nothing but a thin, tight inner tank top and a pair of ridiculously short sleep shorts.
My clothes.
Your breath hitched, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated horror. A blinding, suffocating panic instantly hijacked your nervous system. You frantically scanned the unfamiliar suite. Your trousers and top were neatly folded on a nearby ottoman.
WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?! WHO CHANGED MY CLOTHES?!
The sound of a heavy door clicking shut echoed from the adjacent bathroom, followed by the steady, unhurried padding of bare feet against the hardwood floor.
You stopped breathing entirely. You gripped the duvet so tightly your knuckles turned a stark white, pulling it all the way up to your chin like a physical shield.
Emerging from the hallway, aggressively drying his damp hair with a white towel, was Jungwon.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, the low-slung waistband sitting dangerously low on his hips, his incredibly sculpted chest and broad shoulders still glistening faintly with water from the shower. The fierce, untouchable stage persona was gone, replaced by a devastatingly relaxed, domestic aura that completely short-circuited what little brain capacity you had left.
He stopped dead in his tracks the second he saw you sitting bolt upright in his bed, looking like a cornered wild animal.
For a terrifying, agonizingly long second, the two of you merely stared at each other in the heavy, sunlit silence of the penthouse suite. You were practically hyperventilating, your wide, horrified eyes darting frantically between his bare chest and the neatly folded pile of your clothes.
"My clothes," you choked out, your voice a raspy, panicked squeak. You swallowed hard, pressing your back flat against the headboard. "Where... who took off my clothes?"
Jungwon slowly lowered the towel. He took in your death-grip on the bedding, your deeply flushed face, and the sheer, existential panic radiating from your entire body. He looked at the folded clothes, then back at you.
You could practically see the gears turning in his head. The absolute worst, most chaotic instinct he possessed immediately seized the golden opportunity. A slow, deeply amused smirk began to curve onto his lips, carving that infuriatingly devastating dimple right back into his cheek.
He tossed the towel over a chair and sauntered slowly toward the edge of the bed.
"Honestly?" Jungwon drawled, his voice dropping into a low, sultry register that sent an involuntary shiver straight down your spine. He braced his hands on the mattress, leaning in just close enough for you to catch that faint, intoxicating scent of mint and cedar. "I have to admit... I didn't expect you to be quite so... cooperative."
Your jaw physically unhinged. The color completely drained from your face, only to be violently replaced by a burning, scarlet flush.
"You—what?!" you shrieked, scrambling backward until your spine hit the solid wood of the headboard.
Jungwon let out a low, breathy chuckle, thoroughly reveling in your absolute devastation. His feline eyes glinted with lethal, unapologetic mischief. "I mean, for someone who practically hissed at me all night, you were surprisingly eager once we got through the door. It was quite the plot twist. But hey... it was definitely fun."
The silence that followed was apocalyptic.
Your brain completely flatlined. He unbuttoned my top. He took off my pants. He said it was fun. HE UNDRESSED ME.
"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!"
The sheer, unadulterated mortification forcefully ejected your soul from your body. With a blind, hysterical cry, you grabbed the heaviest, fluffiest pillow beside you and hurled it directly at his head with lethal intent. "You absolute pervert! You arrogant, opportunistic jerk! I am calling the police! I am calling my lawyer!"
Jungwon caught the pillow effortlessly mid-air, bursting into a bright, ringing laugh. He didn't even attempt to retreat. Instead, he casually reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out his phone.
"Before you call your legal team," Jungwon teased, his dimple so deep it looked permanent, "you might want to review the evidence. Because I distinctly remember having a very hard time escaping your grasp last night."
"I did not touch you!" you gasped, clutching the duvet so tightly your fingers ached.
"Right. Let's consult the archives, shall we?"
With a wicked glint in his eye, Jungwon tapped his screen.
Immediately, a voice filled the quiet penthouse. It was slurred, incredibly whiny, and dripping with a pathetic, tearful desperation.
“Nooo... don’t put me down... I don't want to be alone...”
Your entire body went rigid.
“Hey, stop grabbing my shirt, I’m just trying to get you a glass of water—” Jungwon’s exasperated, slightly strained voice echoed from the speaker.
“Don't leave me!” the recorded version of you wailed dramatically, followed by the distinct sound of fabric tearing. “Stay here! You're warm! Just stay right here, please, please, please...”
“Okay, okay, stop crying, my God, I’m not leaving, just let go of my neck—”
Jungwon tapped the screen again, silencing the audio.
The penthouse descended into a deafening, agonizing quiet.
You were entirely, profoundly speechless. The fierce, defensive rage had completely evaporated, replaced by a level of humiliation so deep and monumental that you felt it in your actual bones. You had begged him. You had clung to him like a lost, pathetic koala and practically ripped his shirt off because you didn't want to be alone.
I want to cease existing, you thought, a silent scream echoing in the hollow chambers of your mind. I want the earth to open up and swallow me immediately.
You squeezed your eyes shut and slowly, miserably slid down the headboard, pulling the duvet entirely over your head until you were completely submerged in the darkness of the expensive sheets. You curled into a tight, mortified ball, refusing to face the daylight or the infuriatingly smug drummer standing beside the bed.
"So," Jungwon’s voice floated through the fabric, completely laced with a bright, victorious laughter. You could practically hear the arrogant smirk on his face. "Are we still pressing charges, or are you ready to admit that you were the one taking advantage of me?"
You let out a muffled, agonizing groan from beneath the blanket.
"Go away," you rasped, your voice completely devoid of any fight.
"Wow," Jungwon breathed out, his voice suddenly dripping with a heavy, theatrical disbelief. You felt the mattress dip significantly as he sat down right beside your huddled form. "I see exactly how it is."
Through the thick, expensive fabric of the duvet, you heard him let out a deeply exaggerated, heartbroken sigh.
"So this is your game?" he continued, his tone a lethal mixture of mock-devastation and absolute, unapologetic flirtation. "You drag a defenseless, innocent musician into your room. You practically tear his clothes off, beg him to stay in your arms, whisper sweet, desperate pleas into his ear all night... and the second the sun comes up, you just tell him to go away?"
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, gripping the blanket from the inside. Please, make him stop.
"I feel so incredibly used," Jungwon murmured. His voice dropped an octave, slipping into a low, raspy register that vibrated straight through the mattress and directly down your spine. "You threw yourself at me, completely compromised my morals, and now you're just casting me aside like yesterday's garbage? You are a remarkably cold woman. I thought what we had was special."
"I am going to throw myself off the balcony," you mumbled into your knees, your entire body burning with a lethal combination of mortification and a sudden, treacherous flutter in your chest.
"You can't do that. You haven't taken responsibility for my feelings yet."
Suddenly, you felt his strong hands grip the top edge of your blanket fortress. With a swift, effortless tug, he pulled the duvet down, successfully exposing your flushed, thoroughly miserable face to the harsh morning light.
You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to look at him, but you could feel the immediate, magnetic weight of his proximity.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, the teasing edge of his voice sharpening into something dangerously magnetic.
You stubbornly opened one eye, fully prepared to glare at him with the fire of a thousand suns, but the breath instantly caught in your throat.
He was leaning over you. He was so impossibly close that you could feel the faint, warm brush of his breath against your cheek. His damp, dark hair fell messily across his forehead, casting soft shadows over those sharp, distinctly feline eyes. The arrogant smirk was still there, carving that devastating dimple into his cheek, but his gaze was heavy, incredibly focused, and entirely directed at your lips before slowly trailing up to meet your eyes.
The sarcastic, complaining victim he was just playing completely vanished, replaced by a man who knew exactly what his proximity was doing to your pulse.
"You were very demanding last night," Jungwon whispered, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your pupils slightly dilate. He tilted his head, his voice dropping into a sultry, heart-stopping drawl. "I had to work very hard to keep you happy. The least you could do is look me in the eye when you break my heart."
Your brain completely short-circuited. The lingering headache from the alcohol was entirely obliterated by the sudden, violent hammering of your heart against your ribs. He was gaslighting you—you knew he was aggressively, relentlessly making the entire thing up just to tease you—but the sheer, unadulterated tension radiating from him was utterly intoxicating.
"You..." you stammered, your voice failing you completely as your eyes darted nervously down to his bare, sculpted chest, and then immediately back up to the ceiling. "You are insane."
Jungwon let out a low, breathy chuckle, clearly satisfied with the absolute chaos he was inflicting on your nervous system. He held your gaze for one, agonizingly long second, letting the heavy, flirty tension simmer between you until you thought you might actually faint.
Then, just as quickly as he had cornered you, he pulled back, casually sweeping a hand through his damp hair and effortlessly breaking the spell.
"And you owe me breakfast for the emotional trauma," he announced brightly, pushing himself off the bed with a graceful, athletic ease. He walked over to the bedside table, picking up the glass of water and the two painkillers he had set down earlier.
He turned back, holding them out to you with a charming, victorious grin.
"Now take these," Jungwon ordered playfully, the chaotic provocateur fully restored. "Room service is bringing up a ridiculous amount of pancakes in ten minutes, and if you think I'm letting a cold-hearted heartbreaker like you eat them in bed, you're absolutely delusional. Get up."
The sharp, melodic chime of the penthouse doorbell suddenly echoed through the sprawling suite, abruptly piercing the heavy, tension-laced air of the bedroom.
Jungwon paused, glancing over his shoulder toward the living room. He let out a soft, amused exhale, setting the glass of water and the painkillers down on the nightstand.
"Perfect timing," he murmured. He turned his back to you, casually strolling toward the bedroom door. He paused in the frame, throwing one last, devastatingly cheeky wink over his shoulder. "Put your clothes on. If you make me eat breakfast alone after the emotional trauma you put me through, I am officially holding a press conference."
The second his broad shoulders disappeared around the corner and his footsteps faded toward the foyer, the paralyzing, magnetic spell he had cast over you completely shattered.
Your brain, which had been thoroughly short-circuited by his relentless teasing, suddenly rebooted with a single, blaring directive.
Flight.
There was absolutely no way you were going to sit across a dining table and eat pancakes with a man who had a recorded audio clip of you aggressively begging for his body heat. The sheer, debilitating mortification of the last ten minutes, combined with the catastrophic wreckage of your five-year relationship, was entirely too much for your fragile, hungover psyche to process.
You threw the duvet off your body as if it were on fire. The hangover was instantaneously obliterated by a massive, violent spike of pure adrenaline.
Moving with the frantic, terrified speed of a cornered fugitive, you scrambled off the mattress. You snatched your neatly folded trousers from the ottoman, practically falling over as you desperately shoved your legs into them. You didn't even bother to button your black top correctly, simply throwing it over your head and pulling it down as you frantically scanned the floor for your shoes and your bag.
From the foyer, you could hear the faint murmur of Jungwon’s voice thanking the hotel staff, followed by the soft squeak of the room service cart being wheeled into the living area.
Now or never.
You grabbed your heels in one hand and your bag in the other. Holding your breath, you tiptoed out of the bedroom, pressing your back flat against the cool wall of the hallway. You peeked around the corner. Jungwon was standing with his back to you, inspecting a sprawling array of silver cloches on the dining table, entirely unaware of the frantic escape currently unfolding behind him.
You didn't hesitate. You darted across the open space with the silent, desperate grace of a phantom, reaching the heavy mahogany double doors of the penthouse.
Your trembling fingers clamped around the brass handle. You turned it with agonizing slowness, wincing at the faint click of the latch, and slipped through the narrowest possible opening.
The moment you were out in the hotel corridor, you pulled the door shut behind you and absolutely bolted.
You sprinted down the plush, carpeted hallway in your bare feet, your lungs burning and your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. You reached the elevator bank and frantically mashed the 'Down' button, glancing back over your shoulder every two seconds, utterly terrified that the heavy penthouse door would swing open and a pair of sharp, feline eyes would catch you in the act of fleeing.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open. You threw yourself inside, slapping your hand against the lobby button as if your life depended on it.
"Close, close, close," you chanted under your breath, watching the silver doors slowly slide shut, completely sealing you off from the penthouse floor.
As the elevator began its rapid descent, the absolute absurdity of the morning finally crashed over you. You slumped against the mirrored wall, dropping your head into your hands as a shaky, exhausted exhale left your lips.
You were a highly sought-after, fiercely independent professional, and you had just successfully snuck out of a rockstar's hotel room like a guilty teenager. It was humiliating. It was chaotic. It was the absolute lowest point of your entire existence.
You closed your eyes, the chilling memory of Sunghoon’s cruel, detached face in the hallway violently clashing with the lingering, phantom warmth of Jungwon’s breath against your cheek. You were a complete, catastrophic mess, and you desperately needed the safety of your own, empty hotel room to fall apart in peace.
Never again, you vowed silently to yourself, staring fiercely at your own disheveled reflection in the elevator doors. I am leaving this city today, and I am never, under any circumstances, crossing paths with Yang Jungwon again.
To Be Continued ᯓ★
a/n: hi guys! honestly, this chapter was just a random brain dump because I desperately needed to get this chaotic idea out of my head hehe. but if a lot of you enjoy this dynamic and want to see where this mess goes, I might actually continue it! please let me know your thoughts and leave some feedback—I'd absolutely love to hear what you think of this so far!🤍I will update In Your Time really soon hehe, so please stay tuned~
