private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅
₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty-three. chapter twenty-five (coming soon).
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 9.8k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm sorry this took so long, i've been so busy and it's been hard to find time/motivation to write! i hope you enjoy <3
Possibly the worst part about the most devastating night of your life is that your alarm still goes off at exactly 8:00 a.m. the next morning.
A pathetic groan scrapes its way out of your throat as you roll over. Pain blooms behind your eyes, your head still throbbing from hours spent crying until there were no tears left. Wincing through swollen, burning eyelids, you fumble for your phone and silence the alarm, squinting at the lock screen in the dark of your bedroom.
No texts. No DMs. Not even any Amazon updates.
You didn't even hear San stumble back into the dorm last night. Considering it's barely eight in the morning, he, Yunho, and Yeosang are likely still sleeping off whatever alcohol they'd drowned themselves in the night before.
Your friends have the luxury of sleeping in, but unfortunately, you don't.
Today is Professor Choi's optional practice exam. It doesn't count towards your official grade, but it's designed to mimic the exact structure, timing, and question types of the upcoming final. For naturally gifted students like Yunho and Mingi—who basically have passing grades guaranteed—spending a Sunday morning in a review session is unnecessary. They can easily skip out on it.
You, on the other hand, need every scrap of an advantage you possibly can get to pass this class.
You don't bother taking a shower, brushing your hair, or covering the dark circles under your eyes with makeup. You drag your exhausted body out of bed, still wearing the same hoodie you'd slept in. Grabbing one of San's unworn winter coats off the kitchen table, you shrug it on and head out the door, almost forgetting to grab your laptop.
The bitter winter air whips against your face throughout the entire walk across campus, stinging your cheeks, but frankly, you barely even notice. You feel just as numb and frozen on the inside as the icy pavement beneath your boots.
Before you know it, you're sitting alone on a small bench just outside your Korean classroom, staring blankly at the illuminated screen of your phone.
Your thumb hovers over Hongjoong's contact. You open your text exchange, your heart increasingly beginning to race. Slowly, your trembling fingers type out three desperate, pathetic words into the text box:
You: Can we talk?
You stare at the blinking cursor.
Just hit send, you try to convince yourself, your teeth sinking into your chapped lower lip. Beg him to talk to you. Apologize again. Fix what you broke.
But the second your thumb drifts toward the blue arrow, the horrifying memory of him flinching away from you flashes behind your eyes. He'd recoiled from your touch. Twice. And you were the one who'd driven him to that, the one who'd turned what he thought was his one safe space into a humiliating lie, and the one who'd taken something precious and made him question whether any of it had been real.
Your hand drops into your lap. With a defeated sigh, you press the backspace button, holding it down and watching the words disappear one letter at a time until the text box is empty once again.
You can't bring yourself to reach out. You don't want to ruin Hongjoong's morning, too.
Clicking it off, you shove the phone into the pocket of San's coat and lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes against the nauseating spin of your own toxic thoughts.
Is that it? you think, your throat tightening. Are we just... over? Just like that?
When you finally shuffle inside right at 9:00, you find the classroom practically empty. Only three other students are scattered across the rows of desks—faces you vaguely recognize from your morning lectures but have never actually spoken to. You figure it makes sense, really; most college students spend their Saturday nights out partying, not studying. By Sunday morning, they're sleeping off hangovers, not taking practice exams. And when they wake up, most of them certainly aren't wondering if they've ruined their relationships for good.
Professor Choi looks up from his laptop at the front of the room, offering the four of you a polite nod before returning to his work without a word.
You sink into a seat near the back. Seeing that the other students have already logged into the class portal, you follow suit, pulling out your laptop and entering your username. A string of random capitalized letters and numbers is written across the whiteboard—clearly the exam password. Your numb fingers tap it into the text box. When the practice exam finally loads onto your screen, a small wave of relief washes over you. The bold text at the top of the page notes that it's an automatic, self-grading test.
Good, you think, letting out a shallow breath. That means multiple-choice and simple fill-in-the-blank questions. Nothing overly complicated, nor anything that will require much critical thinking.
You scroll down the page. The progress bar on the right side of the screen indicates that the exam is much shorter than you expected—only about thirty questions. You take a steadying breath and quickly get to work, embracing the distraction from your thoughts.
Question 4: Choose the correct color term to fill in the blank based on the picture. 저는 오늘 _____ 셔츠를 입었습니다. Today, I wore a _____ shirt.
You look dully at the attached stock photo of a little boy wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. Your thumb trembles on the trackpad, frozen over option B.
하얀색. White.
Suddenly, all your mind's eye can see is the golden morning light spilling across Hongjoong's bedroom floor, the morning after you finally confessed your feelings for each other. You still feel his sheets draped over your bare body, remembering how you waited there in his bed, watching as he pulled that oversized 하얀색 hoodie from his closet. The moment he saw you in it, he gave you the softest, most unguarded smile you'd ever seen and told you to keep it.
That same hoodie is still hanging in your closet with no intention of ever returning to its owner.
You swallow the lump in your throat and click option B, quickly scrolling down.
Question 13: Look at the map provided and choose the correct direction. 우체국에 가려면 학교에서 _____ 가세요. To get to the post office, go _____ from the school.
오른쪽으로. To the right.
Your stomach twists at the embarrassing memory of the very first time you and Hongjoong met up outside of the Language Center. You'd been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the library, preparing for the upcoming week's lessons, when you'd reached the vocabulary word for direction—쪽—and accidentally pronounced it as 'dick' in Korean, right to his face.
You remember how he froze, his professionalism shattering into an awkward, breathless laugh. The rosy pink dusting his cheeks as he nervously explained your mistake. The mortifying second when your eyes had flicked downward to his lap. You know he caught it, because even now, you can still picture the way he turned his head away to hide his smirk.
You feel your cheeks flare as you choose option A.
Question 28: Fill in the blank with the correct particle. 제 이름____ 스티브입니다. My name is Steve.
은. Because 이름 ends in a consonant, it needs the particle 은.
It's one of the most fundamental grammatical rules in the entire curriculum, something Professor Choi had covered on the very first day of class. But staring at the disjointed sentence pulls you back to your first official tutoring hour at the Language Center, to the first time you heard Hongjoong speak in his native tongue. You'd frozen, completely missing your cue to respond, staring at him wide-eyed and struck by how dangerously attractive his voice was.
You've been helplessly captivated by him ever since. And sitting here now, staring at your screen, you realize your entire vocabulary is in his voice.
Every word, every sentence structure, and every syllable you've learned over the last semester have been filtered through Hongjoong. You can't even read an exam without hearing his voice in your head, as if he's the one answering for you.
Fresh tears blur your vision again. Blinking them away, you numbly click option D and scroll down to the final questions.
Mercifully, the last two questions are basic enough to spare you any further trips down memory lane. Relief settles into your body as you reach the bottom of the page. You're finally done. You can slam your laptop shut, escape Professor Choi's line of sight, and bury yourself back under your blankets.
But as your eyes scan the bottom corner of the screen, your stomach flips.
The little blue button doesn't say Submit. It says Next.
Anxiety floods in almost immediately. There must be a second section of the exam. No wonder no one else has gotten up to leave yet. Your fingers hover over the button, trembling, before you force yourself to click it.
When the new page loads, the text spanning the top of the screen makes you want to throw up right then and there.
Part II: Free Writing (50 points) Instructions: Write a brief, three-paragraph essay in Korean discussing a personal experience where you learned about the Korean language and culture outside of the classroom.
Your heart sinks as you stare at the white text box waiting for your input.
For any other student in this room, this prompt is a godsend. For you, however, it's a nightmare. Because every single memory you've accumulated over the last four months comes rushing back with one singular face attached: Hongjoong.
He's the only reason you know anything about this language. He's the only window you've ever had into this culture. Your mind claws through the semester, searching for a single vocabulary word or cultural fact that didn't originate from his lips, but you come up empty.
You remember the two of you wandering through the narrow aisles of Yoons' grocery store, standing side-by-side as he explained the ingredients of the traditional stews his mother used to cook for him and his brother when he was a child. You remember sitting in the dark of his bedroom, listening to his hushed, nervous voice explain random formalities while Parasite played on his TV in the background. You remember sitting across from him in the Language Center, staring at his lips as he patiently sounded out every pronunciation your tongue just couldn't quite master.
Every single piece of Korean you know comes from Kim Hongjoong.
You can't do this. You can't write about him, not after what you did.
A silent sob catches in your throat as you look up at the ticking clock on the classroom wall. Thirty-eight minutes have already passed. That leaves you with exactly twenty-two to write this entire essay.
With horribly shaking, clumsy fingers, you bring your hands to the keyboard. No matter how badly you want to close the laptop and run, you can't bring yourself to leave a fifty-point section blank, so you piece together the most generic response you can think of. Through the threat of scalding tears, you hammer out a few sentences about how you've been watching K-dramas in your free time this semester to practice your listening skills.
It's terrible. It lacks a single specific detail, carrying zero depth and absolutely zero heart. Your fingers repeatedly slip off the keys and leave glaring typos scattered throughout every paragraph. The grammar is broken, a mangled mess of elementary tenses and incorrect particles that do nothing to prove the months of progress you've made with Hongjoong. There isn't a single personal thought or a single scrap of real insight in the entire text box.
It is, without a doubt, the worst essay you have ever written—in Korean or in English.
Your finger slams down on the trackpad, hitting the Submit button before your eyes can even think about reading over the humiliating paragraphs you just produced. You can't even bear to look at it.
But before the class portal redirects you back to the home screen, an automated score flashes at the top of the summary page for Part I.
98.
You freeze, the air abandoning your lungs. For a moment, you think it might be a mistake.
A 98. You practically aced the entire first section. It is, by far, the highest score you've ever achieved on a Korean exam this semester.
A sudden thud shatters the quiet of the classroom, making your head snap up. The door at the front of the room is clicking shut, and when you listen closely to the silence, you can hear the muffled sound of footsteps fading down the hallway. A frantic glance around the room confirms that the last student just left, leaving you alone with Professor Choi. He's sitting behind his desk, seemingly engrossed in whatever he's working on. He isn't paying you the slightest bit of attention.
Nevertheless, you feel yourself begin to panic. You know exactly what a failure that essay was, and the thought of him opening your file and reading it while you're still in the room makes you feel queasy. With shaky hands, you shove your laptop and its charger back into your bag, not bothering to wind the tangled cord. You yank the zipper shut, sling the strap over your shoulder, and grab San's coat, ready to bolt for the exit.
But just as your boots hit the floor, taking your first step into the center aisle—
"____씨."
Of course.
Your muscles lock mid-motion, catching you in an awkward half-crouch. For one ridiculous second, you consider pretending you didn't hear him.
But you know by now that the habit of trying to be the perfect student is far too ingrained inside you to let you leave.
You let out a defeated breath and straighten, adjusting the bag on your shoulder as you slowly turn toward the front of the empty room.
"네," you call out. Yes?
Professor Choi's expression is perfectly, unreadably neutral. He motions toward the two chairs sitting directly in front of his desk. "Come sit down for a moment, please."
Your legs feel like literal lead as you numbly shuffle down the tiered steps of the aisle and slide into the chair, facing him.
Without uttering a word, he clicks his mouse and spins his laptop around so the screen faces you.
Your heart sinks once again.
Your essay is pulled up on the monitor.
"Read it out loud," he instructs.
You blink at him through your swollen eyelids, both confused and mortified. "What?" you breathe, your gaze darting between your professor and the screen. "Why?"
He merely raises an expectant eyebrow. "I'd like to hear what you intended it to sound like," he says evenly. "Please, whenever you're ready."
You look back down at the screen, a cold sweat breaking out across your palms. Your throat is so dry you have to swallow three times just to gather enough moisture to open your mouth.
"저는..." Your voice comes out weak and pathetically unsteady as you read through your first paragraph. "저는 한국 드라마... 좋아해. 많이 봐요. 한국 드라마가 아주 좋아요... 저는 봐서 재미있어요."
You hadn't even managed to conjugate half the verbs properly into the polite, formal endings you've spent weeks drilling into your memory. Instead, you're reading out basic, fragmented clauses that sound like they were generated through a broken prototype of Google Translate. I like Korean drama. I watch many. K-dramas are very good. I watch because fun. As you stumble into the following sentences, your pronunciation begins to fall apart. Without Hongjoong sitting across from you to correct your intonation or guide your tongue, you sound like a clumsy, malfunctioning robot.
In fact, you sound exactly like the kind of student who hasn't bothered to pay attention in class this entire semester.
Your voice finally cracks on an incorrect particle choice in the middle of the third paragraph, trailing off into a defeated whisper. You stop, unable to force another humiliating word past your lips, and stare down at your hands twisting together in your lap.
Professor Choi lets out a sigh. He reaches out, turning his laptop back toward himself, and closes the lid before folding his hands on top of it.
"I have to admit," he says quietly, "I am very disappointed."
Your heart crumbles in your chest.
Disappointed.
"You've been doing quite well in this class," he continues. "I've been tracking your progress, and I've seen clear improvement—not only in your quiz grades, but also in your confidence and class participation. And while you did exceptionally well on the first section of this practice exam, your essay does not reflect that growth whatsoever."
He falls quiet. You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, eyes burning relentlessly into your hands because there is no possible way you could meet his eyes like this.
Professor Choi lets out another weary sigh, leaning forward. "When I created the peer tutoring program, I hoped it would help my students build confidence in speaking with someone closer to their own age, outside of a formal classroom setting. I thought that was what was helping you. But now, I'm not so sure." He pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Your tutor cancelled on you last week, correct?"
Your head snaps up. "I—well, yes," you stammer, your throat tightening. "Yes, he did, but—"
"You don't need to make excuses for him," Professor Choi interrupts, a dismissive flick of his hand cutting you off. "The fact of the matter is, I don't believe he's a well-suited tutor for you. I've been noting my students' learning habits and in-class performances for years, and it's become rather easy to spot a pattern. You are the type of student who requires structure. You need a tutor who is reliable, who adheres to a strict schedule, and who shows up consistently—not one who cancels a mandatory session simply because he doesn't feel like being there." He shakes his head, a line of frustration creasing his brow. "Honestly, I shouldn't have excused you from submitting last week's recording. But because you'd been doing so well, I didn't think it would become an issue. Now, looking at this essay, I see that my leniency was a mistake."
He opens one of his desk drawers, pulling out a folder labeled with the peer tutoring roster. Flipping it open, his eyes scan the printed spreadsheets.
"Your tutor is Kim Hongjoong, correct?"
"Y-yes," you confirm. You want to explain to him that Hongjoong didn't cancel because he was lazy or careless. That he's been tutoring you on his own time, off the clock. That he's given you more of his attention, patience, and care than you ever had the right to expect. That he's the best, most dedicated teacher you've ever had.
But you don't say a word.
Professor Choi doesn't look up, his fingers shifting through the papers until he lands on a different sheet. "I'm reassigning you. For the final week before the exam, you'll be working with Lee Eunkyung."
You don't even register the name through the roar in your ears.
"I believe I miscalculated, and I apologize for that. I don't think you and Mr. Kim were as good a match as I originally thought, especially considering he's cancelled on you twice. Ms. Lee is much more rigid with her lesson plans, and she has never cancelled a tutoring session for any reason. I expect her structure will bring you back up to speed."
No, your mind starts to scream. No, please, don't reassign me. Your hands twitch with the need to slam them on his desk and confess the truth: your confidence does come from Hongjoong. You'd be failing this class without him. You only bombed this essay because your heart is so shattered that you couldn't bear to write about your memories with him. You need him to succeed. You need your tutor. You need your boyfriend—
And suddenly, your thoughts go blaringly quiet.
What right do you have to call him your boyfriend anymore?
After what you did to him last night, are you even anything to him at all?
If you defend him now—if you admit that you skipped the official session to study together in the library—you wouldn't only look like a liar, but you would inevitably invite a line of questioning. Why did you need to work in the library? What was suddenly insufficient about the Language Center? Why did the two of you need to be entirely alone in a private study room? If you defend Hongjoong, your relationship could be exposed. Professor Choi could find out that you violated the university's rules. Hongjoong would be fired on the spot, and who knows what other academic consequences would follow.
You've already broken his heart; you don't want to be the reason he loses his job, too.
Maybe… maybe this is for the best.
"O-okay…" you whisper.
Professor Choi nods once, shutting the folder. "I'll have Ms. Lee reach out to you via email this afternoon. I certainly hope your final exam goes better than this practice one, ____."
You swallow. "T-thank you, Professor."
You push your body up from the chair, turning away from his desk before he can see the first tear slip down your cheek. You hurry out of the classroom, not waiting to see if he has anything left to say to you.
The second the door closes behind you, hiding you from his sight, the tears finally break loose. They blur the hallway into a watery, gray abyss as you sink onto that very same bench, realizing you may have just severed your very last tie to Hongjoong.
For the rest of the day, time drifts by unnoticed. When you finally glance at the time in the corner of your screen, it's already three in the afternoon. You're buried beneath the covers, paralyzed in the same spot you crawled into almost six hours ago, likely leaving a permanent indent in the mattress. Your eyes are starting to burn from hours spent staring at your phone.
You know you should get up. You need to be productive. You should be checking off homework assignments, studying your vocabulary lists, or practicing how to rewrite that essay into something passable before the real final next week.
But instead, with a tired sigh, you roll onto your stomach and open your message history with Hongjoong.
You scroll backward through the weeks, reading through a cluster of texts he sent you just a few days ago—fragments of unedited lyrics for a new verse he's been working to finish. You tap on a saved voice note, holding the speaker close to your ear. His voice fills your room, a little shy and yet so incredibly sweet as he sings a short melody he wanted your opinion on.
A small smile tugs at your lips before disappearing just as quickly. That soft voice captured in the audio file is a stranger compared to the cold one that flinched away from your touch last night.
You let the phone slip from your hand, falling onto the sheets as you roll onto your back and stare blankly up at the ceiling. Did you really just manage to destroy your relationship with your boyfriend and your position with the best teacher you've ever had in less than twenty-four hours?
Your phone buzzes. You decide to ignore it, dragging a pillow over your face and waiting for the sound to stop.
But then it buzzes again. Then again. And again.
Letting out another sigh—one born more of annoyance than exhaustion—you reach out and flip it over.
Yeosang: ____, what time are you and Hongjoong coming over? Yunho: WOOOHOOOOO San: good morning Yunho: Morning??? It's 3 in the afternoon, San San: Huh San: Oh San: Shit San: I got back later than I thought I would Yunho: Yeah, because neither of us could find you to take you home. What time did you leave?? San: uhhhhhhh San: I don't remember Yunho: Where did you even go??? How did you get back??
You watch the screen, waiting for the grey bubble to pop back up, but for some reason, San doesn't reply. The group chat falls silent for a beat before Yeosang cuts back in.
Yeosang: Anyway. What toppings does Hongjoong like? Is he vegetarian? Gluten-free? Let me know so I can place the order soon.
As you stare at the notifications, your fingers don't move an inch. Why is it so humiliating to type out the words? Why can't you just tell your best friends the truth?
But deep down, you already know the answer.
They warned you. They quite literally told you at the café that you have a lying problem, saying that nothing good would ever come from choosing the comfort of a secret over the vulnerability of the truth. That sooner or later, it would collapse under its own weight.
...So why not lean into your "lying problem" a little more?
It makes you sick to realize how effortlessly your mind starts building the next cover-up. Why is it so much easier to hide what you've done than to ask anyone to look at it with you?
Your thumbs move over the keyboard on autopilot, choosing the coward's way out once again.
You: Hey, Hongjoong forgot he has a project due tomorrow, so he'll be working all night. And I woke up with a migraine this morning. We'll have to reschedule, sorry.
You hit send.
Before you can watch the responses roll in or give yourself a chance to regret lying again, you shove your phone under your pillow. Exhaling, you pull the blankets over your shoulders, close your eyes, and try to force yourself back into a dreamless slumber.
But just as the pull of sleep begins to drag you under, your bedroom door handle clicks.
"____?" San's hesitant voice slips through the narrow crack. "Can we come in?"
You tighten your grip on the duvet, yanking it all the way over your head and burying your face into the mattress. "No, San," you mutter, your voice smothered against the sheets. "I'm trying to take a nap. Close the door."
But the hinges whine as the door swings open anyway, flooding your dark bedroom with warm light from the hallway. You hear the squeak of rubber soles stepping inside, followed by two other sets of footsteps behind. And that's when your brain finally registers the pronoun he just used.
We.
You bolt upright in bed, your eyes narrowing as Yunho and Yeosang file into your room right behind San.
"What are you guys doing here?" you snap, pulling the covers tight against you in the hope that they'll conceal the disaster written across your face. Your throat feels raw from crying, and even without a mirror, you know your eyes are red and swollen. "I told you I have a migraine. Get out."
The three of them exchange a glance as Yeosang calmly leans against the edge of your desk, holding up his phone with the pharmacy charge already pulled up.
"For someone who lies this much, you're pretty terrible at it," he says evenly. "Remember when you used my card three days ago to pick up your prescription? Qulipta?" He raises an eyebrow. "You never get migraines when you're taking it."
You stare at him, stunned. A prickling flush of embarrassment rushes to your face as you mutter, "How the hell did you even think to look that up?"
Yeosang gives you a small smirk, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his sweats.
San and Yunho cross the room toward your mattress. They sit down carefully on the edge of the bed, intentionally leaving enough space so you don't feel cornered, but surrounding you all the same.
Yunho leans forward, his eyes scanning your undeniably tear-stained face, swollen eyes, and frowning lips. "Hey," he asks gently, "did something happen with Hongjoong?"
You look away, fixing your stare on the corner of your mattress. Humiliation gathers thickly at the back of your throat; you don't want to talk about it. You don't want them to know.
"I told you," you say quietly, your voice tight. "He has a project to work on. He's busy tonight."
None of the boys move.
"____," Yeosang says from your desk. Against your better judgment, you glance up, and he's staring right at you, all traces of playfulness gone from his face. "Tell us the truth."
You hold his gaze for one long second before something inside your chest breaks.
Why do you do this to yourself? Why is lying the first place your mind runs to? What is so fundamentally broken inside you that the second you lose control of a situation, your first instinct is to construct a wall of deception around it—even from the people who care about you enough to walk straight through it?
A tear slips down your cheek.
Yunho crawls up onto the mattress beside you without hesitating. Before you can scoot away, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side-armed hug. You swipe the tear away almost angrily with the back of your hand, trying to pull yourself together.
"I— we—" you start, but your voice gives out as your tears come faster. Embarrassed, you press both palms over your face to hide the pathetic tremble of your lips.
San stretches across the tangled covers, his hand finding its way between your shoulder blades to rub in slow, soothing circles. "It's okay, ____," he murmurs. "It's okay. You can talk to us."
You sniffle wetly, wiping the dampness from your cheeks with your hoodie sleeve before forcing in a breath.
"Last... last night," you begin, your voice thin, "after you guys left... I didn't go to Hongjoong's apartment."
They don't interrupt you.
"He wanted to see my place," you continue, swallowing the lump in your throat. "And I knew you guys would be gone all night, so... so he came here. We were just studying. And everything was good. Everything was norm—"
Your voice breaks. You stop, squeezing your eyes shut against the memories and taking another deep breath.
"But then Wooyoung showed up."
San's hand stops moving. His fingers stiffen against your spine.
You drop your red-rimmed eyes down to your lap, your fingers uselessly twisting and pulling at your sweatpants. "He wanted his jacket back. The leather one that none of us would touch." A weak laugh escapes your throat. "I said I didn't know where it was. I told him to come back when San was home so he could get it for him, but he... he forced his way in. He said he needed the pocket to hold his camera... something about taking a lot of pictures last night."
Beside you, San sucks in a sharp breath, his body going rigid.
Across the room, Yeosang finally pushes himself away from your desk. Without saying a word, he crosses to the bed and lowers himself to the foot of the mattress, listening intently.
"He... he didn't say anything direct," you explain, the memory making your stomach churn all over again. "But he implied everything. Every single thing that happened between us. He said terrible things to Joong. And when he left... Joong put the pieces together on his own."
Yunho's arm tightens around you, pulling you against his chest. Over the top of your head, he exchanges a worried look with Yeosang. San slowly pulls his hand back from your spine, letting it drop to his lap.
"I tried to explain everything," you mumble into Yunho's t-shirt. "But he said he didn't care that I was ever with Wooyoung. All he cared about was that I lied. He... he asked me if I would've ever told him the truth if Wooyoung hadn't shown up last night." You swallow hard, tears welling again. "And... and I couldn't answer him. Because I don't think I would've."
A few tears soak into Yunho's shirt. Embarrassed, you press your palms against his shoulders to pull away, not wanting to ruin his clothes, but he refuses to let you go, holding you in place and burying his chin in your hair.
"He left after that," you breathe so quietly that you're not even sure San and Yeosang can hear you. "And now... on top of everything else, Professor Choi reassigned me today. I have a new tutor. I don't even know if I'll ever see him again—"
"Hey, hey, stop," Yunho interrupts, his voice gentle against your hair. "Of course you'll see him again. This is... it's a fight, ____. It's a bad fight, but that doesn't mean it's over."
But you shake your head.
"I don't see how it could be anything less," you say. "He's never been in a relationship before. He’s never trusted anyone the way he trusted me... and I... I think I hurt him a lot." Your fingers curl into Yunho's shirt. "Just like I hurt Wooyoung."
Yunho's chin remains resting against the crown of your head. He doesn't object to your words, doesn't tell you you're wrong, and quite honestly, his silence hurts more than anything he could've said—it confirms that you're right. You broke Hongjoong's heart.
"Well..." Yeosang carefully speaks up from the foot of the bed after thinking things over. "In all honesty, this might actually be for the best. Hongjoong was bound to find out you lied eventually—"
"Yeosang, not right now," Yunho mutters a warning, tightening his grip around your shoulders.
"Just listen," Yeosang insists, sitting up straight. "You were never going to be able to keep this a secret from him forever, ____. Either you were going to have to confess because the guilt would eat you alive, or he was going to find out on his own, which he just did. I think it's good that the band-aid got ripped off now. You're already together, he already cares about you, but it's still early enough in the relationship that it shouldn't feel like a complete, irredeemable betrayal—"
"But that's exactly what it was," you object, tilting your head away from Yunho's chest to look Yeosang in the eye. "That's why he left! I told you, he doesn't care that I slept with Wooyoung. He cares that I lied about it."
"I understand that. I'm just saying, realistically, this will actually work to your benefit when he forgives—"
"Yeosang, enough."
The bickering stops. Yeosang's lips press into a thin line as he looks away.
Yunho sighs, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.
"Look at me," he says, and you do. "You know I'm not going to sit here and tell you that you did nothing wrong, because we both know that isn't true. You absolutely should've been honest with him from the beginning." He pauses, his voice softening as he watches another tear track down your cheek. "But you are not a bad person, ____. You... you get this idea in your head. You think you have to be perfect for people to love you. I just wish we could make you realize that we all love your flaws. We love you, not the edited version of you. And... and I know Hongjoong does, too. That's why I'm telling you I don't think this is the end."
"But you weren't there," you whisper, the memories of the previous night threatening to choke you. "You didn't hear the things Wooyoung—"
"Fuck Wooyoung."
The sudden disdain in Yeosang's voice makes you blink through your tears.
"What he did last night isn't a reflection of you, or even of what you did in the past," Yeosang says, his jaw tight. "His pride has been shattered since the day you rejected him. He wanted to make sure that if he couldn't have you, he was going to ruin your chances with the guy he thinks you chose over him."
Yunho nods. "He's right. And I really think that with a little bit of time and space, Hongjoong will understand why you felt like you needed to hide things from him."
But you aren't so sure if your friends are right this time. You drop your eyes back down to your lap, your thumb aimlessly tracing the stitching on your sheets as you bite your lower lip.
"I don't know, guys..." you whisper. "I... I don't know."
Your bedroom falls quiet as they realize their words aren't reaching you. Yunho slowly resumes rubbing your arm again, his shoulders slumping as he seems to accept that none of their logic and comfort can make this any less unbearable for you.
Minutes pass without anyone saying a word. The four of you remain exactly where you are, suspended in a silence that feels like everyone is waiting for someone else to speak. Yunho's hand keeps grazing your arm. Yeosang sits at the foot of the mattress, his gaze lowered in thought.
Suddenly, you feel San shift beside you. He draws back just an inch, barely moving at all, so subtly that no one notices it but you.
Usually, when you're in pain, San is the loudest person in the room. He's the one who paces around, threatening to kill anyone who hurts his friends. He's done it regarding Wooyoung every time.
But as you sit there, you realize that his soothing circles on your back ceased minutes ago. San hasn't uttered a single word since Wooyoung's name left your lips.
You shift within Yunho's now-loose embrace, turning your head to peer over your shoulder at the other side of the mattress.
"San?"
He doesn't look at you.
But your breath catches the second you finally get a clear look at his face. All drops of color have drained from his skin, leaving him a sick and ghostly pale. His hands are trembling in his lap, his fingers twitching in fits against his thighs. He's staring down at the floor, so still that you're not even sure if he's blinking.
"San?" you ask again, worry cutting through your numbness. You reach out a hand, letting your fingers brush his knee. "San, what's wrong?"
Beside you, Yunho releases his hold, sitting up straighter as he follows your gaze. Across the crumpled covers, Yeosang’s head snaps up, his alert eyes locking onto San's bloodless face.
At the sudden touch of your fingers, San flinches, jerking his leg away from your hand, and before you can process what's happening, he's scrambling backward off the mattress. His sneakers hit the floorboards hard as he stumbles several paces away from the bed.
You yank your hand back against your chest. A scalding wave of embarrassment rushes up your neck and floods your cheeks: San rejected your touch, just as Hongjoong did last night.
"San?" Yunho slides off the mattress quickly, taking a cautious step toward him. "What's going on? Are you having a panic attack? Hey, it's okay. Just breathe in and—"
San cuts him off by slapping a hand over his own mouth. He doesn't look at Yunho; his wide, horrified eyes stay locked on you.
You freeze. "San... what...?"
"I didn't mean to," he whispers from behind his palm. "I'm so sorry, ____... I—I didn't mean to..."
"Didn't mean to what?" Yunho asks, deep creases of confusion furrowing his brows. He stops walking, as if something in San's voice warned him not to come any closer.
San shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, ____... I can't believe I let..." He trails off, his shoulders rising and falling too fast as he struggles to drag in air.
From the foot of the bed, Yeosang slowly stands. "San," he says, his voice terrifyingly calm. "What did you do?"
San drops his hand from his mouth. "Fuck," he whispers hoarsely. "Fuck, I... I shouldn't have gotten so drunk." He drags both palms over his face, then buries his fingers deep into his hair. The ghostly pallor of his skin is suddenly overtaken by a splotchy red creeping up his neck. "I shouldn't have," he breathes again. "I shouldn't have—"
"Where did you say you went last night?" Yeosang cuts him off.
San squeezes his eyes shut. He can't seem to stop shaking his head.
"He didn't respond," Yunho slowly answers for him, his gaze flicking between the three of you. "But what does that have to do with—"
"I didn't know!" San bursts out, his hands dropping from his hair as he takes one desperate step toward you. "____, I swear to fucking god, I didn't know. If I had known he'd just fucked everything up for you again, I would've killed him." His voice cracks. "I swear, I would've killed him."
Your body goes completely still beneath the covers.
"What?" Your head spins as you look from Yeosang to Yunho, searching their faces for some sort of explanation, some missing piece you don't understand since you weren't with them last night. But they look just as lost as you are. "San, what are you talking about? You... you saw Wooyoung last night?"
All the color drains from his face again. His throat works around a hard swallow, but no words come out.
Yeosang takes a cautious step closer to him. "The last time I saw you at the party..." he starts quietly. His voice is calm as ever, but you can see it happening—he's arranging the details of the night in his head, one piece sliding into place after another. "You went looking for the bathroom. But then you never came back to the kitchen."
Yeosang casts a brief glance over his shoulder at you, but you can only offer a blank, helpless stare back. You have no idea what's happening.
"Where did you go, San?"
San buries his face in his hands. "Fuck, I... I walked in on him," his muffled, guilt-ridden voice confesses. "Someone told me the bathroom was the third door down the hall, but... I don't know, maybe I heard them wrong? Maybe they gave me the wrong door? Maybe I was too fucking drunk to count? But... but when I opened that door, he was right there."
Yunho and Yeosang exchange a fleeting look across the mattress, but you can't take your eyes off San. Your mind is beginning to spin out of control. They were at the same party? The party Wooyoung needed his jacket for was the same one your friends were at?
"He... he was with two girls," San winces, his hands dragging down his face to reveal skin flushed with red. "When ____ said he needed the jacket because of his camera... it was set up in the corner of the room." He swallows hard. "I think he was filming it."
A wave of nausea rolls through you, and for a moment, you think you might be sick. Thatwas what Wooyoung meant? That was why he forced his way into your dorm? That was the reason he ruined everything between you and Hongjoong? Just so he could go film himself having a fucking threesome?
"When he saw me, he... he just smirked," San mutters, grinding his teeth together. "Like a fucking asshole. I was so drunk, I wanted to punch that look right off his face. Just thinking about all the shit he's pulled, I lost it. I shouted at him. I think I scared the girls, because they ran out of the room, but... all I remember is screaming. Calling him a disgusting piece of shit. He started yelling back, and... and I punched him. Right in the jaw."
He stops, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stares down at the floor. You look from San over to Yunho, and then down to Yeosang. For one strange second, the three of you seem to share the exact same expression: confusion.
"Okay..." Yunho says slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "So... you fought him? San... uh... that makes sense. Honestly, we all want to punch him. Why are you freaking out? You were defending ____."
San shakes his head, burying his face back into his hands. "Because... because..."
The three of you wait, suspended in a state of bewilderment. Why? Why would punching Wooyoung leave San this distraught?
"Fuck," San mutters under his breath. He wipes his palms down his face one last time before forcing himself to stand up straight, bracing his shoulders. "I... I need to tell you guys something."
Yeosang's eyes narrow in immediate suspicion. "...Okay."
"San, you're scaring me," Yunho says, his anxious eyes darting between everyone in the room.
You stay silent, your eyes glued to San's deathly pale face.
"This was always supposed to stay a secret," he whispers, his voice shaking as he burns a hole into the floor. "Especially... especially after everything that's happened with ____." He takes a deep breath, his knuckles clenching at his sides. "Wooyoung and I... we..." His face twists with shame. "Shit. Okay. Fuck. At the beginning of the semester... Wooyoung and I used to hook up."
The whole room goes still.
What the fuck?
You stare at San.
San, who is now incapable of meeting your gaze.
All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears before it suddenly starts to boil.
"You what?" Yeosang's voice cracks. The sound is so rare, so unlike him, that you flinch. His eyes are wider than you've ever seen them, horrified by the words that just left his best friend's mouth. "You used to hook up with Wooyoung? The Wooyoung I introduced you to?"
"What the fuck?" Yunho sputters, his jaw dropping. "What—San? I thought... what the hell?" He takes half a step back, staring at San like he's looking at a stranger. "But everything he did to ____... him? I—I thought you were fucking straight!"
"Well—I wouldn't go that far," Yeosang says automatically, though his eyes remain blown wide and his voice still shakes with disbelief. "But, San—was this... was this happening often? Because the three of us were always together at the beginning of the semester."
San swallows nervously, his throat working around a hard lump as his eyes stay glued to the floor, refusing to land on any of you. "I mean... shit. Yeah? A few times? Just... secretly," he adds quickly. "Only when we were drunk. It... it was never supposed to be a thing, okay? It was just—fuck. It was embarrassing. We were all supposed to be friends, and I didn't know how to tell you guys, so... I didn't. But.. yeah." He exhales, his voice bleeding with shame. "Yeah, it happened."
You feel your stomach drop straight through the mattress, the bed frame, the floor, down through every level of your building, until it finally hits the concrete lobby below. You stare at San in shock, numbness prickling all the way to the very tips of your fingers.
"San..." you breathe, the memories beginning to flash before your eyes. "That night... when he was here, in our dorm... he said he came to see me. But... but you two... were you...?"
"No!" San shouts immediately, shaking his head so hard his hair whips across his forehead. "No, ____, no! I was confused why he was even here! I was trying my best to act normal because... because by then, we hadn't done anything in—what? A month?" His eyes finally meet yours, pleading. "I promise, it was over. I swear."
But your mind is already racing backward, recontextualizing every interaction you've witnessed between them over the past few weeks.
When the three of you were here, in your living room, fighting over your phone, Wooyoung laughed and said he'd never seen someone so desperate to keep a hookup a secret. He sneered about never seeing someone fight so hard to protect their reputation. You remember the unreadable look that passed between them right before San defended you, telling Wooyoung you weren't 'that kind of girl.' And you remember Wooyoung's response—that people could be more than one thing—and San's response that not everyone was.
In the alleyway outside the bar, when a drunk Wooyoung started threatening to reveal everything you liked in bed, San exploded, yelling that not everything was about who's fucking who, and that sex was the only goddamn thing Wooyoung ever thought about.
That same night, right before Wooyoung walked away, he stopped dead in front of San and told him he wasn't there for him. You remember San growling back that Wooyoung's manipulation might've worked in the past, but he wasn't going to let it work on you.
Every protective word. Every time San threatened to kill Wooyoung on your behalf.
It hadn't only been about you.
"That night—Yunho's birthday party..." San's voice suddenly drops. "That was the last night we were ever really... normal around each other. Friends. He was the one who drove me home, and we... we talked. We hadn't hooked up in a while by then, and I told him that I didn't want to do it anymore. Ever. I told him I hated keeping secrets from you guys." A humorless huff of a laugh scrapes out of him before his jaw clenches. "He didn't care, obviously. He doesn't fucking care about anything except sex."
He spits the words out so bitterly that Yunho and Yeosang quietly exchange another loaded glance. Your mind races faster, your stomach twisting around a new thought.
Was it more than a hookup for San?
"And then..." he continues, his voice shaking with repressed emotion. "Then we found out everything he did to you, ____. And I cut him off for good. I was so fucking furious with him. I knew he was an asshole, but I didn't know he was that bad." His face crumples. "I hated his guts, and I still do, I swear. I wanted nothing to do with him ever again, and I... I just didn't want you guys to know. I didn't want you to know that I'd ever..."
He trails off, unable to finish. His eyes finally lift from the floor and meet yours.
They're burning with desperation.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I should've been honest with all of you. But especially you, ____."
And that's when the final piece clicks into place.
You realize what's happening because right now, San's mind is operating exactly like yours. You know firsthand—from the still-smoldering ashes of your relationship with Hongjoong—that San wouldn't be standing here voluntarily revealing his most guarded secret unless something else had already caught him in a much bigger, much more dangerous lie.
The truth hangs in the dead air between you and San. You know. And from the way his face burns when he looks at you, he knows that you've figured it out, too.
"San..." you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Last night..."
He breaks eye contact, his chin falling to his chest.
"After I punched him, he was so angry," he says hoarsely. "At me, at you, at... at Hongjoong, I don't even fucking know. He swung back, and we were both so drunk, we couldn't stop fighting... and then we just..." His face twists with self-disgust. "I don't even remember most of it. It just... it just happened. Right there, in that room."
He gulps hard as he looks away, staring at the wall.
"And his fucking camera caught all of it."
All three of you go horrifyingly silent.
"I don't know why the hell I did it," he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his welling tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not who I am. I was so drunk, and so angry, and the entire time... the entire time, he'd just left your apartment. He'd just ruined your relationship with Hongjoong... and I fucking slept with him again."
His hands fall from his face, and when he looks at you again, it's with a face wrecked by guilt.
"There's no excuse. I'm the worst friend in the world," he whispers, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry, ____. I'm so fucking sorry."
Beside your bed, Yunho and Yeosang remain frozen. Their jaws are slack, their faces caught between horror, confusion, and a borderline disgust neither of them can quite manage to hide.
You can feel the anticipation humming in the room. Everyone is bracing themselves, waiting for you to explode. Any second now, they expect you to scream, to start throwing pillows, to kick San out of the dorm, and to sob about how this is the worst betrayal he could've possibly committed.
And maybe you should.
Wooyoung—the very person who talked you into things you never truly wanted, who drunkenly cornered you in an alley, who forced his way into your dorm and just ruined your relationship with Hongjoong—was tangled in the sheets with one of your best friends a mere twelve hours ago. At the same time your heart was shattering, your roommate was in bed with the cause of your misery.
By every conceivable law of human nature, you should be furious.
But as you sit there beneath the covers, staring at San, taking in every guilty word he just confessed... the anger never comes.
"____," Yunho says carefully, his voice laced with panic as he waits for your reaction. "Hey... are... are you...?"
"I'm not mad."
Every head in the room snaps toward you. San pulls his hands away from his face, staring at you like he misheard what you said.
"What?" he breathes, practically choking on his own shame. "____, you—you should be. I... what I did was fucking disgusting—"
"I'm not mad, San," you repeat flatly. Slowly, you sink back against your pillows, finally tearing your eyes away from him to stare blankly ahead of you. "I get it."
He looks at you as if you've lost your mind.
Yeosang's brows draw together. "You... get it?"
"Yeah." A bitter smile pulls at your lips. "I get it."
Yunho blinks at you. "____, I... I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings here, but..." His bewildered eyes dart from you to San, then back again. "What the fuck?"
You just shake your head weakly. "He kept it a secret because he was ashamed," you say. "And because after all the shit Wooyoung put me through, San knew it was too messy, too wrong, and too late to ever admit the truth without changing the way everyone looked at him."
San flinches, but you keep going, your voice strangely calm.
"Then last night, he was drunk and angry, and he lost control. He gave in to an impulse and did something he regrets. And now the evidence of it is apparently caught on camera. Wooyoung's camera, no less. He knew we were probably going to find out about it eventually. Which means he knew he was trapped."
You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around your shins.
"I did the same thing," you whisper. "I lied to Hongjoong. I chose to keep everything a secret. I dug a hole so deep that it also became too messy, too wrong, and too late to ever get out of it." Your voice lowers, becoming even more distant. "But the difference is, I waited. I let everything collapse on top of Hongjoong because my proof showed up at the front door. San realized his proof could come out someday, so he chose to confess before it did."
You swallow, looking down at your knees.
"Wooyoung was my proof. And apparently, he's San's too."
All three boys stare at you.
"I'm really not mad at you, San. Because if I'm mad at you for this... what the hell does that make me? I'm just as bad, if not worse. At least you told us before we found out on our own."
"____, stop," Yunho says suddenly. The mattress shifts as he slides back onto the bed, his hands reaching for your shoulders, trying to pull you back into his arms. "Don't say that. Don't do that to yourself."
But you resist his hug, your body stiffening beneath his hands.
The fact that you aren't angry terrifies you. What kind of person are you becoming? Have you always been like this? Are you so desensitized to deception, so deeply entrenched in the instinct to hide your imperfections, that you can look one of your friends in the eye after he slept with the worst person you know and calmly say I understand?
What is broken inside you that makes betrayal and lies feel familiar instead of wrong?
Maybe Hongjoong was right. Maybe it was all just an exam to you. Maybe you've spent your whole life treating everything around you like a test to be passed: school, friendships, your reputation, success, failure, control... and now, even love. Every mistake had to be hidden before anyone else could see it. Every flaw had to be corrected before it could be judged. Everything you presented to the world had to be controlled.
You tried so hard to be perfect that you stopped trying to be honest, and now, you've lost Hongjoong because of it.
"I think you guys should leave," you whisper into your knees.
"We're not leaving you here like this," Yeosang argues, sounding uncharacteristically worried.
"Please." Your eyelids fall shut. "I just... I want to sleep. I don't want to talk about any of this anymore."
No one answers. For several grueling minutes, you can feel them watching you, unsure of what to do, but you refuse to open your eyes again.
Eventually, the mattress shifts. You hear the rustle of clothes and the reluctant sound of footsteps moving toward your bedroom door. One person lingers behind for a long time, standing near the edge of your mattress. His breath hitches in his throat over and over like he's trying to find the right words to say, but it seems he never does. Soon, the door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the dark.
For a while, you don't move. You sit there, curled in the ruins of your own making, knowing that while San's confession should've made you angry, should've given you someplace else to put the hurt... all it did was hold up a mirror.
Your phone is still buried beneath your pillow, and it's been silent since your friends arrived. No messages. No sign that Hongjoong is anywhere close to wanting to hear from you.
You didn't lose him because of San, and you didn't lose him because of Wooyoung.
You lost Hongjoong entirely because of yourself, and now, you realize that getting him back might not be the same thing as making it right.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
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