𝔖𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢

𝔚𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡? - 19

[seungminscheekies]

Wellerman's Siren Masterlist

ATEEZ pirate au

Total Word count 411

Warnings violence, trauma, slave themes(?), angst

please send an ask or comment if you would like to be added to the taglist :)

0. A History Lesson

1. Men in Black

2. Cursed

Taglist @lovelyvitamin

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty-two. chapter twenty-four (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: 8.6k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. enjoy...

"Come on, just one drink," Yunho pleads. He's looming over your spot on the couch, offering you a sweating can of cheap beer as he sways on his feet. "It's Saturday night, ____. And I promise, it won't even be crowded. Mingi said the house only gets crazy on Fridays."

You scoot further back into the cushions, leaning away from his arm. Raising your glass of plain tap water, you shake your head. "You all know I don't do frats. Or beer, for that matter." You take a sip, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "Not gonna happen."

Your living room—usually at least somewhat presentable, despite sharing it with a gymrat like San—has been trashed tonight. The coffee table is buried under cardboard pizza boxes full of greasy pepperoni and sausage slices, and the whole room is doused in the stale tang of the lukewarm beer Yunho picked up from a friend's dorm on his way over. Your three best friends had originally told you they were pregaming at Yunho and Yeosang's place, fully aware you'd opt out to study but extending the courtesy invite anyway. Apparently, those plans had changed without anyone bothering to inform you, because the trio is now sprawled out around your couch, getting progressively tipsier by the second. 

Taking advantage of the short moment of distraction while Yunho doubles over laughing at something Yeosang yells from across the room, you quickly slide your phone out. You shoot off a lightning-fast text and bury it beneath your thigh before anyone notices. 

"It won't be that bad this time, I swear," San grins from his spot on the floor, where he's resting his back against the couch. While everyone is dressed to go out, San clearly spent a little extra time in front of the mirror, as per usual—he's wearing a fitted black tank top paired with matching jeans. His only apparent defense for the freezing temperature outside is an expensive leather jacket with a borderline ridiculous number of decorative zippers. Reaching up, he tosses a half-eaten pizza crust back into the open box beside you. "Tell her, Yeosang," he urges, jerking his chin toward you. "Didn't you say it sounded fun?"

You blink, your gaze shifting over the man quietly nursing his beer on the opposite end of the couch. "San, I really don't believe Yeosang would ever say that."

But Yeosang sighs, a defeated smile playing on his lips. "Look, Mingi swore tonight's going to be relaxed. The semester's almost over, so..." He shrugs. "I figured it wouldn't kill me to show face for a little while. But the second it gets crowded," he warns, shooting a pointed look down at San, "I have no shame in being the first to leave."

You snort, grabbing another slice out of the box by your side and handing it up to Yunho before he starts pacing around the coffee table again. "I hope that's true. Because I have a feeling Mingi is a liar."

"Hey! Don't call my boyfriend a liar!" Yunho laughs, throwing his head back as he tilts his can to drain the last stubborn drops. The moment he sets the empty aluminum down on the table, though, he freezes. You watch as a tipsy epiphany flashes across his face, your stomach sinking as he then points a finger right at your nose and snaps repeatedly, his buzzed brain scrambling to catch up with his mouth. "Wait—where's Hongjoong? He should be here!"

You choke on your water, sputtering a cough and wiping your chin with the back of your hand as Yunho whips around to face San and Yeosang with ecstatic eyes.

"I forgot to tell you guys!" he blurts. "She said yes! She's letting us hang out with him!"

Yeosang's eyes widen over the rim of his can. San's head snaps toward you so quickly you're surprised he doesn't accidentally give himself whiplash.

"No way, really?" he shouts, his zippers clinking as he nearly drops his drink onto the carpet. 

"Yeah!" Yunho beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I met him on Thursday morning, and he—"

"What? You met him before me?" San interrupts, looking betrayed. He scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over Yunho's discarded shoes, and jabs a finger at you. "____, what the hell?" he demands. "We live together! We share a bathroom! Why the fuck did Yunho get to meet him before I did?"

"Calm down, it wasn't like I planned it!" you shoot back, already feeling your cheeks burning. "Yunho trapped me! He cornered us on our way to lunch."

"Doesn't matter," San pouts, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "I'm your roommate. And the one who called it from day one. I knew this whole thing was gonna happen since Yunho's birthday."

"We all called it, San. You're not a psychic," Yeosang cuts in. He leans forward, setting his beer down on the cluttered table. "But seriously, ____. If you're finally ready for it, why isn't he here tonight? We're already pregaming. You should've invited him over."

"Because look at you guys!" you counter, throwing your hands up at the state of your living room. "Yunho can't even stand still for two seconds without drifting sideways. And we—we have work to do. We need to study. I'm, um..." You clear your throat. "I'm going over to his place. In a little bit."

Yunho's eyes narrow. "Studying?" he repeats. "Again? Didn't you study all night on Thursday, too?"

"Yeah," San nods, tossing the pizza box to the floor so he can plop down onto the couch beside you, wedging himself in. "I didn't hear the door unlock until almost three in the morning."

At that, you feel the tips of your ears burn. "Well... there's a lot I need to catch up on before the final!"

"Uh-huh."

You roll your eyes at Yunho.

"Maybe you don't have to study, but I do! There's an insane amount of grammar to review," you stammer. "And there were a few... specific chapters we didn't get to finish."

The second the excuse leaves your mouth, you regret it. The three boys fall silent. Slowly, a grin spreads across Yunho's face. Yeosang bites his lip like he's trying his hardest to suppress a smirk. It only takes San a second before he snorts.

"Well," he grins, "maybe the chapters didn't get finished, but I have a pretty good idea of who did—"

"San!" you shriek, lunging for a crumpled napkin abandoned on the couch and whacking him across the forehead with it. He ducks with a bark of laughter, throwing an arm up to shield himself. "This is why I'm scared of him meeting you!"

He only laughs harder, catching the napkin and teasingly waving it in front of your face while you try to swipe his hand away. "Weren't you two studying in the library?" he asks innocently. "Do flashcards make you guys horny or something?"

"No!" you shout far too quickly, cringing as you finally rip the napkin from his grasp and throw it to the floor. 

"Okay, okay," Yeosang chuckles as you both settle down. "Listen, ____. Tomorrow night, we're staying in. Bring him over to our place."

"But tomorrow is Sunday," you argue. "We all have early classes on Monday morning."

"Exactly!" Yunho says, nodding his head so vigorously that a few drops of his freshly opened beer slosh over the rim and splash onto the floor. "Which means none of us will be tempted to drink, and we won't do anything stupid! I promise I'll be on my best behavior. And you already know Yeosang will be, too."

You let out a reluctant sigh, your gaze sliding over to the third man in question, the wild card sitting right next to you. He's grinning mischievously, chewing on a rogue piece of pepperoni he plucked off a slice.

"I'll be an angel, I swear," he promises, pressing a hand on the center of his chest, right over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

You shove his shoulder, huffing. "Why do you always get so corny when you drink?"

"Is that a yes?" Yunho bounces in place, his eyes practically sparkling. "Tomorrow night?"

You glance between the three of them, weighing it. As tempting as it may seem, you know you can't keep Hongjoong hidden forever. And despite all their teasing, deep down, you know they'll love him—and he'd probably know how to handle them better than you could, anyway. Letting out one last sigh, you run a defeated hand through your hair.

"I'll... I'll ask him if he's free."

"And if he is?" San presses.

You roll your eyes, though now, it's paired with the faintest hint of a smile you'd rather die than let them fully see.

"Then... fine," you say at last. "Sure. Whatever. He'll be there."

The room erupts. Yunho and San jump up, shouting in victory as they clink their cans together in a toast, sloshing more beer to the floor. From the other side of the couch, Yeosang chuckles, raising his own can toward you. 

You stay seated, watching the tipsy trio with a resigned shake of your head. 

As always, their departure is anything but quick. It takes another ten minutes of mirror-checking, shoe-tying, and last-minute cologne-spraying before the three of them finally bundle up and head toward the front door. They tumble out into the hallway amidst loud, overlapping goodbyes, leaving the dorm deafeningly silent as the door shuts behind them.

The moment they're gone, you immediately scramble to fish out your phone from beneath your thigh. Your fingers fly across the screen as you pull up your texts with Hongjoong. 

You: Okay, they finally left. You can come up now.

You shove your phone in your pocket and immediately set to work cleaning up the mess your friends left behind. Within seconds, your arms are full of pizza boxes stuffed with abandoned crusts and a tower of empty beer cans. You're carrying the pile toward the kitchen, dumping everything into the trash when—not even thirty seconds later—a quiet knock rattles the front door.

Quickly shoving the last of the garbage into the bin, you pad across the hardwood in your socks and open the door. 

Hongjoong is waiting in the hallway, greeting you with a soft, slightly nervous smile. He looks ridiculously cute, bundled up in a hoodie and gray sweatpants layered under a comically large winter coat. A dusting of white snow clings to his dark hair, and you notice his knuckles, gripping the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, have turned a frostbitten shade of red from the walk over.

You look him up and down and have to clap a hand over your mouth to smother your laugh. "Oh—It's already snowing out there?"

He nods quickly, his shoulders shivering. "It—It doesn't get this cold in Korea," he mutters through chattering teeth.

Laughing softly, you step back and swing the door wide to let him inside. The second he catches sight of the living room, he makes a beeline for the couch, dropping his backpack onto the carpet beside the coffee table. He starts rubbing his hands together, blowing warm air into his cupped palms to thaw them out. Watching him with a smile, you cross the room to reach for the collar of his damp coat and help him shrug out of it. After sliding it off his shoulders, you carry it to the kitchen and drape it over the back of one of the barstools to dry.

Shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, Hongjoong follows after you as you head into the kitchen area, his eyes curiously scanning your dorm for the very first time. 

"I like it here," he decides after a minute.

You scoff. "You don't have to lie, Joong."

"I'm not lying."

You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder as you pull open the pantry door, scanning the shelves for hot chocolate mix. "I know it's not as nice or modern as your big, fancy international dorm," you tease, "but it's cozy."

You shove aside a box of granola bars and locate two unopened packets tucked in the back. Grinning, you bump the pantry door shut with your hip and reach up to grab a small saucepan from the upper cabinet.

"Seriously, I mean it." He leans against the island with his hands still buried in his pockets, his gaze following you as you pull a carton of milk from the fridge—though you can't help but wrinkle your nose at the smell of leftover takeout San has probably left rotting in the back corner for at least three days. "See?" He chuckles at your reaction. "It's charming. But... where do you keep all your records?"

"I told you, I don't even have half as many as you do. You're gonna be disappointed." You pour the milk into the saucepan and turn the burner on. "Besides," you add, reaching into the cabinet for the bag of marshmallows, "they're in my room. Which you are not seeing today."

A little smirk spreads across his face. "Why not?"

"Because my tutor decided to keep 'rewarding' me instead of actually teaching me anything last time I tried to study," you say, emphasizing the word with air quotes. "So tonight, I need to take things seriously. And the couch is already bad enough. Studying on my bed would be the point of no return."

His eyes dance with amusement. "Don't blame me for that. It's not my fault you were being such a good—"

Ripping open the plastic bag, you pluck a marshmallow out and hurl it right at his head, hitting him squarely on the left lens of his glasses.

"No more talking about it!" you scold, though you can feel your own cheeks heating up. "I'm not failing my final, okay? We need to focus. Seriously."

Hongjoong just smiles, reaching to pick the marshmallow off the countertop and popping it into his mouth. "Okay," he hums, chewing happily. "Then we'll focus. Seriously."

You give him one last warning glare as you tear open the hot chocolate packets, emptying the powder into two ceramic mugs.

"How did you get up here so fast after I texted you, by the way?" you ask, keeping a watchful eye on the saucepan to make sure the milk doesn't scald. "They didn't see you, did they?"

"They didn't," he chuckles. "I was waiting outside the main entrance. When they left, I managed to catch the door before it locked behind them so you wouldn't have to come all the way down to buzz me in. Honestly, I think they were a little too tipsy to even register a stranger walking in."

You giggle, clicking the burner off and pouring the milk into the mugs. "They probably just thought you were any other student. San and Yeosang have no idea what you look like yet anyway."

Dropping a generous handful of marshmallows into each mug, you pick them up by the handles and walk over to him, holding one out. "Be careful, it's hot."

He takes it from you with a soft, grateful smile. His free hand naturally finds its way to your lower back, guiding you out of the kitchen and over to the couch where he'd dropped his backpack.

"I would like to meet them, though," he reminds you gently as the two of you settle down side-by-side, both blowing on the steaming hot chocolate.

"I know," you sigh, staring into the swirling marshmallows in your mug. "Actually... they brought it up before they left."

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows, silently prompting you to continue. 

"Um... if you're free tomorrow night... they wanted to know if you'd want to come over to Yunho's dorm. We could just order some food and hang out. No drinking or anything crazy, just..."

"That's perfect," he interrupts softly.

"Are you sure? We can always push it to next weekend if you're busy. I really don't want to mess up your schedule." You remember him mentioning last week that his Sunday nights are usually reserved for preparing his demos for the upcoming week.

He smiles, sets his mug down on the coffee table, and turns to look at you fully. "I'm sure, ____. I'm always free for you."

You nearly inhale your hot chocolate, sputtering a cough as a laugh bubbles out of your chest. "Oh my god, why is everyone being so corny tonight? I expect it from San, but from you?"

Hongjoong laughs loudly at your reaction, though the tips of his ears immediately turn red. "I have to practice flirting in English! I can do it in Korean. I learned from all the movies and dramas I watched growing up. But English is still hard for me."

You can't help but smile. It's undeniably dorky, but seeing how hard he's trying to be a good boyfriend completely melts your heart. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, which only succeeds in turning his face an even deeper shade of pink.

To make him feel less embarrassed, you lean back and fix him with a playfully serious look. "Well, Mr. Kim... if you're always free for me, I guess I'll just have to keep your schedule fully booked for the rest of the semester."

He lets out a flustered huff of a laugh, reaching up to nervously adjust his glasses. "I told you that you're not allowed to call me that, didn't I?" he asks, attempting to summon an authoritative tone, though he looks way too flustered for it to land.

"Why not?" you ask, blinking innocently.

Hongjoong's gaze drops to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Because," he says, "I thought you said you wanted to focus tonight."

A nervous little giggle escapes you, your own face suddenly burning. You tear your eyes away from his lips, clearing your throat. "Right. You're right. I did," you manage, setting your mug down next to his. "Okay. Let's get to work. We still have two more sections to cover, don't we?"

Hongjoong nods, smiling fondly at you as he reaches down to unzip his backpack.

For the next half hour, true to your word, the two of you actually manage to stay on task. You fly through the remaining sections of the textbook with surprising speed, but despite your best efforts, neither of you can seem to fully shake the cheesy, flirty tension humming between you on the couch.

Every time you successfully conjugate a notoriously difficult verb, Hongjoong insists on leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek, murmuring that it's a "preview of your actual reward" and making your skin flare. And every time he gets a little too cocky, you sneak a "Mr. Kim" into your next question and watch him get just as flustered as you are. A few times, you catch his eyes dropping to watch the movement of your lips instead of actually listening to the vocabulary you're reciting. Whenever he realizes he was caught, his mouth curves into a shy, guilty smile before he clears his throat and tells you to start the sentence over. 

As you work together, you find yourself unsure how much grammar is actually sticking in your brain versus how many times you come dangerously close to throwing the textbooks to the floor and pulling your tutor down on top of you for a kiss.

Suddenly, a loud knock rattles the front door.

Both of you freeze. Hongjoong's pen halts mid-stroke over the lined paper of his notebook, and your fingers lock around the corner of the textbook page you were just about to turn. You stare at each other, wide-eyed and unmoving in the silence of the dorm. 

Are they already back? Did someone forget their wallet? Lose their ID? It hasn't even been an hour since they left. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The second round is louder, more impatient. 

You scramble to your feet, your stomach giving a sudden lurch. Hongjoong slowly unfreezes, setting his pen down onto the coffee table. He looks up at you from his spot on the cushions with a smile that is trying very hard to be reassuring but failing miserably.

"Well," he whispers as if the three men waiting outside might hear him through the door, "I guess I'm meeting the family a little sooner than expected."

Despite everything, you let out an anxious laugh as you glance toward the entryway. "Yeah... I guess you are." Taking a steadying breath, you look back at him. "Okay. Stay right here. Let me tell them you're inside before they come barging in and start yelling, okay? I don't want them to freak you out."

Hongjoong lets out a faint chuckle, but you don't miss the way he's subconsciously wiping his sweaty palms against the cotton of his sweatpants. He's nervous. And that only makes your pulse race faster.

Taking another deep breath, you force your legs to carry you toward the front door. With every step, the twisting sensation in your gut pulls even tighter.

Just as your fingers graze the handle, another loud, more aggressive knock bangs against the wood. You jump, tossing one last look over your shoulder at Hongjoong. He offers an encouraging smile, and you do your best to return one of your own before swinging the door open, plastering the most casual smile you can manage onto your face.

"Okay, before you guys come in, I really need to tell you—"

The words die in your throat.

Your heart plummets past your stomach, crashing somewhere near your shoes as an icy, paralyzing wave of vertigo washes over you. The fake smile vanishes from your lips, the blood draining from your face.

Because instead of your three best friends stumbling drunkenly down the hallway, you're standing face-to-face with the most terrifying sight imaginable.

The cruel, wicked smirk of Jung Wooyoung.

"I knocked three times," he says lightly, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement as he looks down at you. "You busy or something? You know, most girls run to the door the second they hear my footsteps coming down the hall. But that's right..." He tilts his head. "You're different, aren't you?"

Your hands tremble as you grip the doorframe, your knuckles turning a bloodless white. "Woo—Wooyoung... what the hell...?" you manage to whisper, frozen in place.

He clicks his tongue, lazily shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. "Aw, nervous to see me again, baby? Don't worry, I'm only stopping by for a minute. Unless you want me to stay." A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I'm more than happy to cancel my plans tonight for a... third date."

Your breathing turns shallow as you stare at him, panic wiping your mind blank. "What—What are you doing here, Wooyoung?" 

Your eyes sweep over him. He's dressed for a humid night out in late August, not a freezing December evening. He’s wearing a black tee and jeans—the same outfit you've seen him in every time you've been together. His hair is gelled and styled exactly the same as always. Nothing about Wooyoung has changed in the slightest.

He catches your gaze tracing over him, and his smirk deepens. "So you did miss me. I knew you would." But when his eyes lock onto yours, the teasing edge vanishes: he's dead, chillingly serious. "I'm here for my jacket."

Your heart plummets into what feels like an endless freefall.

The jacket.

Your eyes flash to the kitchen barstool where that stupid leather jacket had rested like a cursed object for nearly a week—a week where everyone in the dorm had been too afraid to even touch it. But it isn't there anymore. Hongjoong's winter coat is draped over that very stool instead.

The wind is knocked out of you as you realize that Hongjoong is here, sitting on the couch right behind you. With how you've barely cracked open the door, shielding the entryway with your body, Hongjoong probably still assumes you're talking to one—or all—of your friends.

Terror grips your throat. You can't let them see each other. If Wooyoung sees Hongjoong, it's over. If Hongjoong finds out who is standing at this door, he'll discover everything. He'll know you lied to him about your past. Think, ____, think, you scream at yourself, your head spinning faster and dizzier by the second as you stare blankly at the man in the doorway.

Oblivious, Wooyoung laughs. 

"You know, I thought I'd lost the damn thing," he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. "I searched my place for days. I must've been too drunk that night to realize I let you take it. I thought someone stole it at the bar or some shit. Even went out and bought myself a new one before I finally remembered." His eyes filthily trace your body, from the top of your head down to your socks and back up again, making your skin crawl. "Yeah. It was stolen. By you."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to breathe, but he keeps talking.

"You been wearing it? It's nice, right? I bet it looked so cute on you that night. If only I could remember anything that happened." The cruel curve of his lips returns. "I was just gonna forget about it. Let you keep it. A little souvenir to remember me by, yeah? To remind you of how much fun we had." He pauses, feeding off the way your stomach twists at his words. "But the new jacket's missing one thing. The inside pocket for my camera. And I plan on taking a lot of pictures tonight."

He suddenly takes a step forward, trying to peer over your shoulder and into the dorm.

"I need my jacket back, baby," he murmurs. "Let me in."

You remain rooted in the doorway, every muscle in your body locked as the panic finally spills over and chokes the breath out of your lungs. 

"Wooyoung, I... I don't know where it is," you stammer.

He pauses. One eyebrow arches. "You don't?"

You shake your head, your terrified mind scrambling to construct any lie that'll keep him out of your dorm and clinging to it for dear life. "San took it," you blurt out. "He put it away somewhere, but I have no idea where. Just—just come back later when he's here. He'll find it for you."

The lie sounds flimsy to even your own ears, and judging by the look on his face, he knows it too.

Desperate, you throw your weight forward and attempt to push the door shut, but Wooyoung is faster. His palm slams flat against the wood, stopping it dead in its tracks. Slowly, his eyes narrow.

"Well, if you don't know where it is..." His gaze snakes past your shoulder again, drinking in the narrow sliver of your living room visible from the hallway. "...maybe we should look for it together."

Wooyoung suddenly shoves the door inward. You stumble backward with a choked gasp, your socks slipping across the polished hardwood as he steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him.

"Wooyoung—"

He ignores you, already turning down the hallway, heading straight in the direction of San's bedroom. But on only the second step, he freezes.

Your hands are still suspended uselessly in the air from where you'd tried—and failed—to block him from coming inside. Your stomach drops so hard and fast that you feel like you're about to faint. 

Everything falls silent.

Wooyoung is standing in the center of your living room, staring straight at the couch. And standing perfectly still amid the messy notebooks and open textbooks, Hongjoong is staring right back. 

At some point, Hongjoong rose to his feet. His posture is rigid, his shoulders squared as he stands between the coffee table and the cushions. His eyes sweep over Wooyoung with a piercing glare. It's almost as if, in a matter of seconds, he's already deciphered exactly what kind of person this intruder is, all without a single word being exchanged.

You open your mouth, desperately trying to force a sound out—Hongjoong's name, Wooyoung's name, an explanation, an excuse, a plea, anything—but your vocal cords have been locked in place by the fear gripping your throat.

You can only watch, helplessly pinned in place, as Wooyoung's eyes drag over the man standing across the room. He takes his sweet time, lingering on Hongjoong's crooked glasses and tousled hair, before his gaze drops to the table. He stares at the scattered Korean textbooks, the vocabulary worksheets covered in red corrections, and finally, the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting side by side in the center of it all. 

As the reality of what he walked into dawns on him, a horrible, bitter smirk curls at the corners of Wooyoung's lips.

"Holy shit," he murmurs, a breath of malicious disbelief.

For a moment, the entire dorm goes quiet.

Then an ugly bark of laughter rips from his throat.

Wooyoung throws his head back and erupts into a fit of dark, hysterical laughter. "Holy shit! Holy fucking shit," he cackles, clutching his stomach as he spins to look at you, eyes glittering with vindictive delight. "You're kidding me, right? Tell me this is a fucking joke."

Still laughing, he turns his attention back to Hongjoong, openly raking his eyes up and down his body with blatant disrespect.

Hongjoong's expression hardens. His breathing grows shallow, mirroring the rise and fall of your own chest, as he slowly tears his gaze away from Wooyoung and looks at you instead.

"____." His voice is practically a growl. You watch the gears turning behind his eyes: he knows. He knows something is wrong. "Who is this?"

You can't speak.

You stare helplessly back at Hongjoong, your vision blurring as tears begin to well in your eyes, stinging your lash line. 

It's over. 

You should've just told him the truth.

Hongjoong sees the shiny glaze of tears brimming in your eyes, and his posture stiffens. His lips part in a quiet breath of disbelief, a devastating combination of confusion and betrayal already bleeding into his eyes before he even fully understands what he's looking at. 

Wooyoung wheezes with laughter, bracing himself by slapping a hand down onto the nearest kitchen stool—landing right on top of Hongjoong's snow-dampened coat.

"Fuck, ____, this has to be the funniest thing I've ever seen," he gasps, shaking his head. "Seriously. Holy shit, you're actually with him? You're dating the fucking tutor?"

The first tear spills over, cutting a humiliating path down your cheek.

Seeing it fall, Hongjoong snaps his gaze away from you, his expression shattering. His eyes flick toward the wall, betrayal flashing across his features before he suddenly manages to bury it, squaring his jaw and turning back to Wooyoung.

"Who are you?" he demands when you can't work up the courage to give him the answer.

However, this only seems to amuse Wooyoung even more. "She didn't even tell you about me?" he laughs mockingly, pouting his bottom lip. "Damn. What a shame."

He closes the distance between them, swaggering over to the couch and extending a taunting hand for Hongjoong to shake. "Jung Wooyoung," he says, his grin widening. "Hongjoong, right? I can't believe I'm actually getting to meet you. I'm a big fan."

Hongjoong doesn't even glance at the outstretched hand, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looks like it's ready to snap. 

"Not kidding," Wooyoung continues without flinching, dropping his arm back to his side. "I've been dying to ask you what your secret is."

The two men stare each other down from opposite sides of the coffee table. Wooyoung is grinning; Hongjoong looks ready to kill.

"My secret?" Hongjoong repeats.

Wooyoung nods, leaning in closer with a wicked smirk. "Yeah," he sneers. "How the fuck did a guy like you get her into your bed?"

A deafening tension crashes over the room. 

Hongjoong's eyes narrow as a furious, bewildered scoff escapes him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

A cold shudder crawls down your spine, pinning you in place against the front door. You've seen Hongjoong angry before, you've seen him frustrated, and you've heard him mutter Korean curses under his breath. But you've never heard him swear in English. 

Wooyoung laughs again, cruel and bright. "Guess she really didn't tell you. Well, she's always been a little shy about these things. Haven't you, baby?" He flashes you another grin over his shoulder before turning his back on Hongjoong, sauntering toward San's room, still chuckling to himself.

You feel sick. The room is spinning so fast you have to press your hand against the doorframe just to stay on your feet. You need to get Wooyoung out of here. You have to stop him before he digs any deeper. 

"Wooyoung," your shaky, fragile voice manages to force out just as his hand reaches for San's doorknob. He pauses, glancing back at you with an arched eyebrow. "It... it's in the bathroom," you whisper. "In the storage closet. San... San put it there."

His hand drops from the knob. Turning around, he looks you up and down, taking in your trembling state before scoffing. "Thought you didn't know where it was?" he asks. "What happened? Suddenly remembered?" His mouth curls. "Or are you leading me on again? Huh, I guess some things really never change."

You flinch. Your eyes remain glued to his back as he changes direction and disappears through the bathroom door.

You don't look at Hongjoong. You can't.

You don't want to see the impending heartbreak taking shape in his eyes, don't want to witness the moment he pieces the ugly puzzle together and realizes how much you've hidden from him. So, like a coward, you decide to delay the devastation, to avoid his gaze, for as long as you possibly can.

From down the short hallway, the loud and destructive sounds of Wooyoung's search begin. You can hear him rustling through the cramped storage closet, carelessly shoving boxes aside and tossing towels to the tile floor as he digs around for his jacket.

You keep your tear-filled eyes locked on the empty doorway, nails biting into your palms. If you stare hard enough, maybe Hongjoong will disappear. Maybe the consequences of your own lies will fall solely onto your shoulders, sparing the man you finally managed to start something real with.

Wooyoung emerges a minute later, shrugging the leather jacket over his shoulders. He smooths the collar into place with a grin.

"Well, I'm heading out. Got a party to get to," he announces cheerfully. "You two enjoy your little date night, yeah?"

He nods mockingly in Hongjoong's direction, smirking as he makes his way toward the front door—the door you're still weakly barricading with your body. Stopping mere inches in front of you, Wooyoung looks down with an amused raise of his eyebrow. His fingers slowly wrap around yours, peeling your trembling grip away from the doorframe. 

A repulsive shiver rips through your body as he holds your gaze, his grin widening. 

"She's a great student, isn't she?" he calls out over his shoulder, addressing Hongjoong even though his eyes never leave yours. "I taught her a few things myself last month. You should ask her about the knife. Or the fork." Your blood turns to ice as the smile on his face turns mocking. "She really has a thing for cutlery."

Dropping your hand, he gives you one final, bitter sneer before yanking the door open and stepping out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind him, and he's gone, sealing you inside the silence of your own destruction.

You stand paralyzed in the entryway for what feels like an eternity.

You've always known Hongjoong to be a brilliant man—how could he not be, as someone who is quite literally paid to teach you? But the intelligence you're seeing now has nothing to do with grammar or vocabulary. From your spot against the door, you're forced to watch him click every single ugly, disjointed piece of the puzzle named Jung Wooyoung into place in his mind.

Slowly, as if he's fighting his way through water, Hongjoong lowers himself onto the couch. A stray pen falls off the cushion, onto the floor, without him even noticing. His previously rigid posture collapses in on itself as he sinks back into the cushions. The color drains from his face, leaving his skin an unrecognizable, sickly pale, and his hand trembles as he raises it to push his crooked glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You don't know what to do. You don't know what to say. You don't even know if there's anything you can say to make a difference. So you just stand there with a burning ache in your throat as shameful tears continue to well and threaten to spill over your lashes, watching your boyfriend sift through every last humiliating second he'd just been forced to witness.

After a long time, Hongjoong finally turns his head. When he speaks, his fragile voice breaks your heart in two.

"When we studied together for the first time... in the library," he begins shakily. "His name... Wooyoung... it came up on your phone. You told me he was just a friend. That... that was a lie, wasn't it?"

Your breath hitches in your chest as you stare at him. You try to explain, but your voice breaks on the way up. You can't answer him. You can't.

But your silence is answer enough.

Hongjoong inhales sharply. He rises to his feet, his entire body shaking as he takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between the couch and the entryway. The closer he gets, the clearer you can see the glossy sheen of unshed tears pooling behind his glasses.

"Y—You told me you've only ever slept with one person." His voice cracks as he stops just a few feet away from you. "You said you were seventeen. With your ex, back in high school." His eyes plead with yours to deny it, to give him the answer he wants. "Was that a lie, too?"

A single, damning tear slips down your cheek. 

Hongjoong watches it fall. He stares at you for a long moment, the last trace of hope draining out of his face. He gives a faint, defeated nod, breaking eye contact just as his own tears finally begin to spill over.

"He said he... he taught you. Last month. Last month, ____," he breathes, looking back at you with so much betrayal in his eyes that it hurts to meet them. "But you told me you liked me since the first time you saw me. Since the beginning of the semester. Was... was that another lie? While I was... I... you were... with him...?"

You frantically shake your head, your chest caving in. "Joong, n—no, I—"

"He asked me how a guy like me got you into my bed," he continues, cutting you off as more tears track silently down his pale cheeks. "I know... I know I'm not experienced. I know I've never done this before. I know I'm not the kind of guy who... who you would normally look at twice—"

"Joong, that's not true—!"

"But," his voice cracks, ignoring your pleas. "I thought... I thought..."

He stops, unable to finish the sentence. He shakily reaches up, pulling his glasses off his face to roughly press the heels of his palms into his eyes, wiping away the falling tears. When he finally lowers his hands, he turns away from you and stares at the wall across the room.

You don't try to speak. You gulp down your tears, giving up on trying to defend yourself. There's nothing that feels capable of fixing this. Not words, not explanations, not anything you could possibly say. 

"He said you led him on," Hongjoong says quietly. "Is that what you're doing to me? Am I just..."

A choked sob finally rips from your throat. Without thinking, you reach a hand out to grab his sleeve, to ask for forgiveness, to show him you care. But he flinches, jerking his arm away like your touch burns.

You freeze, your hand falling numbly to your side as the outline of his body becomes a blur.

"How many times, ____?" he asks, his voice cracking. He can't even bear to look at you anymore. "How many times did you sleep with him?"

Your heart stops. He stands there, holding his breath, waiting for the truth. 

"It... it was twice," you whisper.

Hongjoong lets out a gut-wrenching, wounded sound, biting down on his trembling lower lip as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"But... but the second time wasn't... I—I stopped it, Joong," you plead, willing him to just open his eyes, to understand what happened. "I only went out with him to end it. To... to tell him that I didn't want him, that the whole thing was a mistake—"

"He was your first, wasn’t he?"

The question is quiet.

You stop rambling. Hongjoong's eyes open, and when his gaze finds yours again, you watch the realization wash over his pale features. 

"It wasn't your ex," he whispers, his throat bobbing. "It was him."

You go silent, tears falling down your cheeks, unable to deny it. 

And for Hongjoong, that's all the answer he needs.

A strangled sob tears its way out of his throat. He abruptly turns away, hurrying back over to the couch, refusing to look at you again. Panic surges through you, and you hurry after him, your voice cracking as you beg him to listen.

"Please, just let me explain, Joong!"

Hongjoong grabs his backpack from the floor and starts shoving his textbooks inside, his eyes fixed blankly on the coffee table, avoiding your face at all costs. 

"Explain what, ____?" he asks. His voice is flat, and that emptiness is somehow a million times worse than if he'd turned around and screamed at you. "Explain which version of you is the real one? The one I started falling in love with... or the one who looked me in the eye and lied to me about letting him—"

He chokes on the words, his jaw clenching as he yanks the zipper of his backpack shut.

The one I started falling in love with.

The words shatter what little is left of your heart.

"I wanted to tell you!" you choke out, stepping closer, though you keep your hands glued to your sides, too afraid to try and touch him again. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was so scared! Joong, I... I liked you from the very first day we met. That was never, ever a lie. But... you were my tutor! I never in a million years thought you'd look at me as anything more than your dumb student who couldn't even pronounce her own name. I didn't think you'd ever look at me the way I looked at you."

Hongjoong stops moving. His hands clamp around the straps of his bag. He doesn't turn to face you, but you can see the tension snapping across his shoulders and can hear the uneven sound of his breathing. He's listening.

"I was so stupid," you confess, your voice cracking as you furiously wipe the tears from your cheeks. "I was... I was horrible. I tried to use him. Wooyoung. My friends told me he didn't do relationships, that... that hookups meant nothing to him. I thought... I thought maybe I could drown out my feelings for you by doing something reckless. Maybe doing something meaningless with him would make me forget about how badly I wanted to mean something to you."

You take a shaky breath, your tears blinding your vision. "But it didn't work. After that night... I felt terrible. About everything. I... I couldn't stop imagining what it would've been like if it were you instead. He told me he wanted more. I guess he actually liked me, or at least he thought he did, but... he couldn't give me a single, tiny fraction of what you already had, even back when we'd barely spoken outside of tutoring. I felt so much for you, Joong. So, so much. I always knew it, even if I was too scared to admit it to myself."

Hongjoong remains still, his back turned to you as he listens.

"That's why I went back the second time," you plead. "To end it. To tell him it was a stupid, one-time mistake because my heart belonged to someone else. But he... fuck, Joong, I was so stupid, and he was so manipulative. Yes, we did it again, but I... I cried. I pushed him away. I made him stop. And... and that's when he realized. He'd heard my friends teasing me about my crush on my tutor, and he... he realized they weren't joking. You saw it, just now: he's mad. His ego is destroyed. He thinks I chose you over him, but... it was never a choice in the first place. I was always yours. From the very beginning."

He doesn't move, his head bowed as he stares down at the bag crushed in his hands. You choke out another sob, desperate for something in your confession to break through to him.

"And then, in your bedroom..." you whisper, the memory tearing you apart. "When you said it was your first time... when you told me how scared you were of making a mistake... I panicked. How could I look at you, after everything you just confessed, and tell you that I let some asshole like him take my virginity only a few weeks ago? I wanted to be the perfect girl for you, just like how I tried so hard to be the perfect student. I was so ashamed of what I'd done, of how I'd been so reckless for the first time in my life! I was scared that if you knew that ugly, mindless side of me, you'd never look at me the same way again. That you'd hate me. So... I lied. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Joong. I... I wish I could change it. I wish I could take it back. I really, really do."

You wipe your face with the backs of your hands, but the tears refuse to stop falling as you stand there, staring at his back, waiting, praying he even has a response. 

After a long moment, Hongjoong turns to face you again. His face has gone completely still except for the single tear that breaks free, trickling down his cheek.

"An exam," he whispers. "Is that what this whole thing was to you? You had to be perfect? You wanted to get an A... in what? In me? In us?"

He takes a hesitant step closer, looking at you with eyes full of heartbreak. "You know I've never cared about your mistakes, ____," he says, his voice cracking as he points a trembling finger at the coffee table, where your textbooks and vocabulary sheets used to lie scattered. "When you mess up a conjugation, we fix it. When you mispronounce a word, I help you say it right. That's what we do. That's what we've always done. I thought you knew... I thought you understood that I was the one place where you didn't have to be perfect right away. That I'd help you get there, no matter how hard it would be or how long it would take."

He looks down at his shaking hands, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the lump in his throat. When he finally looks back up, the disappointment in his eyes is almost unbearable. "You said we'd figure things out together. Those were your words," he continues. "But now I think you were so afraid of failing that you felt like you needed to hide the truth from me. What did you think? That if you hid all these parts of you, if you lied about your past, everything would just magically turn into reality? That you'd just get whatever grade you wanted without letting me help you get there?"

He shakes his head, taking a sharp breath in. "I don't care about him. I don't care that he was your first, or even that it happened so recently. Do you really think my feelings for you are so shallow that something like that is enough to make me walk away?" He drags the back of his hand across his face, but it's useless. His fingers are trembling so badly he can barely wipe away the tears before more take their place. "I care that you looked me in the eye, in my own bed, in my arms, and lied to me. You let me pour my heart out to you, ____! I told you my most pathetic insecurities, the most embarrassing secrets I've never said out loud to anyone, and you... you let me feel safe. You let me believe we were doing the same thing. That we were both being honest with each other, putting all our cards out on the table so we could start something real. How... how could you sit there, comforting me, telling me it was okay not to be perfect, all while knowing it was you who was hiding who you really were?" His voice finally shatters. "How am I supposed to trust anything you've ever said to me?"

"Joong, no, please—" Your voice breaks apart on his name.

You reach your hand out, but he pulls away again. Without another word, he turns his back on you and walks over to the kitchen island. He grabs his coat from the barstool, where you'd left it to dry barely a full hour ago, not even bothering to put it on. Your heart plummets as he swings his bag over his shoulder and stares blankly at the front door, refusing to cast a single glance back at where you're standing no matter how hard you're silently begging him to.

"I didn't ask about your past because I was looking for mistakes," he says quietly to the empty air. "I asked because I wanted to know the girl I was giving my heart to. The girl I wanted to create something real with... for the very first time in my life."

Another tear slides down his jawline as he shakes his head faintly, taking the last few steps toward the door. He doesn't speak again. When his hand wraps around the handle, your tears begin to fall harder.

"Joong, please, that's all I wanted too—" you choke out, your trembling legs moving on their own. You stumble after him, too terrified to touch him, but too desperate to let him walk away. "Please, Hongjoong, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry... I can fix this, I can—"

He turns his head, but he isn't looking at your face. His deadened gaze fixes on the floorboards right next to your feet as his shoulders tremble with the effort to hold himself together.

"You can't fix a lie like this with an apology, ____," he whispers, and you can tell he's given up. "You know that. You fix it with the truth. But I had to get yours from him." He takes a final, shuddering breath. "I... I never would've found out about this if he hadn't shown up tonight, right?"

You take a horrified step back, biting your lip so hard the taste of blood floods your mouth.

He's right.

You would've let this remain a secret forever. 

"Joong..."

But for the first time all night, you have nothing left to say.

Hongjoong shakes his head and pushes the door open. Without another glance back, he steps out into the hallway and gently pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing back into the cold.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty-one. chapter twenty-three (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: 16.9k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. thank you all for your patience with this chapter! life has been busier than ever lately and my stupid ass decided to make this update the longest one yet, so... i hope you enjoy some more cute couple things and maybe some not so cute what who said that

chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, hair pulling, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, cockwarming, light nipple play, semi-public sex, praise kink, biting/marking, creampie. please tell me if i missed any!

"Iced chai, oatmilk, light ice, vanilla sweetener... or did you want brown sugar?"

Hongjoong stops short on the concrete walkway, the plastic cup sweating against his palm. He stares at you with wide, mildly panicked eyes behind the black rims of his glasses. "It was brown sugar, wasn't it? Don't worry, stay here, I can go back—"

"Joong, relax," you laugh softly, nudging his arm to motion for him to keep walking with you. "Vanilla's perfect. Thank you." 

He deflates a bit, his tense shoulders dropping. A sheepish, relieved smile breaks through his worry as he hands the cup over. The exchange is clumsy—his bare knuckles brush against your freezing fingers—and a little jolt of warmth skitters up your arm despite the biting winter chill.

You bring the drink to your lips, taking a sip through the blue paper straw he picked out for you. The spice of the chai, mellowed by the vanilla, hits your tongue exactly the way you love it. You hum, peering up at him over the rim of the cup. "Was he working today?"

Hongjoong stiffens. His hand flies up to grip the strap of his backpack while he pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "...He was."

You glance at the drink in your hand, then back at him. "Did he make this?"

"Of course not," he murmurs, his tone turning oddly clipped as his attention snaps away from you, suddenly very invested in the flock of pigeons circling the stone arches of the nearest building. "I told his manager I didn't want a trainee making my drink." 

The straw slips from your lips as you stare at him. "You made the manager make this?"

"...Yes."

"Joong."

He pointedly avoids looking at you, but you catch the tiny smirk on his lips anyway.

You can't hold in your laugh as you fall back into step beside him. Every few seconds, your shoulders bump together lightly beneath your coats, accidental touches neither of you makes any effort to avoid.

Over the past week, this has somehow become your routine. Hongjoong walks you to your morning class, peels off at the last second to rush to his own lecture, then practically tears back across the quad the moment he's free again so you can spend the afternoon together. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since last Thursday: the night that had started with a near cooking disaster and ended with the two of you sprawled across his living room floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter, kissing between songs while his records spun one after another until sunrise. Although Hongjoong had an eight a.m. class the next morning, neither of you had been willing to call it a night. 

Ever since then, the last traces of awkwardness between you have finally started to disappear. Things feel real now. Hongjoong is your boyfriend, and you are Hongjoong's girlfriend. There are still occasional stumbles between the two of you—flustered silences when someone says something romantic, your cheeks burning whenever his hand slips near your waist, the way he loses his train of thought whenever you look at him for too long—but the uncertainty that once hovered between you is gone. Now, things are good. Unbelievably good. 

You reach the doors of your foreign policy lecture with two minutes to spare before class officially begins. The hallway is still relatively quiet as Hongjoong slows to a stop beside you. His gaze flicks down both ends of the corridor, quick and careful as he checks for wandering students, professors, or anyone else who might pay too much attention to a university-employed tutor lingering a little too close to one of his students.

Once he's satisfied the coast is clear, he steps closer. He dips his head and presses a quick kiss to your lips, brief enough to stay hidden if anyone happened to glance over.

"I'll see you in an hour," he murmurs with a little smile.

And then, before you can answer, he turns on his heel and begins speed-walking down the hallway, his backpack bouncing as he races out of the building to make it across campus in time for his own class. 

You stand paralyzed against the wall. A helpless grin stretches across your face as you watch him disappear around the corner, your lips still tingling from the kiss. It's only when a noisy group of your classmates spills into the hallway from the opposite end that you finally snap out of it. Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip around your drink and hurry into the lecture hall before anyone can ask why you look so flustered.

You make a beeline for your usual seat at the far end of one of the middle rows as the last wave of students funnels into the room. You shrug your bag from your shoulder and let it fall beside your chair, listening to the sounds of backpacks hitting the floor and laptops snapping open.  

At the podium, your professor adjusts her microphone and taps on it twice.

"Good morning, everyone," she projects, offering a polished smile to the large crowd of students. "Today, we'll be discussing the evolution of global cyberwarfare and its implications for modern diplomacy."

You open a blank document and type out the date along with a neatly formatted heading, but that's about as far as you get; your fingers are moving on autopilot more than anything else. The moment your cursor begins blinking beneath the title, your attention slips. Your professor's voice drones on at the front of the hall, but it gradually blurs into white noise as your mind floats right back out that classroom door, chasing Hongjoong across campus.

It started on Friday. Neither of you had actually planned to see each other again so soon. After all, the two of you had stayed up until sunrise the night before. Logically, a little distance should've followed. A few hours apart, at the very least. 

That idea lasted until Hongjoong realized you don't have any classes on Friday. His text came through not long after.

Hongjoong: I know we just saw each other, but do you want to

You didn't even finish reading the text before you responded.

You: Yes.

The embarrassingly quick reply probably killed whatever was left of your dignity, but it also seemed to help erase the awkwardness between the two of you. 

A soft smile pulls at your lips as you rest your chin in your hand, staring absently at the blinking cursor. Though it's only been a week, the past few days replay like an old movie behind your eyes. You've spent every single day together. Driving aimlessly through the winding streets of your college town with the windows cracked just enough for the cold air to slip inside, his hand tapping against the steering wheel while your favorite albums played on repeat for the fifth or sixth time. Stopping at terrible restaurants on purpose after the two of you discovered how fun it was to hunt down places with catastrophically bad Yelp reviews. Sitting in the passenger seat with greasy paper bags spread across your laps, laughing so hard over soggy fries that your stomachs hurt afterward. There were quieter moments, too, like trading ideas for novels you’d always wanted to write and songs he was hoping to produce someday. You’d even gone back to the Yoons’ grocery store on Sunday, where Mrs. Yoon had pinched his cheek and teased him about you until his ears turned bright red.

And, of course, there was the studying.

Or, rather, the complete lack thereof.

Every time you actually managed to open a Korean textbook in his bedroom, you inevitably ended up distracted, laughing over a mispronunciation until his hands found your waist, pulling you down to kiss you senseless on his couch until you couldn't remember your own name, let alone basic grammar structures. 

You've been so wrapped up in him that you've barely seen your own friends. Half the messages in your group chat have gone unanswered for hours because you keep getting distracted midway through replying whenever he calls. You even skipped your usual Tuesday grocery run with Yunho after what was supposed to be a quick lunch with Hongjoong somehow stretched into nearly four hours of arguing over whether BIGBANG's If Youis a skip. Yunho only sighed when you apologized at dinner afterward, muttering something about "abandonment issues" while stealing some fries off your plate.

San, on the other hand, is a different story.

San is getting mad. He texted you late last night, practically begging you to just bring Hongjoong over so he didn't have to keep coming home to an empty dorm. But you're hesitant to merge your two worlds just yet. You know your friends. The moment San sees the two of you together, he'll never let you breathe again: the teasing will be relentless. And while you know he means well, you also know how fragile things are. 

You and Hongjoong have only been together for one week. The last thing you want is for outside voices to crash into your relationship too soon. 

Besides, it's not exactly difficult to avoid your dorm when you and Hongjoong have his apartment to yourselves most of the time. Seonghwa is still around, of course, and every time you walk through the door, he greets you with some new flirty joke. However, now, you're fairly certain he's only doing it for a reaction. Hongjoong's, specifically. The moment Hongjoong levels him with one of his murderous glares, Seonghwa grins, raises his hands in surrender, and disappears into his room.

You're lost in a memory of Hongjoong singing Lemon Tree shyly in the driver's seat, your lips curving unconsciously, when—

Ping.

You scramble to turn your laptop's blaring volume down as a small banner slides into the top right corner of the screen.

From: Choi Jongho ([email protected]) Subject: Final Exam Details and Preparation

Your fingers suddenly go cold as you click the email open. You knew finals were approaching, obviously. But awareness and reality are two very different things, and the second your eyes skim over the bolded date near the top of the message, you nearly gasp.

Two weeks.

Your Korean final is in exactly two weeks.

Because of your whirlwind week of absolute bliss, you've accidentally ignored all your lectures and forgotten to complete approximately four assignments. And you definitely haven't been studying outside of class, because every time you and your tutor sit down to review vocabulary, you lose focus within five minutes.

You quickly click the little 'X' in the corner of the screen, shutting the email out of your mind. You don't want to think about this right now, not when you've had such an amazing week. Trying to swallow down the rising knot of dread in your throat, you force your eyes toward the whiteboard at the front of the lecture hall.

The moment your professor finally dismisses the class, you're moving. The final "see everyone next week" has barely left her mouth before you're snapping your laptop shut. Around you, students linger to finish conversations or gather their things, but you quickly shove your laptop into your bag, sling the strap over your shoulder, and bolt for the doors. 

Since his Thursday morning class is only fifty minutes compared to your hour and fifteen, you know Hongjoong is already waiting for you outside.

Sure enough, the second you push through the doors into the bustling hallway, you spot him leaning against the wall across from your classroom. A pair of silver headphones rests over his ears, and his head is tilted downward as he scrolls through something on his phone, one foot propped up behind him. But the instant he registers the sound of the lecture hall emptying, his head snaps up.

His eyes scan the crowd, and the moment they lock onto you, a smile breaks across his features. He quickly pulls his headphones down around his neck, sliding his phone into his pocket as he pushes off the wall to meet you halfway.

"How was class?" he asks as he falls into step beside you. The two of you merge into the flow of students moving through the hallway, letting the crowd carry you toward the main quad as you head nowhere in particular to grab lunch. 

You grimace as you stare at the sea of backpacks and winter coats ahead. "It was fine until I got an email."

Hongjoong's eyebrows pull together. "An email? From who?"

"Professor Choi," you say, the dread creeping back into your voice. "My final is in two weeks."

Hongjoong blinks. "Oh." You watch as he mentally works through the timeline and realizes that the two of you have accomplished about eleven total minutes of actual studying in the past week. Slowly, a guilty little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Do you..." He clears his throat. "...feel ready?"

You stop walking to level him with the flattest, most deadpan look you can manage.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Okay. It's okay. Don't start panicking," he says. "I know we're supposed to have our official tutoring session tonight, but... I'll cancel it."

Your eyebrows shoot upward. "You can do that?"

"Well... I've done it before, haven't I?" he teases, getting a reluctant laugh out of you. His smile softens at the sound, though the amusement fades as he starts piecing together a plan. "I'll tell the Language Center I'm sick again. And I'll email Professor Choi to excuse you from this week's recording. I'll explain that you had a bad experience with the last substitute—which isn't exactly a lie—and aren't comfortable working with anyone but me right now."

"But... are you sure that's okay?" you ask slowly. "If I'm not meeting with another tutor instead? Couldn't that get us in trouble?"

"If it were happening every week, maybe. But once? No one's going to care," he assures you. "Instead of meeting in the Center, I'll reserve one of the study rooms in the library. And we'll actually study. Not in my apartment. This time, a strictly academic environment."

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyeing him skeptically, though the crushing anxiety in your chest is finally starting to loosen its grip. "Okay. At our usual time? Five o'clock?"

"Five o'clock," he nods, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. "I'll bring food, too. We'll need it if we're going to cram a week's worth of grammar into one night."

"Okay," you breathe out. "Thank you, Joong."

He smiles, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, maybe to whisper something more, maybe to steal another quick kiss, when a loud voice interrupts you from down the hallway.

"____! I was looking everywhere for you!"

You catch the blur of movement over Hongjoong's shoulder, and your blood instantly runs cold. Striding down the corridor from the opposite direction, waving a hand high in the air, is an entirely too cheerful Yunho.

Before you can distance yourself from Hongjoong, Yunho is walking right up to the two of you. His bright eyes dart between your frozen deer-in-headlights expression and Hongjoong's mildly confused one.

"I need your help," Yunho breathes, coming to a halt in front of you. He ignores Hongjoong, flashing you a grin. "I accidentally locked myself out of my dorm, and I need to get my laptop before my next class. But Yeosang's stuck in a Psych lecture for another hour, San's all the way across campus at the gym, and you're the only other person with a spare key. Do you have it?" 

You blink at your best friend, your brain taking an embarrassingly long moment to catch up. "I—uh..." Your gaze flickers from Yunho to Hongjoong and back again. "What?"

"I know, I know. I can't believe I did it again," Yunho says with a long-suffering sigh, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth hints that he isn't the least bit distressed. "The key, ____. Do you have it on you or not?"

"I... let me look," you stutter, your face flushing as you shrug your bag off your shoulder and set it on a small bench along the wall. Your fingers fumble with the opening before digging through the main compartment, pushing aside notebooks, loose pens, crumpled receipts, old granola bar wrappers, and tangled headphones. 

This is exactly what you've spent the last week trying to avoid: your two carefully separated worlds colliding without warning.

The second your eyes drop into your bag, Yunho turns his full attention to the man standing quietly by your side. He thrusts his hand out, a giant smile stretching across his face.

"Hi. I'm Yunho, by the way," he introduces himself. "You're the famous tutor, right?"

Your hands freeze mid-rummage as your heart skips a beat. Slowly, you lift your head and stare at your best friend in complete mortification.

But Hongjoong doesn't seem caught off guard at all. He chuckles as he pulls one hand from the pocket of his pants and reaches forward to shake Yunho's. 

"That's me. Hongjoong," he says, his voice incredibly calm compared to your nervous pulse. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's great to finally meet you, too," Yunho replies, his grin somehow growing even wider as he shoots a teasing glance at you. "I've been trying to for the past week, but someone is a little embarrassed of her friends, so she's been keeping us—"

"Yunho! I'm not embarrassed!" you interrupt, shooting him a glare. "You guys are just... a lot. And I don't think Hongjoong really wants to deal with—"

"I want to meet your friends."

Hongjoong's interruption makes your mouth snap shut. You blink at him.

"You... do?"

"Of course I do. You've... well, you've certainly already met my best friend, for better or worse," he says, ignoring Yunho for a moment as he looks into your eyes earnestly. "I know we technically have to keep our relationship a secret on campus. And I know we have to be careful. Still... I want to meet your friends, too. I want to be a part of your whole life, not just the part that's tied to this school. ____ the person, not just... my student." 

Your lips part, but no words come out. 

Something warm unfurls in your heart at his words, a small, touched smile forming on your lips as the anxiety you've been carrying about merging your two worlds finally begins to melt.

"Great! We'll set something up," Yunho declares, apparently deciding for everyone involved that Hongjoong's request has already been granted. "Tonight? Pizza at my place? You guys, me, San, and Yeosang? We can all hang out and finally get to know—"

"Not tonight," you say quickly, thinking back to Professor Choi's email. "We're getting a study room in the library since I need help getting ready for the Korean final. I have to catch up on everything I missed this week. But... yes. Okay. We can do that soon. Pizza." You pause, holding Hongjoong's gaze. "I promise."

His eyes soften. "I'll hold you to it."

"Perfect!" Yunho grins before immediately pointing at you. "But seriously. I really do need my key. Do you have it or not?"

You glance down at your still-open bag, everything inside shifted and pushed aside until the bottom is finally exposed—and missing what you were hoping to find. "Um... I think it's sitting on my desk in the dorm."

Before you can apologize or offer him a spare notebook to use instead, he hooks his arm through yours. "Alright, come on then."

"What? Hang on—" 

"Let's go! I have class in thirty minutes!"

He starts marching down the hallway without waiting for any further resistance, pulling you along with him. Your shoes scrape against the floor as you stumble to keep up with his pace.

"Yunho, wait—"

Twisting around mid-step, you glance back behind you. Hongjoong is still standing where you left him, chuckling, one shoulder leaning against the wall with both hands tucked back into his pockets. 

"I'll see you at five!" he calls out over the rising hallway noise.

"Yeah! Uh—okay!" you stutter back, managing an awkward wave over your shoulder just before the crowd swallows you. Hongjoong lifts a hand in return, smiling as Yunho steers you around the corner.

The moment the two of you are officially out of Hongjoong’s line of sight, Yunho drops your arm. His urgent pace calms to a casual stroll, and you stumble a bit without his momentum, catching your balance and adjusting the strap of your bag as you glare up at him.

"Really, Yunho?" you snap. "We were about to go get lunch! You seriously need your key right this second?"

He reaches into the front pocket of his coat and calmly pulls out a yellow lanyard. Dangling from the metal ring is a shiny brass dorm key. "Nope. I have it," he says cheerfully, giving the lanyard a little shake so the metal jingles between you. "I just needed an excuse to get you alone."

Your mouth drops open. You stare at the dangling piece of metal, then up at his smug face, before lifting both hands and shoving him squarely in the chest. "Yunho! Are you serious?"

He barely even budges. Laughing loudly, he easily catches your wrist mid-air and loops your arm right back through his, trapping you against his side once again.

"Oh, please. You've been with him every day for the past week. You've neglected your best friend! Come on, walk me to class. You have a lot of explaining to do."

You let out a long groan, though you don't actually resist as he pulls you down the hallway. "Fine."

Yunho's pleased grin widens as he looks down at you. "So? Tell me what's been going on!" he prompts. "How have things been going since you guys made it official? What have you been doing?"

The annoyance begins to drain out of you as you think back to your week. You try your hardest to fight it, biting down on the inside of your cheek, but you can't stop the goofy, lovestruck smile from overtaking your face.

You tell your best friend everything as you walk through the halls. You tell him about driving aimlessly around at night, the afternoons that somehow turned into evenings without either of you ever noticing the passage of time, and, reluctantly, about the fact that you haven't actually studied once in the past week. That every session starts with good intentions and ends the same way—books abandoned, notes forgotten, and the two of you tangled up together on his couch instead.

Yunho listens attentively as you ramble, grinning at you the entire time. "Okay, I hate to admit it because you skipped our grocery run..." He jokingly rolls his eyes, which makes you laugh. "But you guys do sound pretty cute."

"It's been... really nice," you admit quietly, feeling your cheeks warm.

"I do have to say, though," Yunho says as you step outside into the cold air. "He is much more handsome than Mingi made him out to be. He left out the part about how intense his eyes are. And god, ____, how are you not afraid of that smile? I can't tell if it makes him look like an angel or the devil."

You let out a startled laugh, almost tripping over a crack in the walkway. "You talked to Mingi about him?"

"Obviously. You've been purposefully keeping me away from him. I had to do anything I could to make sure he was actually a good match for you," Yunho says matter-of-factly. "But he actually seems really nice. I respect him a lot for saying he wants to meet us. He wants to be a part of your life. I like that." 

Yunho stops walking, and you stop with him underneath the bare branches of an oak tree. He pulls you into a quick one-armed hug, resting his chin on the top of your head. "I like him," he decides firmly. "I'm so happy for you, ____." 

You shrug him away with a little embarrassed scowl. You drop your gaze to the frost-bitten sidewalk as you keep walking, shivering slightly and kicking at an imaginary chunk of ice on the concrete. "I guess," you murmur. "Yeah. I... I like him. I'm... I'm really happy too, Yunho."

"You look happy," Yunho agrees, laughing at your flustered face. He studies your profile as you walk, his eyes scanning your features before dropping to your neck. "Less marked up, too. Has he calmed down since that first night?" 

"Yunho!" you screech, ripping your arm away from his and slapping his shoulder as hard as you can through his coat. "Why would you ask that?"

He throws his head back and laughs, dodging your attempts to hit him again. "Hey, it's okay to talk about this stuff!" he says through his laughter. With his ridiculous height advantage, it takes him barely any effort to catch both of your flailing wrists in one hand and give them a playful shake. "You have no idea how many conversations San and I have had about how surprised he is that Mingi's a bottom—"

"Yunho!" you shriek, your eyes going wide as you rip your hands out of his grasp to cover your burning ears. "I do not need to know that!"

He loses it, cackling so hard he has to bend over and clutch his stomach. "Okay, okay! Fine!" he concedes as he manages to catch his breath. "But seriously, you don't ever need to be embarrassed about this stuff. Especially not with me. You guys are adults. You have sex. It's normal."

"I guess," you mumble, staring down at the scuff marks on the toes of your shoes. You yank the collar of your coat up a little higher around your chin, trying to hide your flushed cheeks from him. "But..."

You trail off, and Yunho immediately senses the shift. He slows his long strides, dipping his head down to duck into your line of sight, trying to catch your stubbornly averted eyes.

"What?" he asks, watching your shoulders tense and putting the pieces together. "Have you guys... not?"

You swallow and wordlessly shake your head.

Yunho blinks, surprised. "Not since that first night?"

You keep your eyes glued to the sidewalk.

Despite the wonderful shift in your relationship over the past week, you and Hongjoong haven't actually slept together since the night you confessed.

It's not that you mind the slower pace, exactly. You've loved every second of just talking with him, absorbing every detail about his present, his past, and what he wants his future to be. But you also can't deny that Hongjoong is an insanely attractive man, and that being around him every single day has left you perpetually needy for more. 

All those nights in the passenger seat of his car, all those afternoons supposedly studying in his room—they always led to making out. Breathless, desperate making out that leaves your lips bruised and your head spinning with desire. You can see it in his eyes, too: his gaze turns a shade darker, his jaw clenches, his breathing turns shallow, and his hands grip your waist tighter, but right when the tension peaks, right when you feel like he's about to take things further—he pulls back.

He swallows hard, takes a shuddering breath, and rests his forehead against yours with his eyes squeezed shut. And then, with that thick, raspy voice, he loosens his grip, presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and gently changes the subject.

And you have no idea why.

"Are you both too scared to initiate?" Yunho asks, his footsteps slowing to match yours.

You offer a helpless shrug as you bury your cold hands into your coat pockets. "Maybe. I know I am. I don't want to mess up what we have going right now, but..."

He studies you for a long moment before asking: "How rough was it?"

You whip your head to stare at him. "Huh?"

"I'm just saying, I get a vibe from him," Yunho continues. "And that vibe is telling me that beneath that cozy sweater, he might be a lot more... intense than Mingi and I originally suspected."

"Why are you and Mingi suspecting things in the first place?" you hiss, looking around to make sure no passing students are eavesdropping. 

"Because, like I said, you refuse to tell me anything, and we're curious!" he shoots back shamelessly. "Anyway, focus. Did he hurt you last time? Because if he was really rough with you, he might be overthinking it. You know, scared of accidentally hurting you again, especially now that you guys are together."

"No," you say quickly, heat rushing to your face as the memories of that night flash through your mind. "He didn't hurt me. But, um..." You swallow, nervously picking at the cuff of your coat sleeve. "It was pretty... yeah. It was a lot."

Yunho nods, and to your surprise, he doesn't tease you. "Then maybe you really do need to be the one to initiate it. Think about it. That first night was pretty emotionally charged, right? You guys had just confessed to each other, and he was already jealous seeing you come home from a date with his best friend. If he lost control a little, he might be getting in his own head now, thinking he scared you off."

"But I told him I liked it," you argue weakly, your face burning.

"Yeah, but if you haven't realized by now, guys are stupid, ____. He's probably still overthinking every move he makes with you, trying to be a respectful boyfriend. He probably doesn't want sex to complicate or ruin this little honeymoon phase you guys are in," he reasons, allowing his advice to sink in. "I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll fuck you in no time."

"Please lower your voice," you hiss, hiding your face in your hands as you try to speedwalk ahead of him.

His laughter echoes across the busy quad as he jogs a few steps to catch up with you. "You'll get more comfortable talking about sex the more you have it, trust me."

"Okay, well, check back with me in a year, and maybe I'll consider giving you a thumbs up," you mumble from behind your fingers.

"Sure, sure. Go at your own pace," Yunho beams, slinging a comforting arm over your shoulders as the two of you continue the walk toward his building. He flashes you one last grin. "But just a heads up: if you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start." 

The library is surprisingly busy for five o'clock on a Thursday evening.

Normally, the first floor is relatively empty by now, save for a handful of students unfortunate enough to land Friday classes during registration. For most of campus, however, Thursday marks the unofficial kickoff of the weekend. Typically, by this time, people are already starting to migrate towards sticky frat basements, crowded bars, and cramped dorms packed with cheap takeout and pre-game liquor.

Tonight, though, nearly every seat in the library is occupied. 

Students sit barricaded behind laptops and towering stacks of notes, while others jog through the sprawling lobby, balancing cardboard trays of espresso for study groups crammed into every available corner. 

You figure the timing isn't coincidental. Professor Choi's final exam announcement landed in your inbox only a few hours ago. Judging by the sea of stressed faces surrounding you, you're willing to bet nearly every other professor on campus had chosen today to send out the exact same announcement.

Everyone is scrambling, including you.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you follow the flow of students through the lobby. Everyone around you seems so focused, so determined to review material until it's burned into their brains that it makes you anxious. You've spent the entire week mentally checked out, adrift in a haze of your own making, incapable of stringing together a coherent academic thought for more than ten minutes. How exactly are you supposed to walk into a study room and suddenly become your usual productive self?

More importantly, how the hell are you supposed to focus with the cause of your problem sitting right across from you?

You pull out your phone to ask Hongjoong where he is, only to find three unread messages already waiting for you.

Joong: I'm in B1005 when you get here. Joong: It's in the basement. Joong: In case the B wasn't clear.

A tiny crease forms between your brows as you stare at the screen. B1005? You mentally rifle through your limited knowledge of the basement layout, trying to picture the room number. Though you have to admit that you don't spend much time down there, you could've sworn the study rooms maxed out at four.

Shaking off the confusion, you swipe his messages away and make your way toward the nearest stairwell. The basement of the library is notoriously silent, usually reserved exclusively for exhausted grad students and sleep-deprived undergrads desperate enough to pull an all-nighter before an exam. As you begin your descent, the silence becomes oppressive. You cringe with every step you take, wincing as the squeak of your rubber soles bounces off the concrete walls and echoes down the stairwell, likely disturbing every student on the floor.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you turn toward the bank of study rooms tucked against the far wall. They're lined up in a row, each one large enough to comfortably seat eight people around an old, creaky wooden table that's certainly seen better days, undoubtedly witnessing about thirty years' worth of academic meltdowns. You slow your pace, scanning the small metal plaques mounted beside the glass-paneled doors.

B1001. B1002. B1003. B1004.

Just as you suspected, that's where the sequence ends.

You linger there for a moment, leaning in to peer through the glass of each door, just to be sure, but Hongjoong is nowhere to be found.

Did you misread his text?

You pull back and sweep a glance around the basement's open floor plan instead, searching the labyrinth of desks and shadowy corners for any sign of him. Your gaze darts from face to face, and soon, a few of those faces begin to notice. A guy with neat braids and thick glasses snaps his head up from his laptop, giving you a pointed glare after your third lap. A few desks over, another one with a bleached-blonde buzzcut follows you with mild curiosity before returning to his notes.

Suddenly, your eyes snag on a movement inside B1003, locking you in unfortunate eye contact with one of the four girls studying together. She pauses mid-highlight to stare you down, sweeping a slow and critical look up and down your frame with piercingly blue eyes. You flash her an awkward, tight-lipped smile and immediately scurry away, ducking behind the nearest row of bookshelves to reopen your texts with Hongjoong.

You: Where are you? B1005 doesn't exist.

The gray typing bubble materializes instantly.

Joong: It does. Behind the shelves in the far left corner. Joong: I can come show you if you're lost.

You narrow your eyes at the screen.

You: No, I'll find you.

The message sends, and before he can offer any further commentary on your poor navigational skills, you start walking. You pass the main seating area and head deeper into the belly of the basement, venturing into a section you've never actually set foot in before. You're certainly no stranger to this building, but your time is almost always spent on the upper floors. For you, the basement was only ever a last resort during midterm season—the sad little corner you crawled into when you accidentally overslept and arrived to find every decent study spot on campus already claimed.

But this particular section seems as though it hasn't been touched by the presence of an actual human body in years. 

The organized rows of desks disappear, giving way to towering bookshelves packed incredibly close together. Overhead, the lights grow noticeably dimmer, their intermittent flickering becoming more and more frequent the further you venture. The shelves back here are older, probably the oldest in the whole library. You trail your fingertips along the cold, rusted edge of one as you walk, glancing at the faded labels: decades-old university records and bound archives covered in dust. The deeper you go, the quieter it becomes.

Eventually, the towering shelves begin to taper off, leading to a dead end against a dull cinderblock wall. You slow to a halt. There, tucked into the very back corner, exactly as Hongjoong promised, is a single, isolated door.

The little tarnished plaque next to it reads B1005.

Unlike the study rooms near the staircase, this door is plain wood, devoid of any windows or glass paneling—leaving you without any way to see who's inside. You stare at the handle apprehensively, praying Hongjoong is actually the one behind this door... or you're about to have yet another awkward interaction with a very stressed and likely hostile student. With a final glance at the plaque, you reach for the handle and slowly push the door open.

You immediately breathe a sigh of relief. 

Thankfully, Hongjoong is there, seated at the far side of the square table. At the click of the latch, his head snaps up, and a warm smile instantly crinkles his eyes.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi," you breathe back, stepping inside. The door shuts behind you, cutting off the faint rumbling of the library's HVAC system.

As you expected, he's already prepared to begin: his laptop sits open at the center of the table, flanked by a textbook to the side. One of his forearms rests casually over his stack of notebooks, while his collection of multicolored pens and highlighters is somehow even more organized than usual. 

You glance around as you step further inside. This study room is significantly smaller than the others. Instead of a long, rectangular eight-person table meant for large study groups, this one is square, built to seat four at most. A wide whiteboard spans across the wall behind Hongjoong, blank except for a thin ledge of black markers. Otherwise, the room is entirely empty. There are only two light fixtures hanging above, and one of them seems to be permanently burnt out, leaving the room half-washed in a dim, secluded glow. 

Yunho's parting words from earlier today slip uninvited into your mind: If you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start.

You swallow hard, setting your bag down on the table. You pull out the chair directly across from Hongjoong and sit, your eyes darting a little anxiously between the whiteboard, the empty corners of the room, and his patient smile.

"Why..." you start, your voice wavering slightly. You clear your throat. "Um... I've never been back here before. How did you even find this place?"

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. It pulls the fabric of the button-down he changed into at some point taut across his broad shoulders, briefly accentuating the hard lines beneath. You swallow and rip your eyes away before he catches you staring. "It's an old archival room," he explains. "I don't think most undergrads even know it exists since it's buried so deep in the stacks. I found it by accident at the beginning of the semester. Seonghwa threatened to throw my laptop out the window because he was sick of hearing my demos on repeat, so I had to find a more secluded place to work. Ever since then, this has been my go-to when I need to focus. No distractions."

You peer around the room, taking in the hairline cracks marring the cinderblock walls. "So you're serious about us focusing tonight." 

"Of course I am," he says. "The last thing I ever want to be is the reason your final goes poorly. I... I really like being your boyfriend, ____. But I'm still your tutor, too. It's my responsibility to make sure you do your best."

The rush of warmth in your chest is sweet enough to momentarily banish the anxiety of Yunho's teasing advice from your mind.

"And," Hongjoong continues, pulling his bag onto his lap and unzipping the main compartment before digging around loose sheets of music and tangled charging cords, "Before I forget. I stopped by the Yoons' on my way here."

He begins unloading a miniature feast onto the scarred tabletop: two rolls of kimbap, still warm enough to fog the plastic wrap, a bag of honey butter chips, and a couple of chilled canned drinks. He slides one of the rolls and a can across the table, an encouraging smile returning to his lips as it stops just inches from your hands. "Have whatever you want. Eat up, because we've got a long night ahead of us."

And then, just like that, the switch flips.

Hongjoong reaches for his textbook, thumbing through the pages until he finds the chapter he's looking for. You wait in silence, hands resting awkwardly in your lap, watching as his focus settles solely on the task at hand.

Without a word, he rises from the chair. He plucks one of the black dry-erase markers from the ledge and turns his back to you, facing the whiteboard. A moment later, lines of neat handwriting begin appearing in the top left corner, breaking down the evening's agenda into four bullet points: frequency indicators, the clausal connective 고 나서, 면서 (while -ing), and compound verbs. 

You wince at the squeak of the marker against the board, the only sound filling the room other than your own nervous breathing. Once he's finished, he snaps the cap back onto the marker and sets it aside. He turns back to the table, bracing one hand against the wood as he leans over his laptop, scrolling through a PDF of the course syllabus.

Watching him like this requires a conscious effort to swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. Focus looks unfairly good on him. The way his eyebrows are furrowed as he reads the syllabus is enough to make your pulse quicken. But before your thoughts can wander anywhere near the dangerous territory Yunho had mapped out for you earlier, Hongjoong speaks.

"According to the lesson plans for this week," he says, tracing a line down the PDF with one finger, "everyone was required to memorize the list of frequency indicators in Chapter 13. Correct?"

Pink floods your neck, rushing straight up to your cheeks as your mind goes blank.

What frequency indicators? 

"Um..." You force yourself to sit up a little straighter. "Yes. We were." 

Hongjoong finally lifts his head from the laptop. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and levels you with a long, assessing stare through the lenses. One eyebrow slowly rises.

"Good," he says after a beat. "Then we should be able to get through this first section pretty quickly."

You manage a tiny nod, but beneath the table, your fingers tighten around the fabric of your skirt. You don't have a single clue what he's talking about. Frequency indicators? Does that mean counting? Days of the week? Time expressions? Something else with numbers? 

Hongjoong flips the textbook forward, dragging his index finger down the page until it stops beneath the header of a bolded vocabulary list.

"Repeat after me, then translate," he says. "자주."

You blink, momentarily startled, but luckily, the sounds click into place in your mind. You recognize the word. "자주. Often," you answer, your voice gaining a fragile bit of confidence.

He offers a singular nod of approval. "Good." His finger slides down a millimeter. "Next. 매일."

The knot in your stomach loosens. This one is familiar, too; these are all previous vocabulary words. "매일. Every day."

Another nod. This time, you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, gone before it can fully form. But before you can get too comfortable, his finger stalls over a longer string of characters.

"한 번도 안."

Every ounce of your hard-won confidence drains from your limbs. You try dissecting the phrase in your head, separating the syllables, but he'd spoken too quickly for anything to stick cleanly. You caught the word 한—which means one—so maybe it translates to once?

"한... 한..." You trail off, the rest of the phrase escaping your memory. You swallow hard under his patient stare. "Can you... say it again? Slower, please?"

Hongjoong watches you over the rims of his glasses. After a beat, without comment, he complies, his pronunciation now slower and the syllables more elongated. "한 번도 안."

You nod quickly like that helps, rushing to mimic him before the sounds can slip away again. "한 변도 안."

He pauses, then shakes his head once. "번, not 변. Try it again."

Your tongue suddenly feels clumsy against your teeth as you force yourself to slow down. "한 번... 도 안."

"Good," he says. "Can you translate?"

You clear your throat, your glaring lack of certainty making your voice quieter. "Um... once? One time?"

Another small shake of his head. "The last word is 안," he says, tapping against the page. "What does 안 do to a verb?"

Your cheeks burn; this is a foundational rule, one of the first you ever learned. "It's the negation," you answer quietly.

"So do you want to rethink your translation?"

You slide your hands onto the table, twisting your fingers together, your nails pressing little crescent marks into your palms. "Not... once?"

"Right. It means never. More literally, not even once."

You nod quickly, embarrassed at the simple mistake. 

"Next one," Hongjoong continues, his finger shifting down to the next line. "한 달에 두 번."

This time, the words sound like absolute gibberish to your ears. You squint at the textbook, trying to read the phrase despite the fact that it's upside down. "Um... 한... 달에... 도 번?"

He lets out a quiet puff of air. "You said 도, but it's 두," he corrects calmly. "A rounded 'u' sound, not an 'o'. Say it one more time."

"한 달야에 두 번," you attempt quickly, trying to overcorrect the vowel. 

But his head shakes again. "Good, but you added a 'y' sound into 달에. You had it right the first time. Again."

You gulp, the heat in your face rising steadily. "한 달에..."

And just like that, the correct phrasing vanishes from your mind again. Your frustration peaks as you watch him gaze expectantly at you, waiting for your answer. Why did he have to change his shirt before coming here? What happened to the cozy sweater he'd been wearing this morning? His button-down is doing horrific things to your focus; his sleeves are rolled up high, exposing the veins in his forearms. Every time he takes a breath, the fabric shifts against his broad chest. It's an unfair disadvantage. Doesn't he realize he's making it impossible to focus on your vocabulary?

"Um... 한 달에 도 번," you mumble, feeling your tongue revert right back to your first mistake.

Hongjoong doesn't correct you this time. He studies you for a long moment, taking in the way your fingers are squeezed together on the table and how your cheeks are painted with an incriminating pink. Slowly, he leans back in his chair without breaking eye contact. 

"____," he says quietly. "Have you even looked at this list yet?" 

You nearly scoff, your first instinct screaming at you to lie, to swear up and down that you had studied and are simply having an off day—but looking into his eyes, you know he already knows the truth without you having to say a word.

"I... didn't really have time," you stammer, the excuse tasting bitter as you drop your gaze to your hands. "We were always—"

"Is having a boyfriend an excuse to neglect your assignments?"

You go still. Your head snaps back up. "Joong, we were together all—"

"As your tutor," he interrupts, not unkindly, but with a firmness that clamps your mouth shut, "it's my job to help you earn the best grade you're capable of. But I can't help you if you're not doing the work on your end when you're supposed to. At the end of the day, it's your GPA that'll suffer, not mine. You are the one responsible for putting forth your best effort."

You gulp as his scolding bites. He's never spoken to you like this before. But then again, he's never had a reason to. In all your past sessions, you'd been a model student: prepared, attentive, and ahead of schedule, with all your assignments completed and all your vocabulary words previewed a week in advance. Being on the receiving end of his disappointment feels wrong. Shameful. Humiliating. 

Hongjoong exhales slowly. The strict set of his mouth eases. "But... I'll let it slide this time," he says at last. "Not completing your work may not have been entirely your fault."

He picks up the same black dry-erase marker he'd used earlier and extends his hand across the table, offering it to you. 

You blink, your eyes darting from the marker up to his face. 

"Go up to the board," he says softly, a subtle tilt of his head gesturing behind him. "I'll say the phrase in Korean, and you write down what you hear. We'll use the whiteboard so we can erase mistakes quickly." 

Your mouth forms a small, involuntary pout. You bristle slightly at the blunt assumption that you're going to mess up; Hongjoong always has confidence in you. Usually, he trusts you. You sink back against your chair, resisting the urge to cross your arms. "What if I don't make any?"

Hongjoong's lips twitch into a smirk. "You know I believe in you. But you did just make three mistakes on the same phrase."

You let out a little huff through your nose, but you know he has you there. Resigned, you grab the marker from his hand, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as your fingers brush his. Standing up, you push your chair back and make your way over to the whiteboard.

You hear the scrape of wooden legs against the floor behind you as you uncap the marker. The sound draws your attention enough that you glance over your shoulder in time to watch Hongjoong circle the square table and slide into the seat you just vacated, positioning himself for a better view of the board. With one hand, he grabs the corner of the textbook and spins it toward himself. One ankle hooks over the opposite knee as he settles back in the chair.

"There are quite a few phrases, so start as close to the top as you can and write small," he instructs, his eyes lifting from the page to hold yours. "I want you to be able to see the entire list together once you're finished."

You give him a small nod and turn back to face the board, grateful for the excuse to put your back to him. Raising your arm, you position the tip near the upper corner and wait.

"We'll start with one you already know," his voice drifts from behind you. "자주."

The top of the whiteboard is deceptively higher than it looked from the table. To reach the space adjacent to Hongjoong's written agenda, you're forced to push yourself up onto your tiptoes. As your arm extends overhead, the unfortunate realization hits: your skirt. It's your favorite, a short, black pleated one that's a perfectly appropriate length for walking around campus, sitting in lectures, or grabbing a coffee between classes. But now, with the stretch of your torso, you can feel the hem creeping dangerously high.

You drop back onto your heels, your face warming as you discreetly tug it down with your free hand. You take a breath, try to adjust your posture, and reach back up, but the moment your weight shifts to your toes, the fabric slides right back up your thighs.

You press your lips together, determined to ignore the air hitting the backs of your legs and focus on the board. You scrawl the characters for 자주as fast as humanly possible, eager to finish and lower your arm before the situation becomes any more embarrassing. You don't know exactly how far your skirt has ridden up, but you know your sweater isn't long enough to cover anything. Thankfully, because of the cold weather, you're wearing tights—though, truth be told, they probably aren't doing much to mask the curve of your ass, given that the sheer material stops at the tops of your thighs, just below the hem of your panties.

You sink back onto your heels and stare at the ink on the board, your breathing now a little shallower than it had been a moment ago. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for confirmation that you'd spelled it correctly.

But Hongjoong isn't looking at what you wrote. He isn't looking at his textbook anymore, either. He's staring directly at your skirt, directly at the spot where the fabric had ridden up.

His facial expression is neutral at first glance, but his eyes are giving everything away. You recognize that look: it holds the same darkness that slips in just as his hands slide beneath your shirt, trailing up your back to hover over the clasp of your bra before he forces himself to pull away. You freeze as he bites down on his bottom lip, his pupils blown wide as his eyes devour the curve of your ass beneath the pleats.

His gaze crawls up your body, lingering over your waist, your chest, your neck, and finally, your eyes. 

"Correct."

His voice is rougher now. He leans deeper into the chair, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his arms tighten hard against his chest. But a second later, his eyes trail right back down the line of your body, right back to your legs.

"Add the translation next to it," he murmurs. "Remind me... what did 자주 mean again?"

The rush of heat blooming between your thighs makes you suck in a breath. You grip the marker tighter to keep your hands from trembling.

"O—often."

"Good," he says softly, his tongue pressing briefly against his bottom lip. "Write it down."

You swallow hard and turn back to the whiteboard, pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes once again.

This time, you feel it. With the high reach of your arm, the skirt rides up halfway, leaving your panties exposed to his view. Your hand trembles against the glossy surface, the marker stuttering as you force yourself to add the English translation beside the characters. You don't look back, but you can feel his gaze all the same.

"That's it," Hongjoong murmurs once you fall back on your heels. Your face is in flames. You don't dare turn around. When he falls into a long silence, you keep your eyes glued to the board, the marker slick against your sweaty palm as you wait.

"Next one," he says even lower. "일주일에 한 번쯤."

Your breath hitches. Why is he suddenly skipping ahead? He'd spoken so quietly that you barely caught the blur of the final syllables. Panic tangles with the heat already coursing through your veins. Gulping, you push yourself back up onto your toes, your skirt lifting to that dangerously illicit height once more. Under the pressure of his gaze, you take a guess, desperate to get something on the board quickly. Your hand shakes as you scrawl: 일주일에 한 번점.

The second you drop your arm, you hear the click of Hongjoong's tongue behind you.

"Incorrect." 

You drop back onto your heels, closing your eyes as embarrassment floods through you. The sting of getting the answer wrong is bad enough on its own; it's only magnified tenfold by the knowledge that his eyes were on you the whole time. 

His chair suddenly scrapes against the floor again. In a room this small, his footsteps seem amplified as he bridges the short distance between the table and the whiteboard. You keep your eyes locked stubbornly ahead, staring at the characters you've written as your pulse begins to climb. 

Hongjoong stops right behind you.

Slowly, he reaches past your shoulder. His arm traps you in, pinning you between his chest and the board itself. His rolled-up sleeve whispers against your hair as his fingers close around yours, gently easing the marker from your trembling hand.

Using the side of his thumb, he wipes away the final character you wrote, smudging the ink into a faint gray streak. He presses the marker back against the board, replacing your little mistake with the correct answer. 

"일주일에 한 번쯤," he murmurs, spoken so close to your ear that his breath fans against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "About once a week. You forgot the double consonant."

He caps the marker with a soft click. He lowers his arm casually enough that it could have been accidental, but the brush of his hand against your side feels anything but. His palm grazes the dip of your waist, slowly traveling lower. His fingers smooth the rumpled pleats of your skirt, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding over the contour of your ass and finally coming to a rest against the back of your thigh. 

A gasp slips free from your lips. Your fingers twitch, aching to turn around and press your body into his, craving more of his touch. 

Hongjoong tilts his head down, and you look up over your shoulder. Your eyes lock. Up close, his pupils are blown, transforming his eyes into twin pools of hungry, liquid black. His gaze drops to the breathless parting of your lips, and you freeze in place. 

He lifts his hand, using the cap of the marker to tap the whiteboard twice, right next to your temple.

"Focus on your vocabulary, ____," he murmurs, his voice a strictly whispered warning. "Not on your tutor."

Hongjoong straightens and withdraws his touch. You can only watch, trapped in a daze, as he circles the table and slides back into his chair, flipping to the next page of the textbook as if nothing happened, leaving you stranded at the board, burning alive. 

Your mind is reeling from his touch, and it shows on the board as you attempt to finish the rest of the list. Your hands fumble through the remaining phrases, leaving at least one glaring spelling mistake on each one. Every string of characters seems to disintegrate somewhere between your ears and the tip of the marker. Even with the foundational terms you'd aced on previous quizzes, double consonants disappear. Vowels end up in the wrong places. At one point, you even begin writing a character in Mandarin before frantically wiping it away with your sleeve. 

Yet through it all, Hongjoong doesn't get up to correct you again.

Your fingers shake as you squeeze the marker to finish the final phrase: 일 년에 두 번쯤. You stare at the completed list for a moment, frowning at how it slopes to the left halfway through, before stepping aside, leaving the board unobstructed for his evaluation.

Behind you, pages rustle as Hongjoong glances between the textbook and the whiteboard. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, rolling the marker over and over between your palms, waiting.

"Good," he finally says, the syllable clipped. "You can sit down now."

You quickly cap the marker and flee back to the table, sliding into the chair opposite him. You expect the tension inside you to finally dissipate, but the moment you dare to look at his face, you see how rigid his posture has become. He's staring down at the open textbook with his jaw clenched, and his fingers rest unmoving on the page without flipping it. His eyes aren't moving. He isn't even reading.

Your stomach plummets. Is he upset? Irritated at how unprepared you are for your own final exam, at how easily your brain turned to mush the second he touched you, at how he's had to coax every correct translation out of you like a child? He was right earlier—it's your own GPA on the line, not his. You shouldn't have crawled into bed the second you returned to your room after spending the night with him; you should have opened your laptop, made the time, and done the work.

You clear your throat, the noise dripping with shame. "I... I'm sorry," you begin quietly, your eyes cast down. "I know I should've studied more this week. I should've previewed the words on my own instead of making you waste time on the basics."

Hongjoong slowly reaches out and closes the textbook. He lifts his head, his hands flattening against the cover. 

"Do you really think that's why I'm..." he trails off and gulps, his voice betraying a shakiness you didn't expect. His eyes have gone even darker, the pupils so blown that they swallow up his irises, leaving only a thin ring of dark brown. "Do you even know what you do to me?" he whispers. "Hearing you stumble through those words, repeating after me... standing up there on your toes, and that skirt..." He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, but his gaze never wavers. "Every time... every single time I hear that sweet voice try to speak in Korean... I... I get hard, ____. Did you know that?" 

You suck in a breath. Your head shakes in a mindless, stunned negative, at a loss for words.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. "Every single time, since our very first session. I don't know why. It's just... it's you. Your voice. How hard you try. You have no idea... no idea what it feels like to sit across from you and have to watch you study."

You can only stare at him, your mind in complete and total shock. Is he serious? Is he telling the truth? Is this the reason why he looked so rigid, why his jaw was clenched to the point of pain? Because... because he's...

In the back of your mind, Yunho's voice echoes one last time, loud and clear: I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll...

Your eyes dart toward the door. There's no lock, but it's closed. The room is private and hidden away in the most forgotten corner of the library basement. No one is coming down here. Barely anyone even knows it exists. 

You want this. You want him. And looking at the hunger burning in Hongjoong's eyes, you know he wants it just as badly.

You don't say a word. 

Slowly, you slide out of your chair. Hongjoong's gaze tracks your body, his eyes widening in real-time as you disappear beneath the table. His breath catches loudly in his throat as you lower yourself to your knees on the floor between his legs. 

The cold tile of the floor seeps right through your tights, but you don't care. You reach out, the palms of your hands gliding over his pants, and rest them on his thighs. Had you tilted your head back, you know you'd find him staring straight down at you through the gap between his knees, but you keep your eyes locked on your own hands out of the fear that meeting his gaze would leave you too nervous to continue.

You slowly slide your palms up his thighs. Beneath your touch, his muscles are locked and trembling with anticipation.

The instant your fingertips brush over the bulge straining hard against the fly of his pants, he groans from above. 

It wasn't a lie. Hongjoong is hard. For your voice. For your effort. For you.

Your hands are trembling so fiercely that your fingers slip against the metal of his belt buckle. 

Hongjoong rushes to reach down without a word, his fingers brushing against yours. To your shock, his hands are shaking just as badly as yours are—if not more. He unbuckles the belt and drags his zipper down the moment it gives way, his eagerness making his breath shallow in the quiet of the study room.

Your lips part of their own volition as he frees his length, which is already fully erect and throbbing with blood. He wraps his fingers around the thick base, his palm sliding up in a slow stroke that leaves the tip glistening. Kneeling there, all you can do is watch, biting your lip at his girth.

You finally tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

He's staring down at you, his eyes glazed over with lust. His eyebrows are lowered, his mouth parted open as he continues to stroke his hand up and down his length, watching your wide, needy eyes. 

You can't resist it any longer; the look in his eyes makes you desperate to please him. Leaning forward, you press a hesitant, wet lick straight up the underside of his cock. 

Another deep groan rips from the back of his throat. He throws his head back, his free hand flying out to grip the edge of the table, the wood creaking above you. Emboldened by the sound, you lean in closer, tracing your tongue up one side, tasting the hot, salty warmth of him. His head snaps back down, his eyebrows knotting together like the pleasure is paining him to bear.

He shifts his hips forward, dragging his sensitive tip across your lower lip, leaving a slick bead of precum behind. Your mouth opens wider, silently inviting him inside. He taps the broad head against your tongue twice, letting out a sound eerily close to a whine. 

You close your lips around the tip, swirling your tongue in wet circles as you swallow down the first few inches. He's so thick, stretching your jaw so wide that it aches, but you somehow slide him deeper into your throat without gagging. 

"아, 씨..." he groans, his thighs locking as you begin to bob your head back and forth, hollowing your cheeks to work your tongue against him. "You have no idea... how much I've thought about you sucking me off under that table."

That table. The Language Center. 

His confession elicits a muffled moan from your throat right around his cock, and the vibration tears another stuttering whine from his chest. His hand reaches down to bury his fingers deep in your hair, his head falling back against the chair again as you press the flat of your tongue to the sensitive underside of the head. His hips jerk forward like he's fighting the urge to grab your head and ruthlessly fuck your throat.

"So... so good," he rasps, his hand pulling at the strands of your hair as your head bobs up and down, your tongue memorizing every vein. "Nice and slow... that's it..." 

Hongjoong sinks lower into the chair, his knees spreading wider to grant you unfettered access. But your slow pace is torturous. His hips begin to thrust gently against his will, guiding his length into the back of your throat—and somehow, your body relaxes, taking all of him.

"아, 씨... you're doing so well... taking my cock so deep..."

Slowly, the rhythm picks up. Your throat opens fully for him as his hips begin to roll faster, burying himself deeper and deeper with every tilt of his pelvis. The brutal stretch brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you don't even entertain the thought of pulling back. Pride blooms in your chest at the sound of his voice, broken and whining for you. You're making him feel so good, correcting every single mistake you made earlier.

He bucks his hips harder, burying himself to the hilt. Your throat constricts, and you gag around his thickness. 

Watching you choke on his cock only makes him groan louder. "____," he chokes out, his other hand coming down to tangle in your hair. "Don't stop."

He holds your head steady with both hands now as he rolls his hips deep into your throat. You can feel his cock beginning to throb against your tongue, pulsing with the onset of his orgasm. You moan around him, your hands gripping his trembling thighs as you realize he's seconds away from cumming down your throat.

"____... I—I'm gonna..."

Suddenly, his grip on your hair tightens, and Hongjoong yanks your head back. He gasps as the suction breaks, your warm, wet mouth ripped away from his length.

You gag one last time at the sudden release, your hand flying up to wipe a trailing slick of saliva from your lips. You squint up at him as you try to catch your breath, confused.

Why did he stop?

He's panting hard, staring down at you with a wild look in his eyes. His legs are still spread wide, his chest is heaving under his half-unbuttoned shirt, and his hard, glistening length is still twitching between his thighs, desperate for release.

"I... I shouldn't be letting you do this," he rasps out, his voice shaking as he chews hard on his lips. His eyes are locked onto your mouth, which is still coated in a shine of your spit and his own precum. "We... You need to focus. We came here to study for your exam." 

You stare up at him as his words echo in the cramped, heated space beneath the table.

Is he serious?

You glance down at his length, twitching just inches from your face, practically begging your mouth to close back around it, and then slowly drag your gaze back up to meet his blown-out eyes.

You wet your lips, your mouth still slick with his taste, and pout at him. "But you're the one who's been distracting me this whole time, Joong."

Hongjoong raises a single eyebrow, his grip in your hair tightening enough to tilt your head back further. "Is that so?"

"You were the one who just admitted you get hard watching me study."

Hongjoong's jaw tightens as he stares down at you. For a split second, you swear he's about to break—that he's about to wrap his hand around the back of your neck and shove his cock right back down your throat as his gaze drops to your wet lips. But then he squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them a moment later, his lust has been shoved behind a wall.

"I also said you need to focus," he murmurs. You watch in a daze as he slowly releases his grip on your hair, wipes a drop of his slick off your bottom lip with his thumb, and tucks his aching length back into his pants.

But you notice that he doesn't buckle his belt.

"Up," he says shortly, breaking eye contact as he reaches for something on the table above your head. "Do I need to remind you that you're going to fail your final if we can't stay focused for more than a few minutes? Get back in your chair."

You desperately want to stay exactly where you are, to drop your head back to his lap and finish what you started, but Hongjoong doesn't look down again. He's serious. Your face burns as you push yourself off the cold tile floor, and your knees are weak as you climb back into your seat, feeling ridiculous as you smooth down your skirt. 

Across from you, he tears two clean sheets of lined paper from his notebook and reopens the textbook. He begins aggressively jotting a column of English phrases down the left margin of one—every single frequency indicator from the list.

He slides the papers across the scarred wood, placing his black pen on top of the blank one with a shaky hand.

"Write the correct Korean phrase for each English translation," he instructs lowly.

You look down at the list, your stomach twisting. "Joong... I won't be able to. I don't know any of them." 

Hongjoong's stare darkens. "Do your best."

Swallowing hard, your fingers close around the barrel of the pen. You stare at the English words—often, every day, about once a week, rarely, sometimes—and your mind blanks. How could he expect you to take a practice quiz minutes after he'd had his dick halfway down your throat? Does he really think you'll be able to focus? You try to recall the syllables he coaxed out of you at the whiteboard, but everything that just happened has wiped your cognitive slate clean.

Your hand shakes as you press the pen to paper. It's a disaster. You manage to scribble down 자주 and 매일 correctly, but after that, you start guessing, butchering the spelling of every subsequent attempt, and ultimately leaving three of the harder expressions blank. 

And the worst part is that Hongjoong's eyes are on you the entire time. 

When you finally push the paper back across the table, you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Hongjoong flips the sheet around towards him. Without a word, he reaches over to his neat pile of supplies and selects a red pen. He uncaps it and begins to grade.

You sit in silence, forced to watch as the red ink bleeds onto the page.

Slash. A red line through your third answer.

Slash. Another one through the fourth.

With each new mark defacing the paper, your heart sinks further. You knew you did poorly, but watching him dissect your failure question by question is just plain humiliating.

When he reaches the bottom of the page, he caps the red pen and sets it down. His eyes stare down at the bloodied paper quietly, and you realize that despite the nature of what he's doing—grading his student's practice quiz—his eyes still haven't lost a single drop of their darkness. 

"There were thirteen questions," he says so quietly that it makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Would you like to guess how many you missed?"

Your cheeks flare. You wrap your arms around your own stomach, shrinking back into your chair. "Um... six?"

Hongjoong lets out a huff of laughter through his nose, though it's devoid of amusement.

"Ten," he corrects. "You missed ten."

Your heart sinks. Ten?

He leans back, his shoulders squaring as he crosses his arms over his chest. You can't tell what's going through his head, but his eyes have since clouded over with frustration.

"You know..." he begins, his gaze tracing over your flushed face, down to where your trembling hands clutch your stomach. "You're usually my best student. Your assignments are always done on time, your dialogues are submitted without flaw, and your quiz scores are always at the top of your class." He pauses. "But today... you're not the same student I've grown accustomed to tutoring."

You drop your gaze to the table, unable to bear the criticism. Hearing this from Professor Choi would've been easy to brush off. But coming from Hongjoong, it stings. 

"I'm disappointed, ____. This isn't your best. But you already know that, don't you?"

You manage a tiny nod, your eyes burning with the threat of tears as you keep them glued to the desk.

Hongjoong sighs. You sit perfectly still, waiting for the inevitable order to try again. To rewrite each phrase until your hand cramps and your spelling is flawless. 

Instead, he draws in a breath.

"Come here."

Your head snaps up so fast it hurts your neck, your eyes widening.

Hongjoong's expression is deadly serious. He doesn't offer any type of teasing smile, and he doesn't repeat himself. He sits there and waits expectantly.

On legs that feel like jelly, you shakily push yourself out of your chair. Your breath trembles in your throat as you step around the side of the table. When you reach him, he refuses to meet your eyes. He gives a small nod of his head toward the flat surface of the table.

"Bend over the table for me."

Your mouth drops open. You stare down at him, desperate for any sign of a joke, for a twitch of his lips that would give him away, but he isn't even looking at you anymore. He's staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.

He can't be serious. Why the hell would he need you to bend over? What exactly is going through his head? Your mind is racing, but he still doesn't repeat himself. Once again, he waits expectantly. 

Gulping down the lump of anxiety in your throat, you slowly turn. With your back to him, you stare at the whiteboard and lean forward, laying your chest flat against the surprisingly cool wood of the tabletop. Your trembling palms press down beside you, carelessly shoving the textbooks, pens, and uneaten snacks out of the way to make room for your torso. 

Hongjoong doesn't say a word, but the scrape of his chair tells you he's standing up.

A second later, you feel the feathering brush of his fingertips tracing along your waist, right where the dip of your spine curves over the table. Slowly, those fingers slide down the sides of your hips, trailing lower, mapping your shape, until they land just below the curve of your ass, right where the mesh of your tights meets your skin. He pauses, the pad of his thumb brushing along the raised seam.

"I like these," he murmurs. A shiver racks your frame. "They're pretty."

His warm palms glide further up the back of your thighs, gathering the rumpled pleats of your black skirt. He pushes the fabric fully up and out of his way, bunching it around your waist. Your legs begin to shake uncontrollably as you wait in blind anticipation. His hand glides over the lace of your panties, his touch maddeningly teasing. 

He rubs light circles over the thin fabric, and because the room is so deathly quiet, you can clearly hear the unevenness in his breath even though you can't see his face. His fingers slide down to the seams, hooking under the elastic. With a gentle tug, he pulls the fabric aside—not removing it, but shifting it just enough so that both your bare cheeks are exposed to the air of the room. His palm flattens over your bare skin, rubbing warmly against your shivering flesh.

"Since we're learning frequency indicators," he says calmly, his grip on your body tightening, "I'd like you to count for me."

You try to turn your head over your shoulder to look at him, to gauge his expression, but his firm hold on your hip makes it too awkward for your body to twist the right way.

"Count... count what?" you whisper, your voice shaking so badly the words barely clear your lips.

"You missed ten questions," he states simply. You feel his shadow shift to the side, the rustle of his clothing indicating he's stepping into a better position while his palm remains flat against your bare skin. "Hopefully, this will fix your focus as we continue. I think one spank per missed question sounds fair, don't you?"

You suck in a panicked breath, your lips parting to stutter out a protest—

Smack.

Before a word can escape, a sharp, blistering slap lands right across your bare cheek.

The loud crack of his palm against your skin echoes through the room. Your body jerks at the impact, your fingers frantically clawing forward to grip the far end of the wooden table to keep your balance. The struck skin instantly blooms with a throbbing heat.

"Joong..." you whisper, shocked, humiliated, and dizzy.

"Count."

Your chest heaves against the cold wood as you squeeze your eyes shut, choking out, "O—one."

He chuckles lowly from behind you. "Did you forget why we're here?" he asks, a mocking reprimand. "Count in Korean."

He spanks you again, his palm hitting the opposite cheek with even more force. The raw sting bites deeper this time, and a pathetic whimper tears out of your throat as your hips try to arch away from the pain.

"하… 하… 하나," you manage to whisper. One.

His hand returns to your burning skin, but this time, he rubs it in slow, soothing circles, chasing away the immediate sting of the strike. 

"Good," he murmurs, pulling his hand away. "Keep counting." 

His hand rises and falls again before your lungs can draw a full breath.

Smack.

"둘," you gasp out, your fingernails digging into the table as the heat sears across your skin. Two.

Smack.

"Ah—셋." Another soft whimper tears from your throat, and you hear him chuckle. Three.

Smack.

"넷..." your voice cracks down the middle. His strikes are relentlessly quick, leaving you no time to recover in the blistering seconds between them. Four.

You brace yourself, squeezing your eyes shut as you wait for the fifth impact, desperately trying to pull the next number to the forefront of your melting brain. But this mix of pain, humiliation, and burning arousal is turning your thoughts to mush. 

Smack.

You flinch, but the word is nowhere to be found in your mind. You're silent for a beat too long.

"You don't know?" Hongjoong asks. "This is basic counting, ____. Week one material. Do I need to start us over from the beginning?" 

"No!" you choke out, shaking your head against the table. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, forcing your brain to push through the fog until the vocabulary clicks. "다... 다섯! 다섯!" Five.

His palm settles onto your burning skin, but instead of another punishing strike, he gives you a little approving pat.

"Good girl."

But he doesn't let you linger in the dizzying relief of his praise for long.

Smack.

"Oh—여섯." Your hips begin to twitch under his hand, desperate to escape the sting. Six.

Smack.

"일곱," you whine, high and needy. You can feel your skin turning a bright, angry crimson beneath his touch. Seven.

Smack.

"여... 여덟..." Eight.

By the time the eighth word leaves your lips, you're tearing up, the wet hitch in your voice giving your limits away. From behind you, the rustle of his clothing signals another shift. The leather tip of his shoe hooks behind your ankle, nudging your leg outward to widen your stance as his hand flattens against your bare backside. His fingers rub the skin again, soothing the vicious throb of his own handiwork.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly.

You nod your head against the wood, your bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. You're not even sure if he can see the pathetic movement from where he stands, but at least he's allowing you a moment of comfort, letting the heat fade—

Smack.

His palm drives forward at a new angle, striking you between your thighs, right against your swollen, aching core. 

The blinding shock of it rips a loud, filthy moan from your lips, which echoes shamelessly off the walls. Your knees nearly buckle, your knuckles turning white as you clutch the table, paralyzed by the pure pleasure and pain crashing through your lower abdomen.

Hongjoong's thumb sweeps over the sensitive spot he just struck through your panties. You can hear the faint smirk in his voice as he whispers, "That feels better, huh?"

Your voice refuses to form a coherent word to answer him as you pant against the table. 

"Last one," he promises. "열."

Smack.

The tenth and final strike lands in the exact same spot, a sharp slap right against your core. A teary sob rips from your throat, melting instantly into a needy, drawn-out moan as your body arches into the blow, chasing the contact.

As your forehead drops against the wood, Hongjoong keeps his palms pressed against you, rubbing your skin tenderly. His thumbs work in slow circles to soothe the throbbing ache of his final strike. He lets you stay draped over the table to catch your breath for a quiet minute, listening intently to the only sound in the room: your soft, shaky sighs. 

Contrasting his earlier brutality, he gently hooks his fingers back under the elastic of your panties, pulling them carefully back into place to cover your reddening skin. He reaches down to gather your skirt, smoothing it neatly over your ass until your modesty is fully restored. 

Sensing that you're about to foolishly attempt to stand on your own weak legs, his hands wrap around your waist. He guides your torso up off the table, pulling your back flush against his chest. He holds you steady against him, letting you lean your full, exhausted weight into him as you try to stop shaking.

He tilts his head down, looking at your flushed, tear-stained reflection in the whiteboard. The pad of his thumb reaches up, brushing a tear away from your cheeks with beautiful tenderness.

"You did well, 자기야," he whispers against your ear. 

Hongjoong lowers himself back onto his chair, pulling your body along with him until you're sitting on his lap, resting on his right knee. You look at him through your damp lashes, your erratic breathing finally beginning to even out.

His arm reaches around your waist, holding you against him as the other slides a fresh, blank sheet of lined paper toward you alongside his black pen.

"Try again," he instructs softly, though his tone brooks no argument. 

Your mouth parts in disbelief. "Joong... I—I can't, I need..." The words die in your throat. Your face burns, mortified to confess aloud how desperately horny his discipline left you.

His eyes darken as he reads the helpless look on your face. His fingers reach up, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. "Do you remember the very first time we texted each other?" he asks quietly. "The night after I asked for your Instagram?"

You give a small, hesitant nod, wondering why on earth he's thinking of that right now.

"When I saw your story at that bar with your friends, I thought you looked absolutely beautiful. But for some reason, you didn't quite look like you." His hand lowers to your cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away a dried tear. "I thought for a long time about why that was. My mind drifted back to our session from earlier that day, and that's when it clicked: you looked so carefree in that picture. But not in the way that's right for you. Beautiful, yes, but mindless. That's not who you are."

His hand settles against your waist, pinning your hips into place on his thighs.

"You're not mindless," he murmurs. "You're disciplined. You're brilliant. You hold yourself to a high standard, and you're the hardest-working person I've ever met. That's the girl I admire. That's the girl I like."

You stare into his eyes as his words melt something inside you. 

"So I replied to your story to get your mind back on track," he continues, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You'd prefer an A in Korean over partying with your friends, wouldn't you?"

You nod immediately, captivated by his voice.

He chuckles. "But you were such a brat back then, trying to tell me that one night wouldn't hurt your grade. Weren't you?"

You nod again, an instinctive apology forming in your wide eyes, your lips parting to speak.

But Hongjoong shakes his head. "Don't say you're sorry. It didn't take much for you to come around. I remember realizing back then, at that moment, that I needed you. That you weren't just my pretty student with a cute voice and the same taste in music. You were the first person whose drive could match my own. The first person whose mind I really respected. You're exceptional, ____. You really are."

Your breath catches, tears welling in your eyes. 

"And if you let me," he murmurs, "I want to make sure you never settle for anything lesser than your best ever again. Not in the classroom, and certainly not in my lap." 

His hand moves down the curve of your thigh, his fingertips catching the tab of his zipper. Your eyes helplessly follow as he slides it down. 

"Do you want to know a secret?" he asks softly. "That night, the moment you called me Mr. Kim... I've never finished faster in my life."

He frees his thick, aching cock, which springs loose against his stomach, glistening and angry.

"Now, you're gonna stay focused for me, just like you promised back then, right?"

You nod quickly, your breath catching as your wide eyes dart between the fire in his gaze and the thickness between his thighs.

Hongjoong's lips curve.

"I'd expect nothing less."

Without warning, his hands clamp onto your waist, catching you by surprise as he lifts you, your back to his chest. His fingers sweep the soaked lace of your panties aside as he pulls your hips closer and lowers your body straight down, sinking you right onto his cock.

You moan as the slick, wet sound of him sliding deep into your drenched pussy fills the quiet study room. Hongjoong groans right against your ear as you sink all the way down, burying every inch of him fully inside you. His hands squeeze your hips so tightly that the bone aches, locking you in place and refusing to let you move or grind to find an ounce of relief. Deep inside you, you can feel the thick length of his cock pulsing, growing harder, and twitching non-stop against your stretched walls. 

"Pick up the pen," he whispers shakily into your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps cascading down your neck.

Your trembling fingers reach out, fumbling against the table until you manage to grab it.

"Try again," he commands lowly, his clothed chest expanding against your back. "Prove to me that you can do this. If you get every word correct... I'll give you what you want. A reward for focusing. How does that sound?"

Your whole body trembles at the overwhelming, tight fullness of him stretched inside you, your mind fighting to latch onto the vocabulary list while your core throbs around his stationary length. 

"Whenever you're ready," he whispers against your ear, sliding his handwritten column of English terms into your line of sight.

You swallow hard, forcing your blurry vision to lock onto the pale blue lines of the notebook paper. You have to focus. You have to block out the throbbing heat radiating from where your bodies are now joined. You have to ignore the maddening ache between your thighs, begging you to grind your hips against him.

With a shaky breath, you press the tip of the pen down and begin to write.

The first few phrases are rough, the ink wobbling with the tremor in your hands, but they're correct. You fix each spelling mistake that tripped you up just minutes prior. 

But unfortunately for you, Hongjoong didn't put you in his lap with the intention of making this easy. Just as your pen moves to the next line, his head tilts. His lips brush along the line of your jaw, trailing downward until his open mouth presses into the sensitive dip of your neck.

He sucks a dark, bruising mark into your skin, the swirl of his tongue dragging flat over your pulse point.

A gasp punches its way past your parted lips. Your hand jerks, the pen skittering close to crossing out your own work as your hips squirm. 

"Focus. Stay still," he murmurs against your flesh, his teeth grazing your collarbone as a warning.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your knuckles turning white around the pen. You refuse to disappoint him again. You refuse to disappoint yourself. You're going to get this right.

You open your eyes and continue to write. 

Every time his hands slide up your torso to cup your breasts through your sweater, you pull another vocabulary word from your brain. Every time his hips give a tiny twitch deep inside you—causing your drenched core to clench tight around him—you fight for control, carefully spelling out each phrase. 

When you finish the final character, all the strength drains from your arm. Your hand drops to the table, the pen rolling uselessly out of your limp fingers.

Hongjoong reaches around your waist, his hand sliding the paper out from under your palms. As he lifts it to read, the shift in his posture causes him to slide an inch deeper inside you. You drop your head back against his shoulder, unable to swallow a breathless whine as you feel your own wetness trickle down his length. 

Above you, Hongjoong lets out a groan of his own. You look up at his face: his jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck popping, but as his eyes scan your handwriting, a slow smirk spreads across his lips.

"You really wanted your reward, didn't you?" he rasps with barely restrained lust as he drops the paper back onto the table. His eyes are burning with pride as he looks down at you. "A perfect score. 잘했어, 자기야."

And with that, the very last shred of Hongjoong's restraint is gone. 

His hands clamp down hard on your ass under your skirt, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he lifts you just an inch, only to slam your hips back down onto his hard length. A loud moan rips from your throat as his hips begin to buck upward over and over, burying himself to the hilt with a driving force that makes you cry out in shock.

"Yes—Joong, yes," you gasp, wrapping your arms backward around his neck, clinging to his shoulders to keep yourself upright as he sets a desperate pace. Beneath you, the wooden chair creaks, straining under the shifting weight of your combined bodies.

As you bounce helplessly on his lap, unable to control yourself, his hands slide under the hem of your sweater. He pulls your breasts out of the cups of your bra, rolling your sensitive nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing a sobbing moan against his ear.

He thrusts up inside you, his thumbs flicking your peaks in time with his hips. "Look at you," he rasps, full of pure lust and pride. "So desperate for your reward, huh?"

Dizziness begins to wash through your head in waves. You can feel yourself starting to sink, your arms growing far too weak to hold your torso upright anymore. Sensing you melting against him, Hongjoong drops his hands from your chest and grabs your waist tightly, yanking you straight up and off his hard length.

A simultaneous cry of protest tears from both of you at the sudden loss of friction.

He quickly spins your body around to face him. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, gasping as his hands grab under your legs to lift you onto the edge of the table. Without breaking eye contact, his arm swipes across the surface, sending his pens and your perfect practice quiz fluttering to the floor. 

He steps between your spread legs, gazing down at your wet, parted lips. He hooks his arms underneath your knees, pushing your thighs back to open you up entirely to him, and with one hard thrust, he drives his thick cock straight back inside your drenched core, bottoming out instantly.

Your hands fly to the back of his neck, practically hugging him to hold yourself against his chest as the impact rattles your spine. Hongjoong leans forward, resting his damp, sweaty forehead flush against yours. His gaze drops downward, glued to the slick, glistening view of where your bodies are joined, watching himself slide in and out of you with ease because of how wet you are for him. 

"So perfect," he groans, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Knew you could do it, 자기야. Knew you were the perfect one for me."

Loud, fractured moans tear one after another from your throat, echoing shamelessly off the walls of the quiet study room. You close your eyes, lost in the wet sounds of his skin slapping against yours and the table scraping incrementally against the floor with every plunge of his hips.

When your head begins to loll back from the pleasure, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, holding you upright as his mouth crashes down onto yours. The kiss is ravenous—his teeth scrape hungrily against your bottom lip, and his hot tongue invades your mouth, eagerly drinking down your muffled cries. His fingers tangle at your roots to hold your head steady, taking everything you have left to give.

With every sloppy lap of your lips, the dark frames of his glasses bump against the bridge of your nose, the lenses fogging over from the heat of your mingled breaths. But this time, he doesn't bother taking them off.

You arch your spine into his touch, your fingernails clawing at his back through his button-down as he drives deeper, faster, his free hand squeezing your thigh until the room begins to spin.

"Close—Joong, I'm gonna...." you gasp into his mouth, your walls clenching and fluttering in uncontrollable spasms.

"That's it, 자기야," he rasps brokenly against your lips, his own breathing shattered as he feels your muscles contract around him. "Cum for me."

He delivers three more deep thrusts, his hips stuttering as he hits the very depth of your clenching core. With a guttural groan, he pours himself inside you just as you cry out, your orgasm crashing through your body in intense, pulsing waves.

"Joong!" you sob out, your voice breaking on his name.

He slows his thrusts to a halt, pushing himself as deep within you as possible and holding his hips flush against yours, riding out his climax until every last drop of his release is buried inside you. Your body trembles as he finally pulls out. 

Hongjoong rests his hands on your quivering thighs, watching the slick evidence of his release slowly ooze out of your core with a grin that is entirely in awe, fascinated by the sight.

He drops his head forward, resting his forehead against yours once more. The two of you pant against each other in the otherwise silent room, your arms still draped limply around his neck. His hands slide from your thighs to wrap around your waist, pulling your exhausted body against his chest into a hug. He kisses you softly, his tongue soothing the sensitive spot on your bottom lip where his teeth had bitten down.

He places a final kiss right on the center of your forehead, gazing down at your shivering, blissed-out form with nothing but adoration. 

Slowly, he reaches up to smooth your hair down, his fingers fixing the wild strands he'd just tangled. Moving with care, he slides his hands down to pull your panties back into place, neatly placing the pleats of your skirt back over your quivering thighs.

Knowing your legs couldn't possibly support your weight right now, he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you off the table, guiding your body back down into the chair.

He crouches down in front of you, bringing himself to eye level. He takes both of your trembling hands in his own warm ones, his eyes beaming with pride as he takes in your flushed state. He leans forward, pressing another tender kiss to your forehead.

"You did so well," he whispers, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. He checks over your body, making sure you're okay. "Does anything hurt? Do you need water? Food? Tell me what you need. Anything."

You just shake your head weakly, a tired, blissful smile pulling at your lips.

Hongjoong lets out a soft chuckle and squeezes your fingers one last time before standing to his full height. He zips his pants and buckles his belt before walking around the table, unhurriedly cleaning up the aftermath—gathering the scattered pens and retrieving the piece of notebook paper from the floor. 

Standing there, at the side of the table, he looks down at the page, silently reading over the thirteen lines of your shaky handwriting. A slow smile spreads across his lips as he pushes his still slightly fogged glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"You see?" he murmurs softly, gazing at your answers. "I knew you could do it if I pushed you a little."

You smile, your breath still shallow as you watch him with pride warming your chest.

He pulls his chair out and settles into the seat across from you, positioning himself with his back to the whiteboard—the same arrangement you'd been sitting in when the two of you first arrived.

"But don't get too comfortable just yet," he warns, shooting a glance at his watch to check the time before looking back at you with a teasing glint in his eye. "We still have three more sections to get through tonight before the library closes. I'd hate for you to lose your focus again."

Hongjoong reaches for the black pen, uncapping it as he flips the textbook open to the next section. He slides a fresh sheet of lined paper across the table toward you.

"Because if you do this well for the rest of the night..." he says, his gaze locking onto yours with a flash of promise. "...you might just earn yourself another reward."

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

[mint-yooxgi]

{15} - Morning Mist - Yandere!Dragon!Ateez X Chubby!Reader

Yandere AU & Dragon AU

Genre: 18+ MDNI - Mature, Horror, Angst

Pairing: Ateez X Reader

Words: 6,425

Warnings: There's some mentions of blood and a past massacre, but I think that's all. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: I've been wanting to continue this story for so long now, and I'm glad I'm finally getting back to it. I know a lot of people will be disappointed it's not a PG update, but this story is what's currently at the forefront of my mind. I can't promise updates will be frequent or steady, but I'm itching to write even more as I'm going to post this. Right now, in my mind, this is the story that wants to be told the most. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Also, gentle reminder that I do not do tag lists.

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Mini Masterlist

Two weeks.

It’s been exactly two weeks since the incident took place at Rose Village, and Yeosang has yet to see you at all. No one has kept him away from you, for this is all his own doing. After what happened… what he said… He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to face you again, even if he longs to go to you. To hold you in his arms and fully succumb to the pull of his imprint is all that he desires. He desperately wants to be by your side, but knowing everything he does about how you receive dragons imprinting on you, he’s barely been able to face himself.

Yeosang is not worthy of you, and he knows it. Without a doubt, you deserve better than him, especially at this moment in time.

To say that he was surprised by his own outburst would be an understatement. Of course he was upset at watching that pathetic excuse of a man take a swing at you from behind. He had been feeling off all day, especially with how casual you and Yunho seemed to be with each other. However, he never expected for the slip of his tongue.

Yeosang has always prided himself on his reasoning skills. Observation and deduction have always been his specialties. He can always tell what’s upsetting his brothers before they can even admit it to themselves, and he’s always been able to sense things that others may not yet have come to realize. He may be cool, calm, and collected, but Yeosang has never not been able to figure out what has been bothering himself.

If only he had been more honest with himself. Maybe then he would have finally admitted what had always been creeping beneath the surface. The foreign feelings that weren’t actually all that foreign after all. Ones which he had shoved down deep, refusing to admit how quickly they had built within, until that dam had finally burst.

Instinct had drowned out logic, until the only thought on his mind became protecting you.

You. Someone who had been so guarded when he first met you face to face. Someone who would have let his brother die without a second thought, were it not for how Hongjoong made that stupid deal to leave you alone. A deal which lasted all of a few weeks, in totality.

Looking back on it now, Yeosang doesn’t think any of them could have truly stayed away. Not even if they had actually wanted to.

Yeosang knows you would have killed them all that first night if provoked again. Looking back on it now, he would not have held you to it. You had every right to smite them where they stood. Even more so when San, Wooyoung, and Jongho all broke the  original deal. Yet, you spared them. You showed them a kindness Yeosang knows they never have deserved. Least of all from you.

That’s you, though, isn’t it? Your exterior may be as solid as stone, but beneath it all lies a heart that shines likes the most intricate of gems found beneath the earth’s crust. You are as stable as a mountain. Imposing, strong, and unmoving. Dig a little deeper, and one can uncover how fiercely you care. You are not afraid to protect your own, let alone stand your ground. Your love runs deep, and those lucky enough to experience such a delicacy get to see that softer side of you much more often than naught.

A love Yeosang yearns for, even if it’s still difficult for him to admit it to himself.

Jongho had given him an earful the moment they had gotten home. A fact of which irritated the elder dragon, considering how quiet Yunho had been through it all. Yeosang knows that without a doubt, the taller male was in the exact same position as him. He saw the way Yunho’s own eyes flashed a deep gold the moment that disgusting man went to strike you. He was just lucky Yeosang decided to act first.

“You cannot dictate whether or not we imprint on her, Jongho.” It was Hongjoong that had said those words, having been privy to the loud shouting the youngest had been doing. “Sometimes we cannot control our own emotions, let alone our own basic instincts.”

Jongho had stormed out after that, flying off to who knows where. He needed time to sort out his own head and calm down. He knows it’s irrational to take things out on his brothers. Hell, he’s known San and Wooyoung have already imprinted on you, too. They both have been, for quite some time now. Logically, he knows the more of them that imprint on you, the better chance you have of opening yourself up to them. However, there’s a part of him that’s scared.

What if you realize that one or more of his brothers are a better fit for you than he is? What if you realize that he’s never truly been worthy of you?

That night you shared together in your special clearing on top of that cliff flashes through his mind.

Instantly, Jongho knows that he has nothing to worry about. He’s always known his brothers imprinting on you has been a very real possibility, and at first, he had always been open and excited about the idea. Only, after everything you’ve all been through, he’s a little more cautious about the fact. The way some of them had treated you at the start… if they were anyone else, he would have gutted them where they stood. Though, he knows that only you have the final say as to who’s truly worthy of yourself in the end.

You’re starting to care for all of them. That much is true.

Jongho can only hope that out of all of them, he’s the one you accept first. Based on everything that’s already happened, he has a feeling he will be. That is, if you haven’t already begun.

You, on the other hand, have been taking the past two weeks to teach both Mingi and Seonghwa everything that they have missed since Wooyoung and San have begun training under you. The crash course is intense in its own right, the two of them getting frustrated easily when they do not understand something. They both have a lot of catching up to do, but despite a few setbacks - Mingi accidentally almost burning a part of the forest down in his infinite wisdom, and Seonghwa nearly tearing up the Neo’s garden in his rage - the two of them have come a long way.

There is still much to learn, which is exactly why you currently find yourself personally testing them on every different herbal and medicinal mixture that you can. Every now and then, Yunho or Hongjoong will chime in, seeing as they also aren’t as firm in their understandings of tonics and such as Jongho, San, and Wooyoung are. Three dragons of whom sit off to the side at your picnic table, watching on as their brothers wrack their brains to come up with a solution to your hypothetical problem.

“No, no, no,” Yunho frowns, shaking his head. “Mugwort is good for counteracting drowsiness, not inducing it.”

“We’re not trying to induce drowsiness,” Hongjoong frowns. “We’re attempting to expel a foreign body.”

“Why not just used diluted frost berry leaves?”

Mingi turns to face Seonghwa with a frown, “Because we were told this is a scenario where none are available to use.”

Off to the side, both San and Wooyoung shift restlessly over the wooden table they sit upon. San has his legs propped up on the bench, his one knee bouncing continuously. Wooyoung, on the other hand, keeps kicking his foot lightly in the air, seeing as his legs dangle freely off of the side.

“Well, then, why don’t we just make a scenario where we go find some?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” You shake your head, arms crossed over your chest. Observing the four dragons across from you, you meet Seonghwa’s gaze. “There will be times when you will not have easy access to certain plants or remedies. You need to be able to think on your feet, and compensate for that which you lack. You also cannot always rely on your powers. They should always be a last resort in these types of scenarios.”

An exasperated exhale leaves the eldest’s nose, turning back to face the other three males standing beside him. His own arms rest crossed over his chest, foot tapping the earth repeatedly as he wracks his brain for a solution.

“Can we give them a hint?” San practically begs. “Please?”

“No.” A pointed look is sent his way from you. “They need to figure this out on their own. If this scenario were to ever become real, you won’t always be around to help them. They need to learn to be able to take care of themselves without relying on others to do such things for them, or providing them with the immediate answers that they seek.”

Before another word can be said, three presences are making themselves known. All seven of their heads whip in the same direction, watching the tree line until Renjun, Sicheng, and Jungwoo all appear.

“Good.” You hum, nodding once firmly. “You’re all getting better at sensing things.”

In the back of your mind, you wonder if they can sense the other presence creeping closer and closer to your clearing with each passing moment.

“They could sense us coming?” Jungwoo’s eyebrows raise, nearly into his hairline. A playful slap is given onto the back of the male on his right. “Damn, Renjun. Looks like your cloak is slipping if the Halas can sense you.”

“With an ego the size of yours, it’s no surprise that we were sensed.” Renjun deadpans. In a few steps, he crosses the short distance to stand beside you. “How’s the training going?”

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice how both Sicheng and Jungwoo join San and Wooyoung at the picnic table. Jongho, on the other hand, pushes himself onto his feet from his spot on the bench, walking over to join both you and Renjun.

“Quite well,” You hum, turning your attention back onto the four dragons once more putting their heads together to solve your hypothetical. “If they can answer this correctly, I only have one final question to ask them. The rest, they will have to strengthen on their own.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“They’ve all come a long way.”

Renjun takes a moment to observe you, noticing how you stand completely relaxed. Your arms have long since fallen to your sides, shifting to clasp your hands gently behind your back as you watch the males before you. He knows you’re well aware of your surroundings despite your lax composure, a small, fond smile tugging onto your features. One which he hasn’t seen in over fifty years.

“So have you.”

“Well, your cubs are patiently waiting for your signal.” Sicheng turns his attention from San towards that small group of dragons currently arguing whether bloodroot, or a combination of mint and honey, would be better suited for the scenario you’ve posed. “Don’t be surprised you have a gallery the moment you do.”

“Oh, I fully expect it.” You chuckle, a lightheartedness to your words. “I know you Neos will never pass up an opportunity to watch someone get their ass kicked. Need I remind you of how you all acted during Sungchan’s and Shotaro’s training.”

“How did they act during their training?” Jongho leans in, unable to hide the curiosity in his voice. If you’re implying what he thinks you are… Well, Jongho certainly knows he’s not the only one beginning to tremble in excitement.

“Don’t worry about it-“

“Oh, my boys all made bets.” You grin, cutting Renjun off easily. “They had a scoreboard and everything. Was quite amusing to hear Ten and Haechan whining about being bested by the young ones so quickly. They both thought they would last longer.”

“Last longer than who?” San walks over, Wooyoung, Jungwoo, and Sicheng all in tow.

A brief glance is spared at the male standing directly beside you.

“Everyone always underestimates our little Junnie,” Jungwoo playfully tugs the younger male into a headlock, ruffling his hair affectionately.

In one swift movement, Renjun pushes himself free of Jungwoo’s arms. A glare that would normally send your cubs running for one of the other Neos in defence paints his features, only causing Jungwoo to let out a boisterous laugh.

“No one expects him to be our third strongest fighter.” Sicheng hums, watching as clear surprise paints the three Hala dragon’s faces around you. He turns to glance at you. “You’ve trained him well.”

“It’s because you underestimate him that he’s so strong.” You reply, amusement dancing in your eyes as you see smoke beginning to rise consistently from Mingi’s nostrils. “Renjun learned a long time ago to use his opponent’s assumptions about him to his advantage. You could learn a thing or two about that.”

“Already starting your teachings, have we?” Jungwoo grins.

“No. I’ve been waiting for him to arrive.” With a nod of your chin, you motion towards the new male who had walked out of the woods, and is currently standing behind the four arguing dragons. Purposefully, you raise your voice the next time you speak. “Glad you finally decided to join us.”

All heads whip in this newcomer’s direction, and you notice quite a few sharp inhales in surprise. Even both Jungwoo and Sicheng seem shocked as the male freezes in his spot, eyes going wide due to suddenly being stared down by everyone present.

“Yeosang?” Jongho frowns. “When did you get here?”

“He’s been standing there for about two minutes already.” You answer for him, a slight upturn to the corners of your lips. “Been lingering around the area for much longer. I’m surprised none of you have noticed.”

You meet his gaze, nothing how he blinks once in shock. Then, a tight smile is pulling onto his lips, nodding once in acknowledgement.

“Where have you been, mister ‘don’t touch My Fated’?” Jungwoo sasses, hands placed purposefully onto his hips with an eyebrow quirked. “Finally decided to come out of hiding?”

“You know, you’re not the first one to get intimidated by an imprint.” Renjun hums, amusement dancing in his eyes as he stares down the dragon across the way. “Least of all an imprint to her.”

“Yeah, you should have seen Sungchan the day he realized he’d imprinted on her.” Sicheng snickers. 

Jungwoo nods, a somewhat playfully solemn expression on his face, “Poor dragon buried himself beneath the ground in embarrassment for almost a month for imprinting on his caretaker.”

“And you didn’t?” You quirk a brow.

Instantly, Jungwoo shrinks in on himself, a vibrant red creeping up his neck and onto his ears. Sicheng only makes it worse, laughing loudly as he wraps his arm around Jungwoo’s shoulders, slapping a hand lightly over his brother’s chest in tandem.

A small wind picks up around the clearing, and you take a moment to observe the dragon standing just in front of the tree line. A neutral expression resides on his face, save for the subtle ticking of his jaw. Both of his hands rest at his sides, his stance lax as stares back at you. Nothing is said between you, the others remaining quiet save for the constant teasing of Jungwoo by Sicheng.

Understanding passes over your features, tilting your head back slightly in acknowledgement.

“No, he hasn’t been hiding,” There’s a clear tone of approval in your voice. One which each male easily picks up on, and that causes the one standing on the opposite end of your clearing to stand a little straighter in his spot. “He’s been honing.”

Very slightly, Yeosang tips his head in acknowledgement to your words. From the way both San and Wooyoung stiffen off to your right, you know that you’re not the only one who’s heard his soft sigh of relief. Even Jongho seems to shuffle lightly on his feet, eyeing his brother carefully from across the way.

“If those other four can finally figure out the solution to my problem, I would be more than interested to see what you’ve taught yourself.”

Again, Yeosang tilts his head, this time in agreement, to your words. There’s the slightest of upturns to his lips in the corners, blinking once. Without wasting another moment, he begins walking over to the four males huddled together.

“What problem are you attempting to solve?”

“Back off, Yeosang.” Mingi frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is our test.”

“Mingi, maybe we should-“

“No.” Mingi cuts Yunho off instantly. “He wasn’t here. He doesn’t just get to waltz in-“

“You’d deny yourself an ally because of your stubbornness?” Your voice, pointed and full of disbelief, kills the words building in Mingi’s throat. “An unexpected resource has become available to you. Use it. It never hurts to accept help. Collaboration efforts, and being able to adapt to new information, are aspects any good leader should have. If you still want to pursue that stupid crown, and be able to rule, you need to learn that. You need to live it.”

Mingi takes a moment to mull over your words, lips pursed the whole time. Then, with a firm nod, he turns his attention back to Yeosang. The taller male wastes no time in explaining the hypothetical situation, the elder dragon nodding along the whole time.

From the stunned looks on Hongjoong’s and Yunho’s faces, they clearly weren’t expecting Mingi to actually listen for once. After another few seconds, they’re able to compose themselves, adding in details to Mingi’s explanation the younger male might have missed or accidentally left out.

“You certainly know how to work miracles,” San breathes, nothing but awe on his features.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Jongho puff out his chest. He even goes so far as to stand a little taller in his spot, a certain type of pride shining within his gaze as he watches Yeosang listening intently to everything his brothers have to say.

“I offered my advice,” You brush off his praise. “Whether he chose to follow it or not is completely up to him.”

“San’s right.” Wooyoung is the next to speak. "Mingi hardly listens to any of us.”

“You know I can hear you guys, right?”

At the irritated look the flaming headed male shoots towards both San and Wooyoung, you hear them both laugh.

“Really? We weren’t aware.” Wooyoung jokes, arms crossed lightly over his chest. “Since he’s listening in, I’ll add that he snores really loudly, too.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t forget the time he sneezed so hard, flames shot out of his nostrils.”

“Choi Jongho, you shut your mouth right now!”

You cannot help it. A soft chuckle escapes your lips, bringing a hand up to cover the lower half of your face in an instant. Getting to see how they all interact with one another reminds you of your Neos. There’s an air of ease that’s settled over you all, and getting glimpses of how they tease one another only further proves that you’re all not so different after all.

Soft looks end up getting sent in your direction, and the moment you sense them staring, you clear your throat. Blinking a few times, you compose yourself, shifting your sharp gaze back to the now five males standing huddled in a circle.

“Well?” You say, expectantly. “Have you solved it, yet?”

A frown mars Yeosang’s features, bringing a hand up to cradle the bottom of his chin in thought.

“Your problem is that one of us has been rendered unconscious through the use of both sweetgrass and cresta leaves. The combination of which releases a slow poison into the bloodstream as it’s absorbed through the stomach.” Yeosang begins speaking, but the more he says, it’s clear that he’s simply thinking out loud.

The way both Wooyoung and San begin practically vibrating in excitement catches the other’s attention.

Looks of realization cross Yunho’s and Hongjoong’s faces, soft sounds of understanding building within their throat. Even Seonghwa begins nodding his head, brow furrowed in thought as he soon mirrors the exact position Yeosang is in with a hand cradling the bottom of his chin.

“There’s a few remedies we could use,” Yeosang begins listing them off. “You’ve indicated we don’t have access to diluted frost berry leaves, so our next best option would be a combination of arrowroot, mugwort, lila flowers, and sage. Alternatively, if we had access to ginger root, brewing some of that in hot water with a mixture of mint, honey, and thistlewart should do the trick.”

A glance in your direction reveals you standing with an impressed look resting on your features. Softly, your head nods along to Yeosang’s words, humming lightly in agreement to his assessment.

“Good.” You flick your gaze between the five of them. “What else?”

This seems to catch Yeosang by surprise. Even both San and Wooyoung look stunned by your response, glancing between you and their brothers lightly. Not even Jongho has an answer for you, the three soon walking over to join the others to continue discussing what other solution they may have.

After a solid ten minutes of discussing, the eight of them are turning to you.

“We don’t-“ Seonghwa grimaces. “We don’t know.”

“And that’s okay. I wasn’t expecting any of you to.” You smile softly. “In fact, I would have been surprised if you did.”

“How are we supposed to answer a question if you know we don’t know the answer?” A slight scowl pulls at Mingi’s features, a rough edge to his voice.

“You knew three out of four solutions to the problem. I was simply curious to see if any of you could surmise the fourth on your own.” You begin walking over to that picnic table off to the side, a casual gait to your steps. “I also needed to know if you could come up with the other mixtures, without relying on the easiest solutions you could ever have at your disposal. Of course, there are multiple ways in which you can tackle any problem. There always have been, and there always will be. Even when there only seems like there is one way out, sometimes, you just have to make your own.”

Reaching the bench, you perch yourself comfortably on the edge. You sit with your hands resting lightly over your thighs, noticing how Jungwoo, Renjun, and Sicheng all join you without a word. The other eight dragons all step closer, standing across from you with mild furrows to their brows.

“Has your eldest told you what type of dragon he is, yet?”

Quite a few curious glances are sent Seonghwa’s way. The only few who don’t seem confused for the moment are Hongjoong and Jongho.

“But Seonghwa doesn’t have a personalized power.” Yeosang frowns.

“He does.”

“What?” Mingi’s disbelief is clear in his voice. “Since when?”

“Since the day he was born.”

“How is that possible?” Yunho turns to look at the eldest beside him. “What power have you always had?”

At the way Seonghwa fidgets from foot to foot, looking bashfully down at the ground at his feet, you quirk a brow.

“Would you like to tell them, or should I?”

Seonghwa lifts his gaze, briefly glancing at his clan mates on either side of him.

“Poison.” His voice is small, but there’s no denying the soft smile that begins to tug onto his lips. “I’ve always been a dragon with the power of poison.”

“That’s great, Hwa!” San instantly begins beaming, clapping the elder man on his back.

“What a cool power!” Wooyoung nods, mirroring the large smile on San’s face instantly. “That’s incredible!”

Hongjoong and Jongho both seem to stand a little straighter, nothing but affection dripping from their gazes as they admire the male standing beside them. Even Yunho and Yeosang look impressed, smiles stretching onto their faces as they voice their congratulations to the dragon they have known for decades.

Still, that frown never once leaves Mingi’s features. “That’s great and all, but how does knowing Seonghwa’s power is that of poison help us in this situation?”

Amusement dances within your eyes, looking from one male to the next expectantly. Only, after a full minute of them all staring back at you, standing with seemingly bated breath, you chuckle.

“Because of the type of dragon he is, Seonghwa’s blood is a natural antidote to almost any type of toxin you can think of. Well, all except for my own.”

The shock is clear on all of their faces, Mingi, San, and even Yunho gaping at this new information. Yeosang’s eyebrows raise in consideration, both Hongjoong and Jongho soon humming lightly while nodding their heads. Seonghwa, on the other hand, still appears quite bashful. A look you honestly did not think the male was capable of.

“So, we could always use Seonghwa’s blood as a backup if all else fails!” Wooyoung gasps, nodding in understanding.

“Why not just use his blood all the time?” Mingi asks, as if the answer should be obvious. “If his blood is a natural antidote, then shouldn’t we just keep it in reserve for emergencies?”

“No.” The stern tone of your voice catches them all by surprise. “You should never do that.”

This time, it’s Seonghwa’s turn to frown. “Why not?”

“How many poison dragons have you ever met in your lifetime?”

They each take a moment to think.

“Not many.” Jongho is the one to answer for them all, sparing a brief look towards his brothers.

“There’s a reason for that.” Renjun sighs, both Sicheng and Jungwoo suddenly looking quite solemn.

“Tell me, Young Ones, have you ever heard of the Paladin Raids?”

They each shake their heads.

“I’ll admit, we’re unaware of such raids.” Hongjoong is the one to speak, a slight grimace pulling onto his features.

“I’m not surprised. There’s aren’t very many left who remember them. They took place before I was born, over five and a half centuries ago. The only reason I am aware of them is because of my Uncle Ken. As vigorous as my physical training and the like were, he also ensured that I was well versed in our history, and the history of our land. Amongst other subjects, of course.”

“Will we ever get to meet this uncle of yours?” Yunho quirks a brow, a lightheartedness to his tone.

“That has yet to be seen.” The corner of your lips quirk, but none of them fail to miss the way your gaze darts over to linger on Jongho’s figure.

Said male straightens in his spot, a small, bashful smile tugging at his features.

In the next moment, your expression is turning serious once more.

“There used to be many more poisonous dragons in the world than there are now. It used to be a well known fact amongst our kind that their blood could cure almost any toxin that there was. Of course, these specific antidotes were only meant to be used as a last resort. My Uncle can recount many instances where his friends used to be asked for their blood all of the time by desperate, unknown dragons. Many would accept to help their kin, even if they had never met. Not all of us are as adept at healing or fighting ailments as those born with such abilities. Not all of us take the opportunity to learn.”

You can tell you have their rapt attention, your three Neos remaining silent as they let you speak.

“It was only a matter of time before that information fell into the wrong hands.” A slight grimace pulls onto your features, lips tugging downwards significantly in the corners. “The S’ber hunters-“

A deep, guttural snarl tears from Jongho’s throat, his eyes flashing a deep gold. Lips curl over suddenly sharp fangs in a snarl, claws unsheathing as his fingers flex at his sides.

You shoot him a pointed look before continuing. A look which not just Yeosang picks up on.

“The S’ber hunters are some of the most ruthless and vile of them all. Long since have they hated our kind, searching for the ancients nests in hopes to destroy us all.” You take a deep breath in through your nose, leaning forward to rest your elbows on your knees. “Once they found out about the antidotal properties of those specific types of dragons’ blood, they realized how useful it could be.”

Sharp inhales are heard from all eight of them. Yet, none are as loud as Seonghwa’s, Yeosang’s, or Hongjoong’s. Yunho’s throat works, swallowing thickly as his entire body goes still. In fact, you can tell just from the way that he freezes that he’s momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

“Many poisonous dragons were captured and bled dry, the S’ber’s hoarding their blood in reserves. Normally, these hunters will not outright kill a dragon should they capture one. They will torture them until they are content with the outcome. Whether that be through the retrieval of information they have long since desired, or death, it does not matter. The only exception being dragons with a poisonous nature. It was far easier for them to bleed them dry than to keep them alive and wait for them to procure more blood.”

Gently, you clasp your hands in front of your face, lacing your fingers together as you peer up at each of them. The horror painted on their features perfectly mimics your own, back when you had first learned of the atrocity of the Paladin Raids.

“Luckily for us, but unfortunately for them, the S’ber hunters were not aware that our blood only has a certain shelf life. It cannot survive for longer than ten days outside of its host. They did not, and still do not, possess the magic needed to store such a delicacy. They can never.” Then, after a moment. “They will never.”

“Those raids started with the systematic hunting and bleeding of poison dragons across the land. Once the S’ber’s learnt of the short shelf life of our blood outside of our bodies, they took their rage out on us without remorse.” Your voice drops, deepening slightly with the weight of your emotions. “The only peace of mind we have from that time is knowing that the dragons that had been suffering in their captivity were finally set free in death. They slaughtered hundreds of us in retaliation, and once they had no more prisoners to torture, they set out to enslave new ones.”

A choked sob reaches your ears, and you turn your head to see Sicheng barely keeping himself together. Tears stream freely from his eyes, a hand slapped over his mouth as his entire body begins shaking.

Instantly, your arm is around him, pulling him into your side. Softly, you begin cooing while running your fingers through his hair, letting Sicheng openly sob into your chest as he hides his face against you.

“May I tell them?” Your voice is much softer than mere moments before as you whisper the question down at Sicheng.

His nod is all the confirmation you need.

Lifting your head, your lips tug downwards solemnly.

“Sicheng lost both of his grandparents, and his eldest aunt during the Paladin Raids. He almost lost his father, too."

Glancing back at the eight Halas before you, you notice that Sicheng is not the only one with tears in his eyes. Both San and Wooyoung cry openly, holding onto each other for support. Yunho, like Sicheng, holds a hand over the lower half of his face, eyes shining as he attempts to steady his breathing.

A silent path of tears cut down the sides of Seonghwa’s cheeks, the eldest pursing his lips tightly to keep his chin from wobbling. Hongjoong rests his hand over Seonghwa’s back, his expression completely stoic as he just manages to keep his composure. Even Mingi’s expression has hardened, his jaw twitching as he stares right past you at the forest behind your back.

The only two without tears in their eyes are Jongho and Yeosang.

Despite his calm exterior, you can see the storm raging inside of Yeosang’s eyes. His throat works as he swallows thickly, hands balling into fists at his sides. Jongho, instead, looks ready to tear something apart. His whole body shakes in rage, the familiar static of electricity buzzing lightly throughout the air. That scowl hasn’t once left his face, fangs still peeking out from behind curled lips.

“So, no,” You reiterate, lifting your gaze to meet Mingi’s own. “You should never keep Seonghwa’s blood in reserve in case of emergencies. Not only because of its short shelf life, but because of all of his kin that have been taken and drained due to what they are. If you want to ensure that his antidotal blood is always there when you absolutely need it, then you need to ensure his survival. He is apart of your clan, and you are his. You survive if he survives, and he survives if you all survive. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Yeosang, Jongho, Yunho, and Mingi all instantly answer at once.

“We understand.” Hongjoong nods once, firmly.

“Good.” You return his nod, noticing how Sicheng begins to slowly calm down. His sobs are quieting, breathing evening out the longer you go threading your fingers gently through his hair.

Taking a moment to look over the eight Hala dragons before you, you ensure to meet each of their gazes. As you do so, they stand a little straighter in their spots, nodding their both confirmation and understanding.

Finally, your gaze lands on the eldest standing before you.

“You need to promise to stop being so reckless. You’re more important than you realize.” You release your hold on Sicheng as he sits upright, refusing to tear your gaze away from Seonghwa’s own. “I say this to my cubs all the time, but it still holds true for you. You are always worth more than you will ever know.”

“I promise.” Seonghwa’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, clearing his throat in the next moment. “I promise you that I’ll never take my life granted again.”

“Don’t promise me,” You shake your head lightly, a soft smile tugging onto your lips. Briefly, your gaze flits around at the seven other men standing beside him. “Promise them.”

Immediately, Seonghwa turns to face the seven other members of his clan. Nothing but sincerity rests on his features as a deep magic begins swirling through the air, emanating from his very being.

“I promise,” Seonghwa begins, keeping his voice steady and strong, “To stop acting like a pompous ass all the time, and to become a person that you can all rely on whenever you may need me. I will not allow my fear of inadequacy control me any longer. I will, however, always strive to be worthy of this clan, and of those that have put their faith in me. My life is as important to me now, as yours have always been. I will never let you down again. This I swear on my very soul.”

A moment of silence passes over the entire clearing as Seonghwa’s promise rings true. All you can do is sit there, observing the scene before you with a semi-amused look on your face. Not only that, but pride.

Hongjoong turns to face the dragon beside him, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Seonghwa’s neck. A position of which the eldest mirrors in the blink of an eye. Neither say anything as they tilt their heads forwards, foreheads resting against each other as a deep understanding passes through them all.

Still, that deep magic lingers within the air.

“As I promise to do the same,” Hongjoong voices lowly, eyes beginning to glow with that familiar gold as he stares into Seonghwa’s own. “With all that I am, I swear to you that you will never have to suffer alone. I will lead you all to the best of my abilities, but I cannot do this alone. I will be right by your sides, as I hope with everything I am that you will all be right by mine. You are my clan, as I am yours. I will never let any of you traverse this path without me. We are in this together, guiding each other through it all, and I would not have it any other way.”

The other six immediately gather around the two eldest, both Seonghwa and Hongjoong pulling away from each other momentarily. You watch on as they release their holds over the backs of their necks, and instead opt to clasp their opposite hands together. The tips of their fingers curl around each other, locked in a sacred hold as one by one, the others add their touch to their joined hands.

As each male grabs onto either Seonghwa’s or Hongjoong’s hand in the centre of their little circle, they utter but two words.

“I promise.”

Once the last male has connected, that magic swirls around them, converging at the point of contact where their hands meet. It surrounds them on all sides, seemingly getting sucked into a vortex emanating from the centre of their small circle. Then, once it has all been collected, it explodes outwards, washing over all eight of them like stardust falling from the heavens above.

With nothing other than a smile on your face, you watch such a sacred bond form right before your very eyes.

For a moment, nothing is said. Instead, you allow the lingering traces of their newly formed Drygg Promise to dissipate. You can tell that you’re not the only one pleased by this turn of events, smiles being worn by all parties involved as they finally break from their small circle. Happy sniffles greet your ears, many a man clapping each other on the back lightly.

Almost subconsciously, you begin to nod.

“Good.” You hum, your voice drawing their attention back to you instantly. “Now that that’s settled, you should all head home and get some rest. The next couple of days will be intense, and you will need to reserve your strength. Ensure that you’re not late. Tomorrow, your physical training begins.”

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty. chapter twenty-two (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, consensual non-consent (cnc), 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: 14.2k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet, so i hope you enjoy! translations are at the end again :)

Usually, in the Language Center, there are no more than four pairs of students hunched together over their notes, their voices barely rising above a murmur as they practice verb conjugations. There might be a lone student or two tucked into a secluded corner, cramming for an oral exam or a vocab quiz, whispering phrases under their breath. At the front desk, the receptionist taps gently at her keyboard, offering polite, muted greetings to anyone who walks through the doors. Every Thursday evening, without fail, you're greeted with the same peaceful, studious hush. 

So it's pretty jarring when you hear shouting from inside before your hand even touches the doors.

"...a mistake! I want to speak to the department head right now!" 

You push the doors open, blinking at the sudden burst of yelling. The figure looming over the polished dark wood of the front desk is so agitated that he doesn't even turn around at the sound of your entrance. 

"I'm one of your best tutors! Who the hell would file a complaint about me?" the man demands, slamming his palm down hard enough to make the receptionist flinch.

You stop short as the doors swing closed behind you. You recognize that voice.

James is aggressively waving a crumpled piece of paper at the receptionist, his face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. You quickly sidestep, ducking behind a leafy potted monstera plant in the corner of the lobby. Pretending to be deeply fascinated by the damp soil in the pot, you peer down into it, fighting a losing battle against the grin tugging at your mouth as you listen to their conversation.

Hongjoong actually got him fired. The thought makes a laugh bubble up in your throat. You can practically picture the flush creeping up his neck if you called him out on it. The quiet, stuttering man who had nearly tripped over his own feet on Sunday morning had turned around and executed an administrative kill, thanks to his position.

But, if James happens to glance over and catch sight of you standing here, arriving right on time for your typical Thursday evening session, you’re pretty sure it wouldn’t take much for his brain to connect the dots.

"I already told you, honey, the department head isn't here today," the receptionist says, her usually kind voice cooled by a dose of exasperation. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"You can't just fire me without a meeting!" James sputters.

"You'll have to email HR." She offers him a strained smile of apology.

He lets out a frustrated groan, raking both hands through his hair before hitting the desk one last time. You shrink further behind the broad green leaves of the plant as he storms across the lobby, shoving through the doors with enough force that they bang loudly against their frames behind him.

When he leaves, the peaceful quiet returns.

You wait a full three seconds before stepping out from the foliage, brushing a tiny speck of dirt from your sweater as you make your way over to the front desk.

The receptionist looks up from her monitor at the sound of your footsteps. She lets out a frayed breath, though a tired, polite smile still finds its way onto her lips when she recognizes you.

"Hi, ____. Sorry about that," she sighs, nodding toward the front entrance. "He’s been demanding to see the department head for twenty minutes. I told him she’s not here, but he wouldn't listen."

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression to remain neutral. "Did something happen?" you ask, playing dumb.

She glances around the empty lobby before leaning in slightly closer. "He got terminated this morning. I don’t know all the details, but rumor has it that someone filed a formal complaint with a mountain of documentation about professional misconduct."

You try your hardest to look appropriately shocked, even as your chest swells with warmth. 

The receptionist shakes her head, waving a dismissive hand as if to brush the unpleasant scene out of the air. She types a quick note into her keyboard before smiling back up at you.

"Anyway, Hongjoong is already waiting for you. Go on inside."

You give her a bright, fleeting smile back and turn down the corridor. The walk is short, but every step sends butterflies fluttering through your stomach. It’s not a bad anxiety, though—it’s the thrill of anticipation.

This is the first time you're seeing Hongjoong since Sunday morning, when he kissed you goodbye at his front door, causing you to bolt from his apartment like a flustered idiot. 

You haven't exactly been silent since then. Your phone has been buzzing with a steady stream of texts over the last few days, though you've both been dancing around the heavy stuff. Mostly, you’ve been ironing out the logistics of keeping whatever this is a secret, considering it's a direct violation of the university's rules:

You: Are you sure you're okay with risking your job?  Hongjoong: More than okay. I barely get paid anything, anyway.  You: Well, that's good. Because I may or may not have already told all my friends about you. Hongjoong: ...Yeah. Me too. I texted my friends back home the second you left my apartment.

Beyond sneaking around, your conversations had drifted into safer territory. Both of you lamented about how finals were only a few weeks away and how fast the semester had slipped through your fingers. You thanked him for single-handedly saving your Korean grade, though you could've used some of that help with Econ. He confessed that he hates working for the university and that you were the only reason he actually looked forward to his tutoring shifts.

Conspicuously absent from all that talk, however, was any label.

There hasn't been a single text addressing whether the weekend's events mean you're officially together now. You’ve quietly allowed yourself to assume that you are. Honestly, in your mind, a confession that sincere seems way too meaningful to devolve into some casual "tutor-tutee-with-benefits" arrangement. Hongjoong admitted he had real feelings for you, and you gave yours right back.

Isn't the only logical next step to date each other?

When you walk in, Hongjoong is already there, as promised.

He’s sitting at your usual table by the window with a few sheets of paper neatly stacked and two pens perfectly aligned next to his open notebook. He’s wearing a thick navy sweater with sleeves long enough to swallow his hands as he types at his laptop. His black-rimmed glasses sit high on the bridge of his nose, though they keep slipping lower each time his head tilts down.

At the sound of your footsteps, his head snaps up. The moment his eyes find yours, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he quickly suppresses it. Picking up his pen, he begins to tap it against the spiral of his notebook as he checks the clock on the wall.

"It's 5:01," he notes, though the strictness in his tone is ruined by the teasing glint in his eyes. "I don't think you've ever been late before."

You pull out the chair across from him and place your bag on the floor, getting the recording app ready to go. "I'm sorry," you reply, an unapologetic smile playing on your lips. "I was here on time, but there was a lot of commotion in the lobby."

The pen pauses mid-tap. Hongjoong blinks. "Huh? What was going on?"

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your face innocent. "I don't know. It sounded like someone may have gotten fired?"

Hongjoong chokes on his own spit. He sputters out a cough, his face flushing as he clears his throat, refusing to meet your gaze.

"Oh. Uh," he wheezes, hectically adjusting the stack of papers that are already perfectly straight. "That's... huh. Wonder what that's all about." He clears his throat again, his hands floating nervously over his materials before he slides a sheet of paper across the desk. "Well. I, uh... I have the dialogue ready to go."

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing out loud. and reach out to pull your copy of the dialogue toward you.

This week’s scenario, it seems, is a customer ordering at a restaurant and a waiter taking their request.

Hongjoong gives a subtle tilt of his chin toward your phone, the silent cue to start recording. You tap the screen.

"주문하시겠어요?" he asks right away. Are you ready to order?

Somehow, though he's talking about something as mundane as ordering food, your brain links the cadence of his syllables to the only other Korean you’ve heard recently: everything he said to you on Saturday night. A hot blush climbs up your neck. You clear your throat, desperately trying to find your place on the page.

"저는 순...두...부...찌개 주세요," you stumble. I'll have the sundubu-jjigae, please.

"순두부찌개," Hongjoong corrects. He reaches over to tap the pause button on your screen, knowing you'll want to restart. "It's a soft tofu stew. Make sure to emphasize the double consonant on the 찌개."

"순두부... 찌개," you sound out slowly, watching the shape of his mouth and trying to mimic the movement.

He gives an approving nod. "Good."

You restart the recording and take it from the top. You try your best to focus on the ink printed on the page, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop the memory of those lips against your collarbone, or the low, raspy way his voice had sounded in the dark of his bedroom. Yet here he sits, tapping his pen, acting every bit the polite, professional tutor you've known all semester.

But the longer you sit across from him, the harder it is to place that innocent image over the man you now know.

"제 친구는 불고기하고... 냉면? 먹고 싶어 해요," you struggle, tripping over unfamiliar characters. My friend wants to eat bulgogi and naengmyeon.

"냉면," he corrects again, leaning over slightly to point at the vowels with the tip of his pen. "It's a cold noodle dish."

As he says it, he glances up through his lashes, and your eyes lock. You watch the shift in his gaze as it involuntarily drops from your eyes down to your lips. He swallows hard, forcibly dragging his attention back to the sheet of paper before clearing his throat. A telltale dusting of pink rises from his collar, and below the table, his knee starts bouncing. 

You realize with a suppressed, giddy smile that he's struggling to focus just as much as you are.

"Try it again," he says, his voice suddenly a little thicker. "From the beginning."

You run the dialogue two more times, trying your best to ignore the charged air between you. By the fourth take, you nail the pronunciation perfectly. A smile finally breaks through Hongjoong's tight expression as you hit submit on the recording.

Then, with the dialogue out of the way, you fall into a painfully awkward silence.

Hongjoong shifts in his chair, a hand coming up to needlessly adjust his glasses. He looks at you, then quickly at the clock, then back at his hands.

"So," he starts, the syllable coming out a little too high before he clears his throat. "What else do you need help with this week?"

You swallow. Over text, it had been so easy. Safe behind a screen, you could banter with him, tease him, and bravely joke about him risking his job for you. But here, face-to-face, sitting less than three feet apart, there's nowhere to hide anymore. The sight of him suddenly makes you embarrassingly tongue-tied. 

"I... don't really know," you admit, dropping your gaze to the table. "I, um, haven't been paying much attention in class this week."

Hongjoong tilts his head, a single eyebrow arching. "No? Why not?"

He asks it innocently enough, but when you finally dare to look up, there’s a faint, knowing glint in his eyes. He knows why. You’ve done the exact same thing to him. For the past few days, he’s been occupying all the space in your mind, leaving no room for any grammar rules. 

You feel another flush creeping up your neck and purposefully keep your mouth shut. 

Though he tries his best to hide it, a pleased grin spreads across Hongjoong's face. He reaches out and casually snaps his notebook shut, gathering his pens and setting them neatly on top—except for one, which he keeps, twirling it idly between his fingers.

"Well," he says, hesitating for only a moment, "If there's nothing else... we could always pack up early and, uh... take the session to my room."

Your eyes widen. "Hongjoong!" you hiss, darting a nervous glance around the room at the other students.

He blinks, following your line of sight before twisting in his chair to look behind him, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"

"And what exactly do you intend to do in your room?" you whisper, your face burning.

Hongjoong just stares at you for a long, blank second before he realizes what you thought he meant. A breathless laugh slips out of him as he fumbles with the pen in his hand, nearly dropping it onto the table. The tips of his ears turn pink as he hurriedly sets it down in a neat line with the others. "Uh... watch a K-drama. Or something. For listening practice. Literally... take the session to my room."

"...Oh."

You practically melt into your chair, your blush spreading until it sets your ears on fire. 

Hongjoong presses his lips together, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching upward. He clears his throat, dragging his notebook a few inches closer even though it's already directly in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edge of the cover, tapping it once, then twice.

"So that's where your mind went?" He tosses his pens into the front pocket of his bag, glancing up at you through his glasses. His eyes are bright with poorly concealed amusement, though the pink still lingers at the tips of his ears. "I'm still your tutor, you know."

"Yeah, well," you scoff instinctively, the embarrassment making you reckless. "Now you're also my—"

The word dies on your tongue instantly.

Boyfriend.

You were about to call Hongjoong your boyfriend. 

Your mouth goes dry. You still haven't talked about labels. You haven't discussed what this actually is, or what either of you even wants it to become. What if he thinks you're moving too fast? What if he doesn't see it the same way? What if he laughs, or worse—goes quiet and starts putting distance between you again? What if "boyfriend" is too much, too childish, or too soon?

The teasing drains from Hongjoong's face as he watches you freeze. His hand pauses halfway to his backpack's zipper, and he slowly lowers his arm back to the table, the awkwardness in the air suddenly turning heavier than before. 

He studies you. His eyes track the panic that is undoubtedly written across every inch of your face. You brace yourself for him to awkwardly change the subject, to clear his throat and remind you that you can't talk about these things in the Language Center, or—worst of all—to tell you that you're rushing things.

But instead, Hongjoong swallows hard. He drops his gaze to the table, his fingers tracing the spiral binding of his notebook. When he finally looks back up at you, the nervousness in his eyes catches you by surprise. 

"남자친구?" he murmurs, soft and hesitant.

You blink, your panicked brain failing to translate the syllables. You stare at him, your mouth slightly parted.

Your obvious confusion seems to make a tiny, incredibly anxious smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Reaching back into his bag, he pulls out a pen and clicks it open. He flips his notebook open to a page crowded with old notes and points his pen at the blank margin. 

"Separate the components," he instructs gently. He writes two blocks of Hangul on the blank space, pointing at the first one with the tip of his pen. "남자." 

"남자," you repeat, your voice shaking slightly. "Man."

He nods. "Or, depending on the context... boy." He slides his pen to the second block of characters. "친구. You know this one, too." He looks up from the paper, searching for your reaction. "남자친구."

Your breath catches. "Boy... friend?"

Hongjoong nods once, quickly. His hand tightens around his pen, and he looks at you as though he's genuinely scared you're about to reject him. 

Is he crazy? you think, affection blossoming inside your chest. Does he actually think that's not what I want?

You need to reassure him. You need to erase that anxious look from his face. And, thankfully, your brain obligingly supplies the exact grammar structures he’s spent the past few months drilling into you, ready to be used for exactly that purpose.

You sit up a little straighter, drawing in a deep breath. You point a finger across the table at him.

"홍중은," you start, visualizing the sentence piece by piece in your head, just as he taught you to do. Subject. Topic particle. Modifier. Noun. Copula. "내... 남자친구예요."

Hongjoong is my boyfriend.

Hongjoong’s eyes widen behind his glasses.

You turn your finger back to point at your own chest, racking your brain for the vocabulary word for 'woman' or 'girl'. 

"그리고... 저는," you continue, quieter now, carefully assembling each syllable and praying your vocabulary is accurate. "홍중의... 여자친구예요."

And I am Hongjoong's girlfriend.

Hongjoong stares at you, utterly stunned, as his brain processes the slightly clunky—yet completely correct—Korean sentences you just formulated entirely on your own. Slowly, a blindingly bright grin spreads across his face, so wide and genuine that his eyes crinkle. A breathless little laugh escapes him as he looks at you like he can't quite believe what he just heard, his cheeks turning a soft, beautiful shade of pink.

"응," he breathes, the syllable almost entirely lost to a soft, emotional laugh. Yes. "잘했어... 내 여자친구." Good job... my girlfriend.

You hold each other’s gaze in complete silence for a long time. You can feel your own expression stuck somewhere between relief and shock. Across the table, he's still looking at you as if you’ve said something irreversible in the best possible way.

Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

Such simple words, and still they send a stupid, unmistakable rush through you. It makes you feel a little ridiculous, honestly. You've dated before. You've had a boyfriend before. You've known what it's supposed to feel like.

But you've never felt anything like this.

Hongjoong's eyes drift, just briefly, toward the clock on the wall, and a new spark lights up his eyes.

"Actually," he murmurs, suddenly snapping his notebook shut. "I have an idea. Pack your stuff. We're leaving."

You blink, caught off guard as he's already sliding the notebook into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "Leaving? Leaving where?" 

"Just follow me," is all he says. A grin pulls at his lips before he turns away.

You scramble to stuff your own supplies into your bag, chasing after him into the quiet hallway. "Seriously," you say with a surprised, breathless laugh, scurrying to keep up with his quick pace as you pass through the lobby together. You both flash an automatic, slightly guilty smile at the receptionist, who merely arches an amused eyebrow over her monitor as the two of you blow past her desk. "Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer until you push through the front doors and step out into the evening air. The cold hits you hard, but it's not nearly as brutal as it could be. Winter may have technically arrived, but tonight, it’s mild enough that the sweater on your shoulders is enough to keep you warm.

Hongjoong finally slows his steps, easing his pace just enough for you to catch up before matching his stride beside you. Without a word, he veers sharply to the side, heading around the back of the Language Center. "Do you remember when you said you hadn't tried much Korean food?"

You nod as you blindly follow him. Of course you remember; that was the very first time you'd left a session together like this—the night of Yunho's birthday party. 

"And do you remember what I told you?"

You search your memory, thinking back to those earlier, allegedly platonic conversations. "You said you'd cook for me."

"Right."

You don't realize where he's leading you until the pavement opens up into the parking lot behind the Language Center, the marker of the very edge of campus. Hongjoong slips a hand into the pocket of his navy sweater and pulls out a set of keys. He presses a button, and a red sedan a few rows down answers with a flash of headlights.

"I was a little too nervous to fulfill that promise before." He stops walking, turning to face you fully. The streetlights around you catch the sudden, shy pink in his cheekbones. "But now that you're my... my girlfriend..."

Your stomach does a little flip at the word. It somehow sounds even better coming from him in English.

"...I figured tonight is a pretty good time to finally do it," he finishes, a sheepish smile settling on his mouth.

He walks you over to the passenger side of his car, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. Reaching out, he pulls the door open and holds it there, gesturing for you to get in. "Come on," he says softly. "Let's go shopping." 

You slide into the passenger seat, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he closes the door behind you. The interior is nothing like you expected—each seat is wrapped in gorgeous custom red leather that's just a shade deeper than the car’s exterior, clearly designed by none other than himself. 

As you reach over your shoulder for the seatbelt, you catch a glimpse of the backseat.

It's a mess.

Loose sheets of notebook paper are scattered everywhere—pages crowded with crossed-out lyrics, others filled with pencil sketches of clothing designs, some half-crumpled like he’d tossed them back there mid-thought. But, remembering how quickly he'd hidden those papers in his bedroom, you politely snap your attention forward. You're curious, of course, but you're not ready to pry into his world just yet.

A second later, the driver's side door opens, and Hongjoong drops into the seat beside you, starting the engine. He shifts the car into reverse and hooks his right arm over the back of your headrest, twisting his torso to look out the rear window as he eases the car out of the spot.

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to stay on the dashboard. 

As he looks back, though, he notices the disaster he left in the back. His mouth twists into a grimace before he straightens, shifting the car into drive and facing forward again.

"Sorry about the mess," he mutters. "I really need to clean back there."

"It's okay. I didn't even notice."

As he pulls out onto the main road, his phone automatically syncs with the car's Bluetooth. The speakers crackle to life, dropping straight into the drumbeat of the second verse of Dani California, presumably where he left off when he was listening alone earlier. 

Hongjoong's hand hovers over the volume dial with uncertainty. He glances sideways at you, looking a little nervous. "Is this album okay? You said you like the Chili Peppers, right?"

"Are you kidding?" you grin, leaning back into the red leather seat. "Dani California is one of my favorite songs of all time."

Hongjoong wordlessly smiles at that, his thumb tapping the steering wheel controls to restart the track from the very beginning just for you. When his attention drifts back to the road, he gives a faint shake of his head, an incredulous little smile playing on his lips.

"완벽해," he exhales under his breath, so quietly you almost miss it.

He clearly doesn't expect you to understand it. But he must have forgotten that it was one of the very first adjectives you ever learned, back when you were still hopelessly stumbling through basic vowels in week two.

Perfect.

Hongjoong just called you perfect. 

Your heart does an embarrassing somersault in your chest, but you press your lips together, biting down gently on your smile, deciding to keep that translation to yourself.

The rest of the ride passes in a comfortable silence, filled only by Stadium Arcadium. Neither of you is quite brave enough to actually sing out loud yet, but every so often, you catch each other silently mouthing the lyrics and nodding along to the guitar. Each time it happens, you trade the same shy, embarrassed smile across the center console before quickly looking away.

Hongjoong drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the divider. His fingers tap out the complicated drum fills, and you find yourself watching his hand from the corner of your eye longer than is probably considered normal. You can't help but wonder—will you eventually reach the point where he's comfortable enough to lace his fingers through yours at a red light, or to casually rest his palm on your thigh without a second thought?

Not yet, you remind yourself, suppressing the anxious flutter that follows. Too soon. But the future possibility makes you smile nonetheless.

Roughly twelve minutes later, Hongjoong hits his blinker, pulling the sedan into the cramped asphalt lot of what looks like a small, family-owned Korean grocery store.

He cuts the engine, silencing Charlie right in the middle of the chorus. Before you can even reach for the buckle of your seatbelt, he’s already shoving his door open and climbing out of the driver's seat.

You pop your own door open, swinging your legs out into the cold air and shutting it behind you just as he rounds the hood of the car. He stops dead in his tracks, looking a little defeated when you meet him at the bumper.  

"I... was going to open that for you."

You laugh softly while shaking your head. "I can handle opening a door on my own, Hongjoong."

"I know you can," he replies, his lips twitching into a wry little smile. "But I still wanted to do it."

He gestures for you to follow, leading you toward the storefront. He pulls open the door, and a tiny brass bell chimes cheerfully overhead, announcing your arrival. You step inside, taking in the cozy interior. It's much smaller than a standard supermarket, but much cleaner and more organized. To your left, an open, brightly lit cooler hums, packed full of fresh cabbage and bundled scallions. Straight ahead stand rows of tall fogged-glass refrigerators, while the wooden shelves to your right are stocked with Korean labels you can't quite read. 

Right at the front of the center aisle sits a wire rack stacked with black shopping baskets. Hongjoong steps toward it, reaching out to loop his fingers under the top handles.

"홍중아? 너니?"

A high-pitched voice suddenly calls out Hongjoong's name from the back of the store. You both pause, turning just in time to see a petite older woman in a floral apron hurrying out from behind the cash register. Her face instantly breaks into a delighted smile, and she throws her arms wide as she practically jogs down the aisle toward you two.

Hongjoong’s posture straightens at once, a faint wash of pink covering his cheeks, but he doesn't pull away as she wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. He pats her back, bowing his head respectfully. "네, 저예요."

You giggle as you watch the scene, understanding his Korean. Yes, it's me.

The woman pulls back, giving his arm a fond pat before her bright eyes lock onto you. She gasps dramatically, her hands flying up to cup her cheeks.

"어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니?"

Hongjoong clears his throat, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "제 친구예요. ____." 

The older woman stops. She looks at Hongjoong, then looks at you, and then turns back to Hongjoong, her eyebrows inching up toward her hairline. She wiggles them at him, and though you don't understand her words, you can tell she's teasing him about you.

"친구라구? 여자친구 아니고?"

The pink on Hongjoong's cheeks deepens to a burning red. He laughs, a flustered sound, before ducking his head. "네, 제 여자친구예요. 한국어 공부하고 있어요."

You stand perfectly still, unable to parse the rapid-fire speed of the conversation. But that last part... the vocabulary is basic enough, the grammar familiar enough, that your brain stitches the translation together on a slight delay. Yes, this is my girlfriend. She's studying Korean. 

Before you can react, the woman gasps again, her eyes widening in some unknown realization. 

"아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생?"

Hongjoong's head snaps up. He shoots a panicked look in your direction, and despite the language barrier, you can tell with a curious laugh that he's hoping your comprehension skills aren't advanced enough to catch what she just said.

He whips his attention back to the woman, nodding quickly, his voice hushed. "네, 네… 맞아요…"

The woman doesn't take the hint. She claps her hands together with glee, turns her head toward the stockroom, and yells at the top of her lungs: "여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어!"

Both you and Hongjoong flinch. His shoulders hike all the way up to his ears, mortified. 

As the joyful patter of her footsteps fades toward the back, Hongjoong slowly turns to face you.

"I'm sorry about that." Despite his embarrassment, a fond smile tugs at his mouth. "That's Mrs. Yoon. She and her husband own this place." 

Your heart melts a little at the sweetness of their interaction. "She seems to really like you."

"She... yeah," he admits, his voice softening as he looks around the cramped, colorful aisles. He takes a half-step closer, dropping his voice to a private murmur. "I came here on the very first night I moved from Korea. My English was just as good as it is now, but I was too overwhelmed to try to go shopping all by myself on the first night." 

You look up at him, your chest aching as you picture a far more nervous version of Hongjoong standing lost in this same aisle. 

"They were unbelievably kind to me," he continues, his eyes warm with the memory. "They took one look at me, realized how homesick I was, and wouldn't let me leave until they cooked a plate of hot food in the back to help me settle in. I think I've come here every weekend since."

"Hongjoong, that's... really sweet," you breathe.

He shyly shrugs with one shoulder, shooting you a sheepish glance. "Yeah, well. Just a heads up... they don't really speak much English. So I hope you're ready for some real-world listening practice."

Right on cue, the stockroom doors swing open. An older man emerges next to Mrs. Yoon, balancing a large cardboard box overflowing with fresh produce on his hip. He sets it down on a nearby crate, wiping his hands on his apron before his welcoming eyes land on the two of you.

His face lights up with a knowing grin. "홍중아, 이 애가 그—”

"네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네," Hongjoong interrupts quickly, loudly talking over the older man before he can finish whatever embarrassing sentence he was about to say.

Mrs. Yoon laughs, turning her sparkling eyes to you. When she speaks, she deliberately slows her cadence, enunciating every syllable with a gentle, encouraging tone.

"안녕! 한국어 공부해요? 홍중이랑 같이?" Hi! Are you studying Korean? With Hongjoong?

Your eyes widen. Her phrasing is so clear and simple that you don't even have to translate it in your head—the meaning clicks into place naturally. You’ve never had a spontaneous, real-world conversation in Korean outside of your tutoring sessions before, so you're nervous, but you give a shy, eager nod anyway.

"안녕하세요…" you start, your voice likely a little too quiet. "네, 한국어 공부해요." Hello... Yes, I study Korean.

Mrs. Yoon gasps, clapping her hands together, delighted by you. She turns to her husband and Hongjoong, gesturing wildly in your direction. "어머, 한국어 진짜 잘해요!"

Luckily, you recognize that phrase. She's really good at Korean. A blush spreads across your cheeks, and you bravely supply the appropriate, polite response. "감사합니다." Thank you.

When you glance over at Hongjoong, he's beaming at you with pride. 

Mr. Yoon chuckles, leaning his weight against the produce box. "홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요."

You furrow your brow, carefully dissecting the sentence structure. You aren't entirely sure what the grammatical ending signifies, but you catch the core vocabulary loud and clear. Hongjoong. Good. Teacher.

"네," you agree, looking right at Hongjoong with a smile. "홍중이 좋은 선생님이에요." Yes, Hongjoong is a good teacher.

If it were physically possible, Hongjoong's face turns an even brighter shade of red, but his smile only grows larger and prouder.

Mr. and Mrs. Yoon both let out a collective endearing coo at the two of you. Mrs. Yoon looks you up and down, her eyes crinkling with fondness. "아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네."

You don't know what the second half of that sentence means, but you definitely caught the word pretty in the first. You shyly shake your head, lifting a hand to humbly deny the compliment, but Hongjoong speaks first.

"아, 네…" he murmurs. He looks down at you with an affectionate gaze. "제가 더 복이에요."

You don't know the translation, but the sincerity in his tone makes your knees feel weak. Both of the older shop owners laugh happily at his words.

Mr. Yoon tilts his head toward the aisles. "데이트 준비하러 온 거예요?"

You grin internally, thrilled that you recognize the English loan word and the future tense. Did you come to prepare for a date?

Hongjoong nods. "네, 제가 요리해 줄 거예요." Yes, I'm going to cook for her.

"자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와," Mrs. Yoon says cheerfully. She grabs one of the black shopping baskets off the rack and shoves it into Hongjoong's chest.

"네, 감사합니다," Hongjoong replies, graciously taking the handles and giving them both a polite, respectful bow. Thank you. "잘 다녀올게요."

Mrs. Yoon begins to physically shoo the two of you toward the produce section, waving her hands in a sweeping motion as she calls out to you: "잘 다녀와, 예쁜 아가씨.”

You freeze, looking up at Hongjoong in confusion, silently asking for a translation.

He clears his throat, tightly gripping the plastic handles of the shopping basket. "She said to come back well. Meaning, enjoy your shopping."

Mrs. Yoon instantly stops shooing. She plants her hands on her hips, points a stern finger right at Hongjoong, and says, "아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘!"

Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out a sigh as his ears burn again. His voice is barely above a murmur as he translates, "...Pretty girl." 

Your face instantly flushes. You quickly turn back to the older woman, bowing your head to hide your goofy smile as you timidly say, "감사합니다." Thank you.

Mrs. Yoon beams, offering one last delighted laugh before happily shooing the two of you away so your first official date can finally begin.

The quiet drone of the refrigerators is suddenly the only sound left as you and Hongjoong wander slowly down the first aisle side by side. The heat from Mrs. Yoon’s teasing is still burning on your cheeks, and neither of you quite dares to look at the other yet. Instead, you both fix your attention on safer things: the squeak of your shoes against the floor and the swing of the shopping basket in his hand.

It's technically a date. An official one, even if the real date is supposed to happen later, back in his apartment when you actually start cooking. And right now, it's that officialness that makes everything feel a little awkward.

Hongjoong stops halfway down the aisle and scans the crowded shelves. He bites his lower lip in concentration, hunting down a specific label, while his free hand is stuffed deep into his pocket.

"So..." you begin. You clear your throat, trying to sound casual as you watch him squint up at the top row. "What are you going to make for us?"

"Tteokbokki. Spicy rice cakes," he answers, finally spotting what he's been looking for. He reaches up, grabs a vacuum-sealed bag filled with cylindrical white rice cakes, and drops it into the basket. He turns to look at you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A shy, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. "I'll be honest with you... I'm not the greatest chef in the world. So it might not be the most gourmet Korean food you'll ever have, but..." He pauses, his nervous gaze softening a little. "It was my favorite meal my mom made for my older brother and me when we were kids. So it's probably the one thing I won't completely mess up." 

You smile a little to yourself. He's trying so hard to make this perfect. 

"Well," you say, offering him a goofy grin, "I've never had it before. So even if you do mess it up, I won't know it's bad." 

That pulls a laugh out of him. "Actually, that makes me feel much more confident."

"Good," you reply lightly. "The bar is on the floor."

Still smiling, he nods for you to follow and leads you a few aisles over.

He stops in front of the dried goods section. First, he picks up a stiff sheet of dried kelp, then a vacuum-sealed package of flat fish cakes, tossing both into the basket. He crouches slightly, reaching down to the lowest shelf and pulling out a clear plastic bag filled with hundreds of tiny dried silver fish that rattle softly as he lifts it.

You pause, eyeing the bag with suspicion as he holds it up. "Are those anchovies?" 

"Yep. Dried," he says simply, dropping them into the basket.

Your nose wrinkles unintentionally. 

Hongjoong bursts out laughing. "Don't look at me like that!" he grins, leaning against the shelf. "We need them to make the base for the broth. It's the traditional way to do it." He shrugs a little. "More importantly, it's my mom's way."

You glance back down at the bag of fish, then slowly lift your eyes to his very amused face.

He grins. "You don't trust my mom?"

"I trust your mom. I don't trust fish that still have their eyeballs attached."

"You know, you're more difficult to shop with than I thought you'd be," he says. He turns his head to scan the next shelf, but you see the corners of his eyes crinkling as he fails to hide his smile. "The fish are staying. Now we just need an onion and the stuff for the sauce. Have you ever had gochujang?" 

"I think so. Is that the sauce you put on bibimbap?" you ask, stepping closer to peer at the array of jars and bottles he's looking at.

He nods. "It's used in a lot of dishes. Fermented chili paste." He reaches out and points to a stack of small, rectangular red tubs, grabbing one and adding it to the basket.

"We'll also need soy sauce, some minced garlic, a little bit of sugar..." he murmurs, half to himself, collecting the ingredients one by one. Finally, he picks up a large bag filled with a coarse red powder. "And this is gochugaru. Korean chili flakes." 

He pauses, glancing down at the bag. His mouth twitches like a thought just occurred to him. "It's perfect," he says, eyes brightening. "We went from listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers to buying real red hot chili peppers." 

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "Oh my god. You joke like a dad." 

His ears immediately turn pink. "...I thought it was funny."

When a small giggle slips out, you abruptly turn toward a row of sesame oils to hide it.

Unfortunately, you're too late. A delighted grin breaks across his face. "So it was funny."

"It was not," you insist, though your smile says otherwise.

"Mm. Whatever you say," he chuckles as he guides you around the corner and into the next aisle.

You weave past a tall, misted cooler displaying a dozen different varieties of tofu. Hongjoong slows beside it, his eyes sweeping over the neatly stacked containers. He lets out a soft, wistful sigh.

"Have you ever heard of doenjang jjigae?" he asks.

You shake your head, stepping up to stand beside him.

"When I think of home, that's what I think of," he says, staring at the shelf with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "It's a stew made with tofu, soybean paste, vegetables, meat... It's comfort food. Whenever my brother or I had a bad day at school, my mom would already have a pot boiling on the stove by the time we got home to cheer us up."

"Did your mom cook for you a lot?" you ask softly.

He nods, reaching over to a nearby bin to evaluate a yellow onion. Finding a good one, he drops it into the basket. "All the time. She didn't work after she had us, and she always loved to cook, so our meals were always made from scratch. I was a really lucky kid."

You tilt your head teasingly. "And you missed out on the cooking gene yourself?"

That earns you another laugh from him. "Oh, definitely. Completely skipped me. My brother got it, though. Bumjoong." He glances at you with a little competitive smile. "But he's a terrible singer. So I beat him in something."

You grin as he takes you down another aisle, the basket swinging between you. 

"Do you miss them?" you ask more quietly. "I don't know if I could even imagine being an ocean away from my family for so long."

He slows, his hand resting on the handle of the basket. "I do," he admits honestly, his tone bittersweet. "Especially my brother. We fought all the time, but he was my best friend back home. But... even though I'm not really speaking to him right now, Seonghwa is the best friend I could have here. He makes the distance a lot easier. Usually."

You bite down on your lower lip guiltily, uncomfortable with the reality that you're part of the reason why he isn't speaking to someone who usually makes being away from home feel a little less lonely. 

You pivot as he stops in front of the fresh fruit display. Hongjoong picks up a clear carton of strawberries, inspecting them from all angles. You eye the carton, trying to figure out how they could factor into a spicy rice cake dish.

"What made you want to come here for school, then?"

"I came here when I was pretty young," he says, still focused on the strawberries. "My family took a trip over here, and I decided I liked it." Finding the fruit to his liking, he sets the carton in the basket, nestling it beside the rice cakes.

You raise your eyebrows.

"For dessert," he clarifies, a little shyly, before turning his attention back to your question. "Plus, I knew that if I wanted to seriously pursue music and fashion, there'd be a lot more opportunities to build industry connections here."

He turns to look at you as the two of you slowly begin to make your way toward the checkout counter. "What about you?" he asks curiously. "Your plans for the future? I remember you saying during our first couple of sessions that taking Korean wasn't your first choice."

"It wasn't," you admit, nodding at the floor as your foot nudges a stray piece of cardboard to the side. You hesitate for a moment, then look back up at him, catching his eye with a shy, reluctant smile. "But... I'm glad I ended up having to take it."

Hongjoong's steps slow. "Why's that?"

"Because I met—"

You. 

It's right there, right at the tip of your tongue. You catch yourself right in time, your brain screaming at you to filter yourself before you let your thoughts tumble out unsupervised. What is wrong with you? Play it cool. "Um," you recover quickly, stammering. "Because I met my best friend in that class. Yunho."

Hongjoong nods slowly, but he breaks eye contact, staring at the rows of bottled green tea in the refrigerated display case instead of you. 

"Right," he murmurs.

A beat passes. His fingers start to tap lightly against the side of the shopping basket.

"Is that..." he hesitates, "the only reason?"

You glance down at the floor again. Maybe you’re not the only one still trying to figure out if this is real. Maybe he needs reassurance just as much as you do.

"Well," you say quietly, embarrassed. "I'm... um. I'm really glad I met you, too."

Hongjoong’s head turns toward you, and when you finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, the sight of his expression makes your breath catch. His entire face has softened.

"It... it might not have been your first choice," he says, choosing his words carefully, "but I'm really, really happy you took it, too."

Then he smiles. And this time, you're able to return it without blushing. 

You resume your slow pace forward. The silence between you feels a little less awkward now. It makes you feel brave enough to offer up a piece of yourself, too. 

"I lied earlier, by the way," you confess after a moment. "In your car."

Hongjoong blinks. "What do you mean?" 

"I noticed the mess in the backseat," you tell him, and he lets out a surprised laugh, like he wasn’t expecting you to bring it up again. You continue with a smile, "It actually made me a little nostalgic. I used to live in a clutter of loose papers just like that. For the longest time, I was convinced I was going to be an author."

Hongjoong pauses near the endcap of boxed teas, completely attentive to you.

"I was obsessed with writing," you continue, tracing the edge of a tea box with your finger, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I can't even tell you how many notebooks I burned through in middle and high school. I had all these ideas—novels I thought I'd finish, chapters I thought would turn into something real... I thought for sure it was my future. That was always the plan." 

Hongjoong listens without interrupting. "What changed?" he asks quietly.

"Reality, I guess," you say with a shrug. "The older you get, the more the practical side of the world forces its way in. I looked at the financial instability of a creative career..." You pause, wincing as you remember who you're talking to. "No offense."

Hongjoong just shakes his head once. "If anyone understands that fear, it's me."

You relax slightly. "I panicked, I guess. Studying International Relations and planning to go to law school someday is safer. I'm still able to work with words, with language, just... in a much more stable way."

You watch Hongjoong's eyes search yours carefully. Something changes on his face, his jaw setting hard. His lips part like he's on the verge of telling you something he didn't plan to say out loud. Your pulse quickens as you wait, but right before the words can escape, he stops himself. Whatever it was dissolves before it can form into words; you see it in the way his throat works and his shoulders ease.

When he finally speaks, the hardness in his eyes has softened into sincerity.

"I think the legal system has more than enough writers," he says quietly. "But the world could definitely use a novelist like you."

A rush of flustered heat floods your face, and you quickly fix your attention on the basket in his hands.

"Maybe someday," you whisper. You trace the toe of your shoe against the floor, your buried dream suddenly feeling closer to the surface than it has in years.

You can feel Hongjoong's eyes staring at the top of your head. A second later, you hear the faint, ragged breath he lets out above you, but you can't quite decipher all the things it means.

"Come on," he murmurs at last. "Let's go check out." 

He slides the plastic handles of the shopping basket to his left hand, leaving his right unoccupied. When you finally lift your head to start walking, his palm finds the small of your back hesitantly, giving you the chance to move away if you want to.

You don’t.

He doesn't let go as he guides you out of the aisle. His thumb traces a tiny subconscious circle against your spine through your clothes so lightly you wonder if he realizes he's doing it. He leans a little closer as you walk, dipping his head until his soft hair grazes near your temple.

"I really did mean what I said," he says quietly. "However long it takes... whenever you're ready to write that first chapter, I promise I'll be the first in line to read it." 

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes warm and free of any teasing. His hand remains on your back, gently guiding you.

You glance up at him, your helpless smile mirroring his own as the last remnants of your nervous tension dissolve into the grocery store air. It's not until you round the corner and reach the front register—where Mr. Yoon is waiting with a knowing grin—that Hongjoong finally lets his hand slip away.

But the imprint of his touch lingers, a quiet promise that leaves you feeling, for the first time in what feels like forever, completely seen and understood. 

The stiff, scratchy rims of the two huge brown paper bags in your arms dig uncomfortably into your chin as you blindly navigate your way into Hongjoong's apartment. You can barely see where you're going over the tops of them, but from the muffled grunts beside you, Hongjoong isn't faring much better. He's balancing his own two overflowing bags on one leg as he clumsily tries to hook his heel around the edge of the front door to pull it shut.

He lets out a frustrated puff of air as the door finally clicks into the frame. "Just—" he pants, blindly nodding his head in the general direction of the kitchen. "You can dump everything on the island."

You carefully waddle your way over to the kitchen, dropping the bulky bags onto the island with a sigh of relief. Hongjoong follows a second later, unceremoniously thudding his own load down next to yours.

"I don't understand why they refuse to use regular plastic bags," he complains, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "These things are so—"

"Need any help with those?"

Both of your heads snap toward the smooth, amused voice floating over from the living room.

Seonghwa is sitting on the sofa with one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, his phone resting in his hand. He’s dressed stylishly in a black button-down and tailored dark pants, clearly preparing to head out for the night. 

When his eyes land on you, his lips curve into a charming smile. "Hello, angel."

Hongjoong's entire posture instantly stiffens. Without so much as a syllable of acknowledgment, he whips his head back toward the kitchen island and aggressively begins yanking ingredients out of the paper bags.

Not knowing what to do, you offer Seonghwa an awkward wave.

Seonghwa slips his phone into his pocket and stands up, looking amused by his roommate's silence. He saunters over to the kitchen, leaning his hip against the edge of the granite counter right next to where Hongjoong is unpacking the groceries.

"So," Seonghwa hums, his eyes flicking curiously between the two of you. "What exactly are we making here? Is this an official date?"

Hongjoong forcefully sets the carton of strawberries onto the counter. He says nothing.

It's silent for a full five seconds. You glance sideways at Hongjoong, who is stubbornly refusing to look up from the vacuum-sealed bag of fish cakes in his hand, and realize he isn't going to answer. 

"Um," you chime in hesitantly. "He's just... making us some tteokbokki."

Seonghwa’s gaze slides back to you, his smile turning flirtatious. "You know, I happen to be a much better chef than Hongjoong. I could always stay and help."

Hongjoong finally drops the fish cakes and shoots a glare at his roommate. "Weren't you going out tonight?"

"I was." Seonghwa doesn't break eye contact with you. "But I'd happily cancel my plans for a pretty girl."

Heat floods your cheeks.

Hongjoong's eyes narrow into a scowl. He jerks his chin toward the door, his jaw ticking as he goes right back to unpacking. "Seonghwa. Get out."

Seonghwa throws his head back and laughs. "Okay, okay, I'll let you have your little date," he concedes, holding his hands up. He pushes off the counter, gracefully swipes his jacket from the back of a barstool, and scoops his keys off the entryway hook.

He takes a few leisurely steps toward the door before pausing, casting one last mischievous look over his shoulder.

"If his food tastes terrible, angel, you know my number," Seonghwa says, shooting you a wink. "I'm always more than happy to take you out and treat you to a real dinner."

Hongjoong’s ears burn. He slams the bag of dried anchovies down onto the granite, finally raising his voice. "Get out!"

Seonghwa's delighted laughter echoes down the hallway as he slips out the front door, letting it click shut behind him.

Once his footsteps finally fade down the hall, Hongjoong clears his throat, a rough and embarrassed sound.

"Anyway," he mutters to the countertop. He grabs the crumpled brown paper bags and tosses them into the recycling bin to keep his hands busy. Then, still looking a little flustered, he turns his attention to his sweater, rolling the sleeves up past his forearms.

You watch as he walks over to the living room, heading straight for the shelves lining the far wall. His fingers trace over the spines of his record collection before he yanks out a specific, familiar sleeve—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.

A smile tugs at your lips. You love Bowie.

"This is probably my favorite album of all time," Hongjoong says, glancing over his shoulder to catch your reaction. He carefully slides the black vinyl out of its cover. "Or at least top three. Thriller and Purple Rain might beat it, depending on my mood."

He sets it on the turntable, dropping the needle. A moment later, the crackle of vinyl fills the apartment, followed by the slow, building drumbeat and opening piano chords of Five Years. He adjusts the volume knob, dialing it down so the music settles into an atmospheric hum in the background before walking back over to the kitchen. 

He rests his hands on the granite. His ears are still a little pink as he looks at you.

"And by the way…" he says hesitantly, finally addressing Seonghwa’s parting shot. "Tteokbokki is very much a real dinner. I won't mess it up too badly. I promise."

You let out a soft laugh. "Well, even if it goes wrong... I don't mind ordering pizza."

A grin breaks across his face.

"Good," he says, eyes crinkling. "But let’s try not to ruin it first. We'll start with the sauce. It should be pretty easy." He gestures toward the lower cabinets. "You can grab any bowl from that drawer under the counter while I get everything organized."

You step back and pull the drawer open, your eyebrows lifting in surprise. Given the state of both his room and his car—and how he just unpacked the groceries—you're pleasantly shocked to find the inside meticulously neat, with every pot and pan stacked perfectly.

Not knowing exactly how much sauce you’ll be making, you pull out a medium-sized metal mixing bowl and set it onto the island.

"Perfect," Hongjoong hums. He steps right beside you as he pulls a wire whisk from a ceramic holder. He slides all the necessary ingredients across the granite, lining them up neatly next to your bowl: the red tub of gochujang, a clear bag of sugar, a bottle of soy sauce, a small jar of minced garlic, and the bag of red gochugaru flakes.

He confidently—perhaps a little too confidently—reaches for the large bag of gochugaru. He tips it over your metal bowl, and a frankly terrifying avalanche of chili flakes pours out, forming a massive peak at the bottom. He follows this up by scooping a mountain of minced garlic right on top of it.

You raise your eyebrows, eyeing the bowl with concern. "Shouldn't we... um... use a measuring cup? Or a spoon? Or something?"

He freezes. The wire whisk in his hand pauses mid-air. "Right. Yes. No." He stares into the bowl for a moment, then clears his throat. "No. It's more authentic this way."

However, the confidence in his voice wavers as he squeezes a glob of gochujang into the bowl, followed by splashes of soy sauce and a haphazard dusting of sugar.

You look at the dark red paste skeptically as he begins to whisk everything together. His arm moves a little more quickly than you think is necessary.

"Are you sure that's not too much spice?" you ask, leaning away from the bowl.

"Positive." He stops whisking, dips his index finger directly into the thick, sticky mixture, and scoops up a dollop. "Try it. I promise I washed my hands."

You bite your lip and dip your own finger into the bowl. You bring it to your mouth.

For a second, you're both quiet, standing perfectly still as you process the taste.

Then it hits.

Both of your faces contort simultaneously. The spice ignites in the back of your throat, and you instantly start coughing into your elbow as your eyes flood with involuntary tears. Beside you, Hongjoong lets out a strangled wheeze, spinning around and ripping open a cabinet to grab a glass. He shoves it under the faucet, cranking the cold water on full blast.

He thrusts the overflowing glass into your hands first. You eagerly gulp down the ice-cold water, laughing through your tears before handing it back to him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange. He downs the rest of the glass in three desperate gulps, his chest heaving as he leans back against the sink.

"Delicious," you manage to tease, wiping your watering eyes. "Very authentic." 

Hongjoong turns off the faucet, his entire face now matching the shade of the chili flakes.

"I thought I could eyeball it," he mutters, grabbing the mixing bowl and dumping the biohazardous sauce straight down the drain. As he scrubs the metal clean under the running water, he shoots you a sheepish look over his shoulder. "I don't remember the exact measurements my mom used, but... I think it was maybe a little less gochugaru."

"You think?" you wheeze, grinning, and he sends you a playful glare before turning his attention back to wiping the bowl clean.

Once the second, perfectly measured, much safer batch of sauce is successfully mixed, the two of you move on to the stock. 

Fortunately, this seems to be the one part of the recipe Hongjoong actually knows well. He reaches into the plastic grocery bag and pulls out a large, stiff sheet of dried kelp, handing it over to you alongside a damp paper towel.

"Just give it a gentle wipe down to get any dust off," he instructs, leaning in to watch as you take it. "But don't scrub it too hard. See that white powdery coating? My mom always told me that's what gives it its flavor, so we want to keep as much of it on there as possible."

You raise your eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "So you do have a little bit of knowledge in the kitchen." 

"I have my moments," he grins proudly. 

As you set to work on wiping down the kelp, he reaches for the other bag on the counter—the dried anchovies. He glances at you from his spot by your side, probably remembering how you'd wrinkled your nose at them in the grocery store.

"Uh... you might want to look away for this next part."

You pause your wiping, looking up at him. "Why?"

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small handful of the silver-gray, desiccated little fish, holding them up. "Because before they go into the pot, I have to snap their heads off and pull out all their organs." 

"What?" you say, instinctively taking a sudden step backward until your hip hitches against the lower cabinet. "Are you being serious?" 

Hongjoong's eyes light up with amusement as he nods his head.

"Watch," he says, stepping a little closer into your space, picking up a single anchovy to demonstrate. "It's really not as gross as it sounds. You just... pop the head off like—"

Snap.

He presses down a little too hard on the brittle fish carcass, and instead of a clean break, his fingers pinch the tiny body at an awkward angle. The silver tail shoots out of his grip, catapulting through the air and smacking loudly against the wooden cabinet door—right beside your head, barely an inch away from your right ear—before bouncing off and clattering onto the floor.

The kitchen plunges into silence.

Hongjoong freezes, his hand still suspended in mid-air, holding nothing but a detached anchovy head. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at the exact spot on the cabinet where the fish landed, then slowly, horizontally turns his head to look at you, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammers out, tossing the fish head onto the counter. He reaches towards you, his hands hovering by your face like he wants to cup your head or check your hair to see if the fish actually hit you but is too flustered to touch you. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—it just slipped, the texture is really brittle—" 

"Hongjoong." You blink slowly, looking from the cabinet down to the sad little fish tail on the floor, and then back to his horrified face.

The shock on your own face lasts for only another second before you start laughing. You drop the damp paper towel onto the counter, covering your mouth with one hand as your shoulders shake with uncontrollable giggles.

The moment Hongjoong realizes you're laughing and not angry, his panic drains out of him. He lets out a breathless, embarrassed laugh of his own, dropping his hovering hands and using one to rub the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, though a smile is breaking across his face now. "To be fair... I said it wasn't gross, not that it wasn't dangerous."

That makes you laugh even harder. You lift a hand, pointing at the opposite end of the island. "New rule. You're working from the other side until every single fish is safely decapitated."

He chuckles, immediately moving to obediently scoop up the bag of anchovies before sliding around the perimeter of the island, putting a safe distance between the two of you. He drops the bag down on the far side, grinning at you across the expanse.

"Is this safe enough?"

"I think so," you smile, picking your piece of kelp back up. "As long as you're careful." 

"I will be," he confirms softly. His eyes meet yours, warm with fondness, the tips of his ears still tinged pink as he reaches into the bag and lifts out a fresh fish.

The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm for a while. When you both finally finish your respective tasks, you toss your cleanly wiped-down kelp and his perfectly beheaded anchovies into a saucepan of water, setting it on the stove to simmer.

While Hongjoong watches the pot, waiting for it to boil, you turn your attention to the cutting board. You grab the onion, preparing to chop it up into the thin slices he mentioned earlier. You try to be careful, but the knife feels a little too big and unwieldy for your grip. It's awkward in your hand, and when you press down, the blade wobbles dangerously against the smooth skin of the onion.

"Wait, hold on," Hongjoong says suddenly.

Before you can even ask what you're doing wrong, he's already moving, stepping directly behind you.

The sudden proximity makes your heart skip a beat. You can feel his chest hovering a mere hair's breadth away from your back as he reaches out, his calloused hands sliding over yours. His fingers wrap gently but securely around your own on the handle of the knife. 

"I'll be honest, I don't know the actual professional way to hold a knife," he murmurs shyly. "But I do know that you're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing it your way."

A nervous giggle escapes you as his hands completely engulf yours. He adjusts your grip, his thumbs working to uncurl your tight fingers.

"Keep your thumb and index finger resting right here, on the base, so that it doesn't slip," he instructs softly, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. "See?"

Your throat suddenly feels dry. You nod dumbly, your eyes locked onto the sight of his hands resting over yours. Gently, he guides your wrist down, pressing the blade cleanly through the onion. Together, you create perfect, even rings, your body finally relaxing against his.

When the onion is completely sliced, the knife comes to a rest against the cutting board.

But Hongjoong doesn't move. He stays exactly where he is, his hands still covering yours, his breathing mirroring your own against your back, like he doesn't want to move away.

Eventually, after a long moment where the crackle of the vinyl record in the living room is the only sound in the apartment, the loud bubbling from the stovetop shatters the quiet as the pot begins to boil over. Hongjoong clears his throat softly and steps back to pour the stock through a strainer.

As soon as his warmth leaves you, you have to remind your lungs to start breathing again.

"Alright," he says, a slight, telling breathlessness lingering in his voice as he pours the strained stock into a fresh pot. "Now we just dissolve the sauce and throw everything else in. It should only take about three minutes, I think, but we should keep a close eye on it anyway.”

He scrapes the paste into the liquid, stirring until the broth turns red. You step closer to him, using the flat of the knife to slide the pillowy rice cakes, fish cakes, and your perfectly sliced onions directly into the pot.

As the mixture begins to simmer, the acoustic opening of Lady Stardust drifts into the kitchen from the living room. Quite a few tracks have spun through while the two of you were prepping, turning the initial quiet of the apartment more cozy. You lean back against the counter, contentedly watching the steam rise from the stove. Hongjoong rests his elbows on the counter right next to yours, mimicking your stance. Your arms brush, and neither of you pulls away.

"I have a question," you say, eyes still fixed on the bubbling pot. 

"Go ahead."

"What kind of classes do you have to take for your major?" you ask, turning your head slightly to look at him. "Do you even have regular, sitting-at-a-desk classes, or is it just... projects?"

He chuckles at the change of topic. "No, ____, I have real classes just like everyone else," he says playfully. "Today, for example, I spent four hours straight in Garment Construction and Sound Design. But trust me, it's not all fun and creative freedom. I still have to take my requirements. Like Physics tomorrow at eight in the morning."

"Really? I get that for Architecture students, but what does Physics have to do with making clothes?"

"Way more than you'd expect, surprisingly," he explains, turning his body toward you a bit more. "Gravity and compression go into understanding how different fabrics drape and stretch with a human body. And choosing the right materials for structural pieces is all thermodynamics."

"Oh," you murmur, a little awestruck. "They should get rid of required classes. I would do anything to get out of Econ."

He laughs, his eyes sparkling. "Every time we talk about school, you manage to bring up your Econ grade."

"Because it's my only B!" you exclaim with an annoyed shake of your head. "It makes no sense. How am I doing better in Korean than in an actual necessity for my future career?"

"I don't know. Do you have a tutor? It must be because you have a really good one."

You look up at him, the witty retort dying on your tongue as you see the humor in the way he's looking at you. Your eyes lock, shining under the warm kitchen lights.

"Yeah," you say, holding his gaze with a smile. "I think it might be that."

Suddenly, a loud bubble bursts at the surface of the pot, shooting a bright red droplet of sauce straight through the air. It lands with a splat right on the apple of Hongjoong's cheek.

He flinches, a curse slipping out in Korean—아씨!—as the sauce on the stove continues to bubble wildly.

Hongjoong scrambles to grab a wooden spatula from the counter and twists the burner knob all the way down to low heat. He vigorously stirs the thickening mixture to keep it from burning against the bottom of the pot, letting out a sigh before finally looking over at you sheepishly.

"I... I think it's still okay," he says. 

You glance down at the slightly messy, splattered stove, and then look back up at the bright red dot of sauce currently painted on his cheek. Your heart swells as a smile spreads across your face.

"I think it's perfect."

Hongjoong’s grin breaks out immediately, relief softening his whole face. He quickly grabs two shallow ceramic bowls from the upper cabinet and spoons the steaming tteokbokki into them. It definitely looks a little messy—the thick red sauce clings stubbornly to the inner rims—but the spicy aroma filling the kitchen smells incredible.

He picks up both bowls, balancing them carefully in his hands, and jerks his head toward the living room. "Come on."

You grab a pair of forks and follow him. Assuming the two of you are going to eat at the island, you pause by the barstools, but he walks right past them. You keep moving, figuring he's heading for the couch, but he bypasses that, too. Instead, he drops down onto the thick, plush rug, crossing his legs comfortably in front of the low coffee table.

You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you, glancing around the living room with a puzzled smile. "Are all the chairs in this apartment broken?"

He lets out a soft chuckle, setting your steaming bowl down in front of you. "Whenever my mom made this for me and my brother growing up, we never used the kitchen table. We'd grab our bowls and sit on the living room floor so we could watch TV. Now it feels weird to eat it any other way."

Your chest swells, and you gladly accept the invitation into his childhood tradition, leaning a little closer to his side. "I like it," you say. "It's cozier down here."

Before picking up his fork, Hongjoong slides over on his knees to the record player. Ziggy Stardust has spun to a crackling finish, so he rummages through the smaller stack of vinyl on the coffee table's lower shelf. He pulls out a sleeve washed in purple.

"Since we already listened to one of my all-time favorites," he says, glancing back at you while he sets Purple Rain onto the platter, "we might as well play another."

He drops the needle, and as the dreamy synths of the opening track bleed into the room, he slides back over to his spot next to you. He doesn't start eating right away; he rests his elbows on his knees, watching you intently as you prepare to take your very first bite. 

You blow on a steaming rice cake and pop it into your mouth. Instantly, your eyes go wide.

The texture is unlike anything you've had before—pillowy and soft but with a satisfying chew—and the flavor is a perfect balance of savory, sweet, and spicy. Against all odds, it isn't burned in the slightest.

"Wow," you mumble around the bite, your face lighting up. "Hongjoong, this is actually really good."

He smiles softly, satisfied, as he finally reaches for his own fork. "Told you it was a real dinner."

As the two of you eat, your eyes wander past the coffee table to the shelves lining his wall, taking in his music collection.

"You have so many," you note quietly, tracking the neatly arranged spines. "Is the whole wall organized by genre?"

"Genre first, then chronological order by release date," he nods, tapping his fork against the rim of his bowl. He tilts his chin toward the smaller stack under the coffee table. "Those are the most important ones, though."

Between bites, he eagerly flips through the stack, proudly showing them off. One by one, he points out the covers—Purple Rain, a vintage pressing of Space Oddity underneath Ziggy Stardust, and Michael Jackson's Thriller and Bad—before sliding his fingers down to a few modern Korean albums, including MADE by BIGBANG. 

"I spent months saving up in high school for some of these," he tells you. "I dragged my brother to a thousand sketchy record stores all around Seoul, trying to hunt them down. The MADE one was impossible to find. There are barely any vinyl versions of it. And this one—this one was actually signed..."

You listen quietly while he talks, mesmerized by the way his eyes are shining. You barely even look at the records he's holding up; you sit there, eating your tteokbokki, completely transfixed by his passion for music.

"And there's this one," he says, pulling out Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp a Butterfly. He pauses, his thumb tracing the cover. He clears his throat, and suddenly, his confident enthusiasm falters.

Carefully, he sets the record down onto the rug and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He taps the screen a few times before turning the phone towards you. On the display are two digital concert tickets for Kendrick's upcoming stadium tour.

"I actually managed to snag two tickets to see him next month," he says, his voice suddenly dropping a little lower. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes darting nervously between his bowl and you.

"I... I originally bought them thinking I'd force Seonghwa to come with me, but he isn't even really a fan. If you are... I mean, if you'd want to... would you maybe want to go with me? It could be a—" He hesitates, then says it anyway. "A date. If you want."

"Yes," you say immediately, before your brain can even attempt to play it cool. "I would love to go with you." 

His shoulders sag with relief, and then he smiles, looking happier than you've ever seen him.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. You sit together on the rug, turned toward each other, both wearing the same giddy smiles. 

Suddenly, Hongjoong blinks, sitting up a little straighter as he remembers something important. "Oh! Right—dessert."

You let out a soft laugh as he scrambles to his feet. "The strawberries?"

"Yeah," he says, walking backward toward the kitchen so he doesn't have to look away from you. "I just need to melt some chocolate for them. Stay right there. It'll only take a second."

"Are you sure you don't need supervision?" you tease, eyeing the kitchen warily.

"I've got it under control this time," he insists, already reaching for a small saucepan and a bag of chocolate chips. "I promise I won't burn anything."

From your low vantage point on the floor, you can’t quite see what he’s doing, so you push yourself up and climb onto the couch. It gives you a perfect, unobstructed view into the kitchen, where he adjusts the blue flame on the stove with a ridiculous level of concentration.

As you settle into the cushions, your eyes catch on the stack of records he had left scattered across the floor. You reach down, flipping through them until your fingers settle on the cover of Michael Jackson's Bad.

"Hongjoong?" you call out over the music.

He turns his head, a wooden spoon poised in his hand. "Yeah?"

You hold up the vinyl. "I'll give you five dollars if you can guess my favorite Michael Jackson song."

Hongjoong stops stirring, his eyebrows lifting. He turns from the stove, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter as a confident smirk spreads across his face.

"Well, since you picked up Bad instead of Thriller, I'm guessing it's a track from that era," he says thoughtfully. He taps his chin with the handle of the wooden spoon as he analyzes you. "My first instinct for most people would be The Way You Make Me Feel. But not you." 

You tilt your head, not giving anything away.

"You said you like Hendrix, which usually points to someone who likes expressive, improvisational guitar work rather than sounds that are too structured. And when we were listening to Bowie, you mouthed nearly every word to Moonage Daydream. That track is glam rock. Big, theatrical, layered production, kind of psychedelic." His eyes narrow slightly in thought, but he’s smiling now. "So you don’t really go for clean pop structure. You like something with a little more edge. A strong bassline, distorted tones, maybe a darker vocal delivery."

Your mouth parts. 

Hongjoong’s grin turns certain. "It's Dirty Diana, isn't it?" 

You stare at him, chin resting on your arms over the back of the couch, completely awed by how easily he just read your mind. "You're right. How did you...?"

He laughs softly. "I know you think we music majors just sit around and mess with buttons all day," he teases, "but I really do know my stuff, ____. More importantly... I know you've got great taste. That's my second favorite track on the album."

"Really?" you ask, your heart giving a small flutter at the way he says your name. "What's your first, then?"

"Smooth Criminal."

"Ah. Just like everyone else," you tease him.

He lets out a bright laugh, but it fades into something gentler as he looks at you sprawled comfortably over his couch, completely at ease in his space, talking about music with him.

But then, the sweet smell of cocoa suddenly turns bitter.

You sniff the air, your nose scrunching. "Hongjoong... are you watching the chocolate?"

His eyes go wide. "Oh no—"

He spins around just as a thin ribbon of dark smoke starts curling from the saucepan.

He rushes forward, waving his hand through it and dragging the pot off the heat. A long silence follows as he looks into the scorched chocolate stuck to the bottom. 

"I'll... I'll just buy us a carton of ice cream next time."

Ten minutes later, the smoke has cleared, and the two of you are back on the living room floor, listening to The Beautiful Ones as the Prince record plays through.

Between you rests a humble setup: the plastic carton of freshly rinsed strawberries, and a very sad little bowl holding the tiniest amount of salvageable melted chocolate he managed to rescue from the perimeter of the pot.

You pick up a large, ripe strawberry and dip it into the shallow puddle, managing to coat it in maybe three microscopic drops of chocolate before lifting it to your mouth. You try to keep your expression as you take a bite.

But the moment your eyes lock with his, a snort escapes both of you, and you dissolve into a fit of laughter together.

The laughter gradually mellows out, dissolving into a deeply comfortable quiet as you listen to the music, your knees brushing—a gentle, continuous point of contact on the rug—as you both finish off the very last of the tteokbokki and the remaining strawberries.

"So," you ask, propping your chin up on your palm to look at him properly. "Is Smooth Criminal your actual favorite song, or just your favorite on Bad?"

"Just on the album," he answers, leaning back against the base of the couch. "My favorite song has been Billie Jean since I was a little kid." To prove his point, he suddenly dips his head, a playful, quiet croon escaping him: "Billie Jean is not my lover..."

It's so incredibly dorky and endearing that a giggle bursts right from your chest.

Emboldened by your reaction, Hongjoong completely opens up.

"Actually, I'm currently mapping out a project to cover it," he explains, immediately sitting up straight. "I want to strip down the bassline and rebuild the whole song with a more modern synth-pop vibe..."

You sit there on the floor, entirely content to watch him. His eyes are sparkling, his hands moving animatedly as he explains the production layers. He is entirely in his element, so uninhibited, so intensely passionate about what he does that it physically pulls you in. You don't even realize you've completely tuned out the literal meaning of his words until his rambling slowly trails off.

He stalls mid-sentence, finally catching the way your eyes are locked onto his face, and a furious flush instantly rushes up his neck.

"What?" he asks, suddenly self-conscious. He reaches up with a slightly trembling hand to adjust the frame of his glasses, breaking eye contact. "Do I... do I still have sauce on my face?"

He begins wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, looking so flustered that you can't help but laugh softly. Shaking your head, you close the small distance left between you on the rug.

"No," you murmur. "It's chocolate."

And then, before your logical brain can catch up to what your heart is doing, you lean the rest of the way in and press your lips gently against his.

The kiss is brief, sweet, and impulsive. You pull back almost immediately, just far enough to look into his wide eyes, and whisper a teasing, "Got it."

Hongjoong freezes. He blinks at you, stunned, his hand still suspended nervously by his cheek.

A mortified blush explodes across your face as you realize you just kissed him without thinking. Your mouth parts to stammer out an apology, to pull away—

But a gigantic, goofy grin breaks across his entire face.

Before you can twitch to move away, his hands shoot forward, wrapping around your waist. With one tug, he pulls you straight into his lap. 

You let out a startled squeak. Your hands fly up to clamp onto his shoulders to steady yourself as your knees settle on either side of his hips.

"You can't just do that," he mumbles, his face burning, though he's smiling so wide his eyes are nothing but happy little crescents behind his glasses.

"Why not?" you ask, your heart racing as you gaze down at him.

"Because I've been working for the last hour trying to create the perfect, romantic moment to kiss you," he admits, his eyes dropping to your lips. "And you just completely stole my thunder."

A breathy giggle escapes you.

Hongjoong tilts his chin up, closing the distance between you. This time, the kiss is slow and deep, melting away the rest of the world until Prince's vocals are lost in the warmth of Hongjoong's hands pressing into your waist and the touch of his lips moving against yours. 

When he finally pulls back, he refuses to let you go far. He keeps his hands locked on your waist, resting his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming a little heavily. 

"좋아해," he whispers.

Your heart swells, a shy smile touching your lips. "I know that one," you murmur, your fingers tangling into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.  "I like you, too."

A quiet smirk plays on his lips as he looks up into your eyes. 

"아니," he corrects gently, his thumb reaching up to softly trace the line of your cheekbone. "많이, 많이 좋아해, ____아."

I like you very, very much, ____.

Hongjoong doesn't give you the chance to reply. He only smiles, his arms tightening around your waist as he pulls you down to kiss you all over again—without hesitation, without nervousness, without any of the uncertainty that once followed every almost-moment between you—until the two of you are completely lost in each other right there on his living room floor.

At the beginning of the semester, you could barely stumble through introducing yourself to him without your cheeks burning with embarrassment. Now, with his laughter melting against your lips and soft, breathless Korean confessions slipping so naturally between each kiss, you think this might be the most fluent you've ever felt in anything. 

translations:

홍중아? 너니? Hongjoong? Is that you?

어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니? Oh my, who is this pretty young lady?

제 친구예요, ____. She’s my friend, ____.

친구라구? 여자친구 아니고? A friend? Not a girlfriend?

아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생? Ah, that girl? The student you were talking about?

네, 네… 맞아요… Yes, yes… that’s right…

여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어! Honey! Hongjoong’s girlfriend is here!

홍중아, 이 애가 그— Hongjoong, is this the—?

네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네. Yes, yes, she’s my student, yes.

홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요. Hongjoong must be a good teacher.

아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네. Oh my, she’s really pretty! Our Hongjoong is so lucky.

아, 네… 제가 더 복이에요. Yes… I’m the lucky one.

자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와. Here, you two go shopping and come back.

아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘! No, translate the last part, too!

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY

cross-posted on ao3

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter eleven. chapter twelve. chapter thirteen. chapter fourteen. chapter fifteen. chapter sixteen. chapter seventeen. chapter eighteen. chapter nineteen. chapter twenty-one (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), 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: 12.3k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. it's so crazy to me how many people have read this. thank you all for the lovely comments and feedback, you really are my motivation to write :)

The first thing you register while waking up is the warmth of Hongjoong's body wrapped around yours.

Your lashes flutter as you blink against the morning sun shining through his thin curtains, the room slowly coming into a hazy focus. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, and Hongjoong's arm is still draped across your waist, holding you against his very bare, very warm chest. 

You tilt your head back against the pillows so you can steal a glance at him. He's still fast asleep.

Without his glasses and the constant awkward tension he usually carries himself with, his features look a million times softer. His dark hair falls in a sleep-tousled mess across the white pillowcase, and his lips are parted ever so slightly as his breath fans over the top of your head.

For a moment, the same thought that flickered through your mind yesterday slips back again: maybe this really is a dream.

You stare at him, trying to wrap your head around the fact that this is real. Your tutor—the man who spent months sitting across from you at a table, correcting your pronunciation and quietly watching you over stacks of textbooks—is currently asleep beside you, holding you tightly in his arms.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in the warmth of him for a few minutes longer. Eventually, though, as the fog of sleep continues to lift, your brain begins to catch up to the rest of you. 

What time is it? A lethargic flutter of panic kicks in. You hadn't planned on staying the night—let alone falling asleep tangled up with Hongjoong.

You carefully shift, trying not to disturb him as you scan the sunlit room. Your gaze snags on the nightstand. There, resting right beside his carefully folded glasses, is your phone, tethered to a white charging cord. 

A frown pulls at your brow. You definitely didn't plug your phone in. The last time you saw it, you were burying it in your purse while walking into the restaurant with Seonghwa. Come to think of it, you don't even know where your purse is. 

So how did your phone end up hooked up to Hongjoong's nightstand?

You shake the thought away, blaming your bad memory on the overwhelming events of the night; maybe you'd fished it out at some point and forgot. Whatever the case, you're just glad it isn't dead.

Wiggling loose from Hongjoong's grip takes some cautious maneuvering. You carefully stretch an arm across his body, holding your breath as the skin of your inner arm brushes against his chest. After snatching your phone off the nightstand, you quickly settle back into the mattress. 

You tap the dark screen. 9:27 a.m.

You wince. If you and Seonghwa had gotten back around nine last night, what time did you finally pass out? You and Hongjoong must've talked for at least an hour before you drifted off. You can't even remember who fell asleep first. Either way, you slept far longer than you intended. Considering you hadn't planned on sleeping here at all.

But it isn't the time blinking back at you that makes your stomach drop. Your lock screen is exploding with notifications—dozens upon dozens of unread messages from San, Yunho, and Yeosang. 

San [7:46 PM]: Update? San [8:11 PM]: Hello?? San [8:30 PM]: Why aren't you answering?? San [8:31 PM]: Are you still with him?? San [8:45 PM]: It's been an hour San [8:45 PM]: I'm getting worried Yunho [9:14 PM]: I didn't want to bother you but San is starting to freak me out Yunho [9:14 PM]: Are you okay?? San [9:42 PM]: 2 hours San [9:42 PM]: What the fuck is going on??????? Yunho [10:39 PM]: Just tell us you're safe, please San [11:22 PM]: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU San [11:22 PM]: You said you'd be home by 11 San [11:58 PM]: ???????????????????? Yunho [12:31 AM]: Does this mean the plan worked? Yeosang [12:55 AM]: I don't want to interrupt in case things are going well, but I'm getting worried too. Where are you? San [1:03 AM]: ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? San [8:45 AM]: So you never came home San [8:46 AM]: Hope you're still alive San [8:46 AM]: Although you apparently don't care enough to let me know either way Yunho [9:02 AM]: ____? Yeosang [9:05 AM]: These fuckers woke me up at 9 to check on you. You'd better have had the best night of your life. 

You gnaw on your lower lip, scrolling through the panicked texts your friends left you. You feel guilty for leaving them hanging. You probably should've updated them at some point, though your mind had been a little too occupied to even think about your phone.

"Your friends seem a little worried."

You jump, a small gasp slipping from your lips as you whip your head around.

Hongjoong is awake. Sometime during your scroll, he'd shifted closer, his chin now resting near your cheek as he unabashedly reads your phone screen right over your shoulder. His dark eyes are half-closed and languid with sleep, but what really sends a chill down your spine is his voice. His gravelly morning rasp is so attractive that a furious blush rushes to your cheeks. 

You stare at him, suddenly at a loss for words. You're in bed with your tutor. His bare chest is pressed against your arm. The blankets are tangled around your bodies, doing nothing to hide the fact that neither of you is wearing a single piece of clothing.

You quickly hit the power button, dropping your phone onto the mattress as you let out a shaky laugh. "Do you always read people's texts over their shoulders?" you ask, your voice a little breathless.

Hongjoong's lips curve into a lazy smile. He lets his eyelids shut again, his body shifting against yours beneath the covers. 

"Only when I like them," he murmurs.

Your heart does a pathetic flip. Is he too tired to realize what he's saying, or is he just shamelessly flirting with me now?

Another buzz vibrates against your palm, and you glance down. A new message from Yunho has popped up at the very bottom of the thread. 

Yunho [9:28 AM]: If you're alive, meet us in 30 at the café.

You tap the notification. The keyboard immediately glows on your screen, but your thumbs hover uselessly over the letters. What are you even supposed to reply? You aren't necessarily comfortable with typing out, Sorry, I'm naked in my tutor's bed right now, I might need a little more than 30 minutes.

"Go ahead," Hongjoong's sleep-heavy voice rumbles softly against your ear, letting you know he'd read that text, too. "Tell them you'll be there. I don't want your friends worrying about you."

You bite your lip, hesitating for a second before finally typing out a quick response. 

You [9:29 AM]: I'll be there. And I'll explain.

You lock the phone and toss it blindly onto the mattress again.

The bed dips as Hongjoong shifts, pushing himself up to sit. The duvet slips low, pooling right at his waist as he grabs his glasses from the nightstand. As he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to stand, you immediately avert your eyes, suddenly too shy to look at his bare body in the daylight. You stare very intently at the texture of the pillowcase while he rustles around, quickly stepping into a pair of grey sweatpants and pulling a dark hoodie over his messy hair.

Once he's dressed, he looks around the room. His gaze lands on the discarded sweater he'd taken off you last night, lying in a heap near the door.

"Uh," he clears his throat, breaking the silence. You peek up at him. "You... you can borrow some of my clothes. I know all you have here is, uh, that dress."

"Oh... yeah," you agree, a bashful smile touching your lips. "That would be... great. Thank you."

He gives a tight nod and moves toward his large sliding closet. As he pulls the door open, you catch a flash of your own reflection in the mirrored panel. Heat instantly floods your face. You tear your eyes away from the glass, your mind too embarrassed by the vivid memory of what you watched happen in that very mirror last night. 

Oblivious, Hongjoong shuffles through a row of hangers before pulling out a white hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. When he turns back to you, some anxious tension has returned to his shoulders. 

"I, um..." he trails off, looking down at the fabric in his hands as he walks back over to the bed. "I actually made this one myself."

He flips the hoodie around to show you. Your eyes widen at the beautiful design sprawled across the back: a stunning painting of a dragon intertwined with dark outlines of different flowers. It perfectly matches a smaller logo—labeled K.HJ—embroidered onto the pocket of the sweatpants.

"And these sweatpants are a little too small on me now," he adds quickly, rambling to fill the quiet. "So they should work for you."

You smile as you reach out from under the covers to take the bundle. "I, um... Yeah, this is perfect. Thank you."

Clutching the soft, fleece-lined fabric to your chest, you sit up just a bit against the headboard. You hesitate, mentally preparing to drop the blanket and get out of bed—but then you freeze. You have nothing on underneath it. 

Hongjoong is just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a soft, unreadable expression. He blinks at you when you don't move.

It takes his sleep-fogged brain exactly three seconds to realize why you haven't gotten up.

His eyes snap wide as a red flush crawls rapidly up his neck and paints the tips of his ears. "Right! Sorry!" he stammers, spinning around on his heel so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. He aggressively shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and busies himself with picking up the scattered mess of clothes on the floor.

Swallowing back a laugh at his flustered reaction, you quickly slip out from under the covers. You pull on the black sweatpants and drag the thick white hoodie over your head.

You look down at yourself. The hoodie is definitely oversized—the long sleeves consume your hands completely, and the hem drops well past your hips—but it doesn't look entirely ridiculous.

You step away from the edge of the bed, feeling swallowed up by the fabric as you shift your weight awkwardly in the center of the room. The plush carpet beneath your bare feet reminds you of yet another glaring problem: you don't have any shoes. Your heels from last night are currently abandoned somewhere in either the kitchen or Seonghwa's bedroom. You can't remember. 

Hearing the soft rustle of clothing, Hongjoong finally turns around.

At first glance, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes do a slow sweep over you, taking in the sight of his custom designs draped over your smaller frame. Whatever nervous tension he was carrying melts from his shoulders, replaced by an affectionate smile. For a long moment, he watches you without a single word. 

Then his gaze drops lower, landing on the floor. 

"Oh!" he says, blinking as he realizes you're standing barefoot on his carpet. He immediately pivots back to his closet. "I have some old pairs saved that don't fit me anymore," he explains, his voice picking up a quick, nervous cadence again. "I was going to rework them into new designs, but I haven't had the time to get started on anything. I can give you a pair."

While he rummages through the lower shelves, you catch a sliver of your reflection in the partially open mirrored door. You reach up to quickly tame your hair, but your hands stall.

You look like an awkward, ruined mess. Your hair is tangled, your makeup is washed away, and there are dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes. As you tilt your head, the collar of the oversized hoodie slips down your shoulder, exposing the bruises mottled across your collarbone and tracking up the column of your neck.

You inwardly begin to panic as you realize you're about to walk into a public café to face Yunho, San, and Yeosang looking like this. You hurriedly grab the drawstrings of the hoodie, yanking them taut to bunch the thick collar higher up under your chin, praying the fleece will be enough to hide the damning evidence of the night you had.

But as your eyes flick back to the mirror for one last check, your hands slowly pause on the strings. Despite the messy hair, despite the exhaustion... you somehow look like you're glowing. You have a giddy brightness about you that you haven't seen looking back from a mirror in months. You look happy.

"Try these," Hongjoong says as he stands up, pulling your attention away from the glass.

He slides the closet door shut, turning around with a pair of white sneakers. You notice a sleek, hand-painted black line curving across the side that matches the hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing. 

You step backward, perching yourself on the edge of the mattress, and reach out to take the shoes from him.

But Hongjoong doesn't even seem to think about handing them over. He drops to his knees on the carpet right in front of you.

Your whole body freezes. You watch, completely stunned, as he gently wraps his hand around your left ankle, lifts your foot, and effortlessly slides the sneaker over your heel. He seems so focused on the task that you don't think he even realizes the intimacy of what he's doing.

"These shoes are really a perfect match to your outfit," he murmurs in a casual rumble as he pulls the laces tight and ties them into a neat little bow. He reaches for your right foot, repeating the same steps. "I actually had this pair in mind when I was painting that hoodie last month. And I'd already made those pants a few years ago. They're simple, I know. But I made sure they're extra comfortable."

You stare down at the crown of his tousled hair, your heart racing as his warm hands brush against your ankles. 

"There," he says softly, giving the second bow a final tug. He tips his head up to look at you from the floor, his eyes crinkling warmly behind the lenses of his glasses. "It's nice to have the full outfit on someone other than myself. Especially since those shoes are too small for me now. Let me see."

He stands up, offering his hands to you. You take them without any hesitation, letting his grip pull you up from the mattress.

You stand in front of him as his eyes rake over the finished outfit from head to toe. The soft smile on his lips slowly stretches into a look of pride.

"Keep it all," he says, his eyes finally flicking back up to meet yours. "It looks perfect on you."

You glance down shyly before meeting his eyes again. "Thank you," you whisper, a helpless smile breaking across your face.

He doesn't let go of your hands just yet. You stand there together in the quiet room, his thumbs absent-mindedly stroking the backs of your knuckles as he admires you. 

Then, quite suddenly, Hongjoong’s brain seems to turn back on.

He blinks, visibly snapping out of his daze. A dusting of pink returns to his cheeks as he abruptly drops your hands and shoves his own deep into his pockets. He clears his throat loudly, looking anywhere but you as a bout of awkwardness takes over.

"So," he says, aggressively adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. "You can, uh... follow me."

He turns on his heel and marches out of the bedroom, leaving you with both a wide-open door to follow him out of and a massive smile hidden in the oversized collar of his hoodie.

Your new sneakers pad softly against the hardwood as you follow him out of his bedroom and into the open living space. You glance down the short hall toward Seonghwa's closed bedroom door. For a moment, you almost become a little self-conscious—were you too loud last night? Did he hear everything that happened in Hongjoong's room? 

But the thought dissolves instantly. It doesn't really matter whether he heard or not. You'd been making the same sounds for him just ten minutes earlier. 

Lost in thought, you nearly plow straight into Hongjoong, who has frozen dead in the center of the kitchen. You catch yourself just in time, rocking back on your heels to avoid colliding with his back. 

You peek around his shoulder, following his rigid gaze questioningly. 

Sitting right in the middle of the kitchen island is a neat, organized pile of your belongings. Your blue dress is carefully folded on top of your coat. Your purse sits beside it, your discarded heels lined up parallel to the edge. The sight of your bra and panties—supposedly tucked beneath the dress, but glaringly visible against the dark fabric—makes you blush. 

Hongjoong's jaw is clenched. Without a single word, he abruptly pivots and stalks down the hallway toward Seonghwa's room. He grabs the handle, shoves the door open with unnecessary force, and peers inside. 

You watch his sharp gaze sweep around the interior for a moment before he lets out a breath, fixing the glasses that slid down the bridge of his nose. 

"Hongjoong?" you ask tentatively, your voice echoing. "What's wrong?"

He yanks the door shut and walks back over to you, his eyes still locked on the pile of your clothes. "He's not here," he mutters. He doesn't say anything else. 

"Oh," you breathe out, not really knowing what else to say.

You both stand there in an awkward silence, staring at the neatly folded clothes.

You know for a fact your dress was abandoned on the floor of Seonghwa's bedroom. You have no idea where your coat, purse, or shoes ended up, but you know your phone was inside your bag. Yet, when you woke up this morning, your phone was charging on Hongjoong's nightstand.

If Seonghwa was the one who collected your clothes and arranged them in the kitchen... did he also bring your phone inside Hongjoong's room?Did he push the door open and slip inside while the two of you were fast asleep, completely naked and tangled together in bed?

A weird mix of conflicting emotions washes over you. It's an insanely intrusive, bizarre boundary to cross. But at the same time... wasn't it part of what he promised? He'd pushed Hongjoong to his breaking point, engineered the perfect way to get him to confront his feelings, and then silently packed your bags, charged your dead phone, and vanished so you wouldn't have to face the awkwardness of the situation in the morning. 

You can't tell if you want to avoid Seonghwa for the rest of your life or buy him a thank-you gift.

Before you can dwell on it any longer, Hongjoong is moving again. He turns and marches right back down the hallway, this time in the opposite direction—back to his own bedroom.

You blink, standing awkwardly by the marble island in his hoodie. A glance at your phone screen reads 9:46 a.m. You still have time, but what is he doing now?

A long minute later, he reappears, carrying a sleek, black canvas tote bag in his hands, one that you could imagine yourself using as an everyday bag. Without a word, he steps up to the island and begins gently picking up your clothes. He transfers your coat and dress into the bottom of the tote, careful not to ruin the neat folding. You notice his cheeks turn bright pink as he tucks your underwear away, and you have to bite your lip hard to trap the embarrassed squeak threatening to escape. He drops your heels and purse in last, making sure everything is concealed and secure. 

Your heart flutters uncontrollably. He's doing it again. He's taking care of you without even thinking twice about it. Rather than letting you endure the humiliation of carrying yesterday's clothes through the crowded campus, he's making sure your dignity remains intact.

He takes the thick straps of the bag into his hand. 

"I can keep these here," he says quietly, staring down at the bag, "If you don't want to carry them with you." 

You shake your head even though his eyes are lowered. "It's okay. Since everything's packed away, I'll be fine."

He nods and steps closer, holding the straps out to you. You reach out, your breath hitching as your fingers brush against his knuckles. The electricity from his touch shoots straight up your arm.

"T-Thank you, Hongjoong."

He looks at you, his eyes tracing your features. His lips part slightly, and for a second, he looks like he wants to say something else. You hold your breath, waiting. But he presses his lips into a tight line and gives you a small nod instead, turning toward the entryway. 

You slowly trail behind him, silence falling over you yet again as you reach the front door. 

Hongjoong shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking back on his heels awkwardly. 

"Do you..." he starts, pulling one hand free to rub the back of his neck. "Do you want me to walk you there?"

You shake your head, another warm flush rising to your cheeks at the offer. "It's okay," you reassure him softly. "The café is only a five-minute walk from here." What you don't tell him is that you desperately want to spare yourself from having to deal with your friends' interrogation while the prime subject of their questioning is standing right next to you.  

He nods slowly. "Okay." 

"Okay," you echo, offering a small, incredibly awkward smile. 

You both stand there, staring at the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. Neither of you makes a move toward the doorknob. It’s painfully obvious that you don't actually want to separate—it feels like there are a thousand more conversations that need to be had—but as you shift your grip on the canvas tote, the screen of your phone lights up in your hand.

9:50 a.m.

"I should go," you say, tearing your eyes up from the floor. "I don't want them worrying any more than they already are."

Hongjoong nods again, but he still doesn't step aside.

"____?" he asks quietly. 

"Yeah?"

He pauses, taking a steadying breath before he speaks. "I, uh, I know last night was a little... unconventional," he begins awkwardly, the words slightly stilted. "But... I had a really good night with you. Really." You feel your breath hitch as he meets your eyes. "And I meant everything I said. Every word. I just... I want to make sure you still feel the same way in the daylight. That you don't regret any of it."

You feel your heart melt into a puddle at your feet. Regret it?

"Hongjoong, I..."

Is it too much to say that you've been waiting for this very moment for months? To admit that you had buried your feelings so deep, completely convinced that he would never look at you twice? That you genuinely believed the world would end before he ever crossed the line and confessed that he felt the same way? 

Yeah. Probably too much.

"I don't regret a single second of it," you say instead, your voice thick with emotion as you offer him the warmest smile you can muster. "I promise." 

The way his shoulders relax and the way that adorable eye-crinkling smile finally returns tells you he's relieved.

"Then... I'll see you on Thursday," he says softly.

Your smile widens. "Yeah. I... I'll see you then."

It's so ridiculous, so incredibly awkward, standing in his entryway like two teenagers at the end of a first date. But then, Hongjoong steps forward, lifting his hand to your jaw. His touch is a little shaky, his fingers slightly trembling as he gently tilts your chin up toward him. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

It’s sweet and hesitant, completely different from last night, but it still sends butterflies straight to your stomach all the same. When he pulls back, your face is practically on fire. You drop your gaze, avoiding eye contact as it fully hits you.

This is real.

Hongjoong just kissed you goodbye.

You confessed to each other.

The feelings are entirely mutual.

"I—um—yes. Thursday. I'll see you then. Bye," you squeak out. 

Before he can say anything else—or laugh at your flustered panic—you quickly reach out, yank the front door open, and flee into the hallway, flashing him one last pathetic, nervous smile before pulling the door shut behind you. 

You stand frozen in the empty hallway, your back pressed flat against his door. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath as you force your heart to calm down. You mentally scold yourself for acting like such a nervous idiot, and yet... you absolutely cannot wipe the massive, goofy grin off your face.

You linger there for a lot longer than you should, basking in the giddy aftermath of it all, when a muffled noise from the other side of the door catches your attention.

It's the faint sound of a phone dialing. 

You blink, holding your breath, pressing your ear against the door to listen. Who is Hongjoong calling only a minute after you left?

"Hello?" his voice filters through the wood of the door.

You flinch in surprise. His tone is suddenly authoritative and polite—the exact one you're so used to hearing during your sessions.

"Yes, good morning. I'm calling to speak with the supervisor regarding one of the tutors at the Language Center. His name is James Yang..."

His voice begins to trail off, growing fainter as his footsteps carry him deeper into the apartment.

Your jaw drops. A second later, you have to clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle. 

Shaking your head with a helpless laugh, you finally push yourself off the door. You adjust the strap of the tote bag on your shoulder and turn down the hall, wondering how the hell you're ever going to explain everything that happened in the last twelve hours to your friends. 

The second you open the door to the café, the cheerful little chime of the overhead bell sends three heads snapping toward the entrance in unison. 

Yunho, San, and Yeosang are huddled together around a small circular table in the far back corner, each already nursing their own drink. The absolute second they spot you, their eyes do a collective scan of your entire appearance—your messy hair, the oversized clothes, and the bag on your shoulder.

You quickly break eye contact, your cheeks burning, and drag your feet over to their table. Pulling out the fourth chair, you swiftly kick the bag beneath the table, praying that they don't try to look inside it. 

"Holy shit," San breathes out sarcastically, leaning back so hard his chair creaks. "You're alive."

You roll your eyes as you drop into the seat. "Okay, I'm sorry I didn't update you guys. But to be fair, I only remember saying I'd text you if something went wrong, not if things went right."

"Well, excuse the hell out of me for wanting to make sure you didn't get—"

"San. Calm down," Yeosang cuts in, his voice as flat and calm as ever. Without even looking up, he slides a sweating plastic cup across the table and into your hands: a freshly made iced chai.

You flash Yeosang a grateful smile, wrap your hands around the cup, and take a long sip of your favorite drink. Yunho reaches over, gently patting your arm. 

"When you didn't reply at all, San assumed that the plan—if that's what we're calling it—didn't work out," Yunho explains, his tone cautious but curious. "He convinced us that you ended up sleeping with Seonghwa last night."

You whip your head toward San, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? Why is that the first thing you assume?"

"Because you didn't tell us anything!" San exclaims, throwing his hands up in defense."You didn't even explain the whole thing! You kept saying you 'trusted him,'" he says, his air quotes so aggressive he nearly knocks over his drink, "but everything you told me sounded exactly like Wooyoung 2.0! What was I supposed to think?"

You open your mouth to argue, but Yeosang interrupts you before you can get a word out.

"Which is why, when we didn't hear from you, we naturally assumed the worst." He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes drifting past your shoulder. "But he's been working since before we even got here. So clearly, our theories were a bit off." 

He gives a subtle, pointed tilt of his chin toward the front counter.

You slowly turn your head, following the trajectory of Yeosang's gaze across the bustling café.

The blood drains from your face.

He's here.

Seonghwa is stationed behind the front counter, dressed in the same black apron as Thursday, casually wiping down the espresso machine. He looks infuriatingly normal, unbothered, as if the events of last night hadn't occurred at all.

But as if sensing your stare, the white rag in his hand stalls. He lifts his head, and his eyes scan the entirety of the crowded room before slamming directly into yours. 

Even from twenty feet away, you catch the involuntary hitch of his chest, a fleeting crack of surprise breaking through the polite customer service facade. He clearly didn't expect to see you here. Meanwhile, you're mentally cursing yourself for not even considering the possibility that he could be working today.

Time seems suspended as his eyes drop, sweeping over your seated figure. He takes in your outfit, recognition flashing in his eyes; you know he's seen Hongjoong wear the same clothes before. But his gaze doesn't linger there. It climbs upward, stopping on the thick collar you've bunched so defensively high up your chin.

He knows exactly what you’re trying to hide beneath that hoodie. He knows the precise shape and placement of every single mark decorating your collarbone and neck... because half of them belong to Hongjoong, and the other half belong to him.

A hot prickle of nerves races across your skin. Feeling dangerously exposed under his watch, you shakily reach up, tugging the neckline just a tiny bit higher against your throat. 

As he watches you, the corner of Seonghwa's mouth twitches into a smirk. Before anyone else in the building can catch your secret exchange, he dips his head down, hiding the curve of his lips behind his dark curtain of hair as he turns his attention back to the espresso machine.

Hoping that your cheeks don't look as scorched as they feel, you drag in a sharp breath. You tear your eyes away from the counter, forcing yourself to turn back to the small table—where Yunho, San, and Yeosang are still sitting there, their eyes boring holes into you, silently waiting for an explanation.

"Well... yes, you were wrong," you murmur, looking around the table to meet their expectant stares one by one. "The plan worked." 

Yunho chokes on his iced Americano, coughing into the crook of his elbow. A small smile spreads across Yeosang's face as he gestures pointedly at your outfit.

"So, I take it those are Hongjoong's clothes you're drowning in?" he asks.

San blinks, his brain taking an extra second to connect the dots. When the implication finally clicks, he slaps both palms flat against the tabletop. "Wait! Weren't you wearing a dress when you left? Where did—" 

"San!" you hiss, your eyes going wide as you furiously wave your hands to shush him.

You dart a glance back over your shoulder, terrified that his booming voice carried all the way to the front counter. Seonghwa is still facing the espresso machine, his back turned to your table, but from this angle, you can clearly see the outline of a smirk playing on his profile. He's absolutely listening to every single word.

"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, turning back to glare at him.

"Okay, ignore San," Yeosang says quietly. He leans in closer, resting his forearms on the table. "Tell us what actually happened. Because clearly, Seonghwa didn’t sweep you off your feet like we thought he did."

Your face instantly burns. You quickly drop your gaze and take a long sip of your iced chai just to give yourself something to do besides react. You are absolutely not going to tell them that Seonghwa did, in fact, sweep you off your feet, far more than they could ever imagine. You already know you're going to have trouble explaining everything that happened between you and Hongjoong—adding a second man into the mix, especially one they already don’t trust, would be too humiliating. And you have a feeling none of them would take it very well. Not after what happened with Wooyoung. Especially not when that man is standing barely twenty feet away and very obviously trying to listen to your conversation. All of it—the threesome, the blurred lines, the madness of last night—is a secret you will be taking straight to your grave.

"Yes, San, these are Hongjoong’s clothes," you say carefully, keeping your voice in a hushed, controlled whisper. "And... yeah. Seonghwa played his part exactly like he promised he would. He flirted with me until... until Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore." 

All three men exchange glances. 

San speaks up first, his tone still dripping with suspicion. "So I don’t need to go over there and deal with him like I wanted to with Wooyoung?"

You let out a breathless laugh. "No, San. I told you, I trusted him. And it turns out I was right." I think, you add internally.

"Do you wanna elaborate on what 'Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore' means?" Yunho prompts, leaning forward to join Yeosang.

You clear your throat awkwardly. Your eyes dart toward the counter one last time before dropping to the condensation dripping down your cup. Filtering this story on the fly is going to be difficult.

"Well... he got pretty jealous seeing us walk in together," you start, carefully omitting the minor detail that Seonghwa had his hands roaming all over your body at the time. "We were in their apartment, obviously, so he... he took me to the only private place there. His room."

You pause, peeking up through your lashes to gauge their reactions. All three men are leaning over the tiny table, listening to you with total, undivided attention.

You let out another soft, embarrassed laugh, nervously wiping away the droplets on your cup. "And then... yeah. His jealousy made us finally confess to each other, and, um... one thing led to another, and—"

"Come on, don't give us that!" Yunho interrupts, reaching across the table to give your shoulder a light shove. "Don't give us that 'one thing led to another' bullshit."

"Yeah, no skipping to the end!" San agrees while nodding. "We've had to deal with months of you figuring out your feelings for this guy. How did you do it? What did he say?"

You bite your lower lip, self-conscious. It was one thing to live through the confession, but repeating the details out loud in a crowded café with his roommate a few feet away is an entirely different story.

"Um... well," you murmur. "He confessed that he’d been trying to stay professional since the day we met, but that he’s... basically always had feelings for me."

Yunho’s face lights up with a beaming grin. "Just like we all told you." 

"Just like I told you," Yeosang corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. You and Yunho both roll your eyes.

"Yes, yes, whatever," you push on, requiring a monumental amount of mental gymnastics to skip over the fact that this whole confession was triggered by a threesome. "I confessed the same thing. I told him about all the little moments that made me think he liked me, and I finally admitted that I’d been avoiding my own feelings, too. As you all know."

"As we know way too well," San nods.

You ignore him. "He said he avoided me after we kissed because he realized he couldn’t ignore his feelings anymore. He was scared of crossing the line because it meant things could never go back to being simple."

"Well, no shit," Yeosang deadpans.

Yunho kicks him under the table. 

"Ow!" Yeosang glares at him, reaching down to rub his shin, but you just laugh.

"Yeah. No shit," you agree, nodding. "And then, I... I think I told him to stop pretending I’ve only ever been his student, then."

Yunho's grin widens. He rests his chin on his hands, fluttering his eyelashes at you mockingly. "Aw, look at you with the rom-com lines."

Your face flushes hot, and this time, you're the one who kicks Yunho under the table. "Do you want me to keep telling you the story or not?"

"Keep going," all three of them demand in unison. 

You huff, adjusting the sleeves of the hoodie. "Fine. So, I think that's where he really opened up. He said a lot about how... how English isn’t enough to explain his feelings."

Yeosang clicks his tongue in approval. "Very poetic. Fitting for how you two met."

San nods solemnly. "This is great material if you ever wanna write a book, ____. Seriously."

"It'll be a bestseller," Yeosang agrees with him.

You practically slam your iced drink down on the table, glaring at them. "You guys really suck."

"Sorry, sorry," San apologizes, though he’s sporting a massive, shit-eating grin that says he isn't sorry at all. "Anyway. So that’s it?"

"No, no, no." Yunho shakes his head, wiggling an accusatory finger at you. "Where’s the rest of it? That sweet little conversation doesn't explain how you ended up looking like that."

Yeosang chuckles. "Right. Where did the new clothes come from? More importantly, where did your old ones go?"

You clamp your mouth shut, your eyes suddenly finding the melting ice in your cup incredibly fascinating.

"Um..."

All three of them lean in closer.

You swallow hard, dropping your voice to a barely audible and highly reluctant mumble. "I think I might've said something along the lines of... if English isn't enough, he needs to show me in a language we both know."

Yunho practically spits his Americano back into his cup as San and Yeosang completely lose it, barking out loud, echoing laughs.

"You said what?" San howls, bending over the table.

Panic erupts in your chest instantaneously. You whip your head toward the front counter, but thankfully, the space is empty; Seonghwa must've stepped into the back room, temporarily out of earshot.

"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, shushing them as your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. "You’re so annoying! I know it sounds stupid out loud! But it sounded really, really good in the moment!"

Yunho is biting his lip so hard it might bleed, trying his best to hold back his laughter, though his shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. "I really think you should listen to San’s advice and write that book," he says, completely deadpan, hiding his smile behind his hand.

"Okay. Fine. Laugh all you want," you huff, crossing your arms over Hongjoong's hoodie. "I’m never telling you guys a single thing about my life ever again."

Yeosang finally gets his laughter under control, though his grin remains. "Hey, don't be mad. I'm sure Hongjoong loved it." 

"Oh, he definitely loved it," San snorts, wiping a literal tear from his eye. "He probably kissed you right after you said that, didn’t he?"

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare down at your hands. The dizzying memory of Hongjoong pressing soft kisses over the bruises on your neck —of him guiding you to the edge of his bed—flashes behind your eyes.

"Well...." you drag the word out, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Yunho asks, one eyebrow shooting up to his hairline.

You look up at them, your smirk growing. "But since you made fun of me, I am officially done talking."

Immediately, a chorus of protests erupts around the table.

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously?"

"You can't just leave it there!"

You shake your head stubbornly, sipping your chai with a maddeningly calm expression until they finally groan and give up. They settle back into their chairs, taking disgruntled sips of their own drinks as the banter finally lulls.

"So... what about after?" Yunho asks, his tone turning a bit more serious. "You guys... talked about things, right?"

"Of course we did," you nod, your finger tracing the condensation on your cup once again. "I mean, he talked about how nervous he is. He’s never actually been in a relationship before."

You glance instinctively back toward the counter. Seonghwa has reappeared from the back room, taking an order from a new customer.

"Seonghwa actually told me that Hongjoong has never really had a crush before," you add quietly, looking back at your friends. "So... I just told him that it’ll be okay to make mistakes. Both of us will inevitably screw up. And that we'll figure things out together."

Yeosang pauses, studying you carefully over the rim of his cup. He slowly lowers it to the table. "Does that mean he was a virgin?" 

Your shoulders tense. Right. You'd almost forgotten about that part.

"Um... yeah," you murmur, your fingers tightening so hard around your cup that the plastic loudly crinkles. "He was."

The three of them blink, a complicated look passing between them.

"Did you..." Yunho begins carefully, his voice gentle. "Did you guys talk about that? About your pasts?"

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. "...Yeah."

San asks, "So you told him about Wooyoung?"

Your heart drops to your shoes. "San, for the last time, keep your voice down!" you hiss, immediately whipping your head toward the front counter. Thankfully, Seonghwa has his back completely turned to you, occupied with steaming milk for a customer's latte. You turn back to the table, leaning in so far that your chest presses hard against the edge. "Seonghwa knows that Wooyoung and I had a thing, but he doesn't know we actually—" You cut yourself off, the damning word lodging in your throat.

Yeosang stares at you, clicking his tongue. "So you didn't."

You grimace, shame burning hot at the base of your neck. "No. I didn't tell him."

Yunho’s eyes widen. "You lied? You told him you were a virgin?"

"No!" you whisper-yell, shaking your head. "I didn't say that! I just... I told him my first time was with my ex. In high school."

San and Yunho exchange a loaded look. 

"____, why the fuck would you lie about that?" San asks. He remembers to lower his voice this time, but the judgment in his tone makes you flinch nonetheless.

"That’s not something to lie about when you really care about someone," Yunho says quietly. "You know that."

Yunho’s words twist in your heart like a serrated knife. The guilt you'd desperately tried to suppress comes rushing to the surface.

"I know," you say quietly. "I know it's bad. But you guys don’t understand the context of the conversation. He had just finished confessing that he was terrified of his feelings for me. How was I supposed to look him in the eye and explain that while he was agonizing over his feelings for me, I was actively sleeping with someone else? That while I literally had feelings for him, I still chose to let someone like Wooyoung touch me?"

The three of them fall silent. 

"Besides, I'd already lied to him about Wooyoung before," you press on. "The night I slept over at his apartment, I told Hongjoong I was out with Yunho. I lied after that, too, when he accidentally saw a text from Wooyoung on my phone. I swore he was just a friend. And there are probably other little lies I don’t even remember telling him."

San frowns at you, confused and disappointed. "But why would you lie about all of that in the first place? You weren’t dating. You didn't owe him an explanation back then."

You let out a shaky sigh, running a hand through your tangled hair. "I know I didn't. But it still felt wrong. I... I think it was because, deep down, I already knew I had feelings for him. So doing anything with Wooyoung felt wrong... like I was cheating on a crush. I felt guilty about it. I didn’t want him to find out."

You look at your three best friends, your eyes silently pleading with them to understand the corner you'd painted yourself into.

"And then I just couldn’t take it back. I dug the lie so deep. If I told him the truth last night, he'd realize I lied to his face in the past. And he’d know I slept with someone else while I supposedly liked him. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be for him to hear that? A guy who’s never even had a real crush before? A guy who just trusted me with his literal first time?"

You look away from them, staring blankly at the wall. This is your own fault, and you know it. But what else could you have possibly done on the spot?

The table falls into silence as the three of them process everything you've said.

Yunho eventually lets out a conflicted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know, ____. You always do this. You choose the safety of a lie over just being vulnerable and telling the truth. I think—no, I know—you're afraid of Hongjoong seeing you differently. But if he really cares, it’s not like he’d suddenly stop liking you over this."

You look at him, his words making your stomach twist, and you shake your head. "I don't know if that's true, Yunho. Put yourself in his shoes. Imagine this: you finally, finally tell Mingi how you feel. He looks at you and says he likes you, too. But, then, right in the middle of this beautiful, vulnerable moment, he casually mentions that he was fucking someone else just two weeks ago while claiming to be obsessing over you."

Yunho frowns, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I mean, I obviously wouldn’t be thrilled about it, but—"

"And," you cut in, your voice sharpening, "you’re also a virgin. Mingi is your first time. You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, you have no idea how to navigate these overwhelming new feelings, you are entirely inexperienced, and the guy you just poured your heart out to was letting someone else touch him just days ago because 'it didn’t actually mean anything.' Honestly, Yunho, think about it. How would you feel?"

Yunho opens his mouth, his brow furrowed in immediate protest, but no words come out. He slowly closes his mouth, looking away.

"I get why you lied," Yeosang says quietly after another few moments. "I know I'd be freaked out if I were in his position. It's human nature to want to protect his feelings and keep the peace, especially right after a major confession." He pauses, his lips tightening into a thin line. "The only problem is the corner you've backed yourself into. Because now, you have two options: never let him find out and deal with the guilt for the rest of your life, or tell him the truth and risk him never trusting you again."

San vigorously shakes his head, refusing to accept Yeosang's bleak pragmatism. "What? No! ____, I think you seriously have a lying problem. I'm telling you, he wouldn’t have stopped liking you. Are you all crazy?"

Yunho sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Well... honestly, San, when you put it in the context of Mingi... I don't know. I’d be pretty devastated."

You nod miserably, the confirmation making the pit in your stomach sink even lower.

"You just... fuck, ____. You should’ve told him the truth from the very beginning," Yunho says, shaking his head. "Before the lie got this deep."

"I know," you murmur, picking at the cuff of the sweatshirt. "I’d love to go back and change things, but I can’t. It felt like such a harmless little white lie at the time, and now..."

You trail off. 

Yeosang tilts his head slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "Well..." he says slowly, like he's piecing together a puzzle. "You're dating now, right?"

The gears in your brain suddenly halt.

You blink at Yeosang. "Um..."

Across the table, San and Yunho both go still.

"____," San says slowly, squinting at you. "You are officially dating, right?"

"We... we never actually talked about that," you realize, the color slowly draining from your face.

"Huh?" Yunho and San ask in baffled, incredulous unison.

"You didn't talk about it at all?"

"You went all the way and didn't once stop to establish what you actually are?"

"No, we didn't," you realize, dropping your face into your hands in embarrassment. "Not that I remember!"

You might actually be an idiot, you chastise yourself, dragging your hands down your flushed cheeks. What are we? Are we dating? Am I his girlfriend? What does he think we are? Is he stressing about the same thing right now?

"Okay, relax," Yunho says, realizing your thoughts are spiraling. He reaches over to pat your arm. "You'll talk about it. You guys had an emotionally exhausting night. It makes sense that the technicalities slipped your minds. Don't stress about the label right now."

"I was just asking," Yeosang continues calmly, ignoring your minor crisis, "because strategically speaking, you should wait to tell him the truth about Wooyoung until after you’re officially dating."

San narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. "Why?"

"Because," Yeosang explains, "if you tell him the truth right now, in this undefined gray area, his logical thought process will be: She lied to me, she's not a good person to date, so I’m going to cut my losses and back out before I’m fully invested.' But... if you wait until you're officially locked into a committed relationship, leaving you requires a full breakup. Which he’s way less likely to initiate."

Yunho stares at him, appalled. 

"What the hell, Yeosang?" San yells, shoving his shoulder roughly. "So your plan is to trap him in a relationship?"

"It's not that I want to trap the poor guy," Yeosang defends himself, scowling at San, "but I'm fully on ____'s side with this. It's the best solution for her."

"My roommate's a sociopath," Yunho mutters under his breath, looking at him like he grew a second head.

You slowly sink forward, burying your burning face back in your folded arms and groaning into the dark. If Yeosang's manipulative hostage-situation of a strategy is genuinely the best option you currently have... you're probably fucked.

Suddenly, the argument at the table dies.

You lift your face from your folded arms, blinking at the abrupt silence. "What happened—"

You cut yourself off. Yunho, San, and Yeosang are all staring wide-eyed and mute at something directly behind your chair.

Before you can even turn your head, an arm reaches over your shoulder, gently setting a ceramic plate piled high with four warm croissants directly into the center of the table.

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of your neck. You know that hand. You even know the way those long fingers feel against your skin.

You swallow hard and slowly turn your head.

Seonghwa is standing right behind your chair, the scent of roasted espresso and his familiar cologne immediately enveloping you. He’s smiling politely at your friends, acting as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

"We didn’t order these," you say stubbornly, pointing at the pastry plate to distract from your quickening heart rate.

He just smiles, his eyes dipping down to meet yours. "I know. Sunday is free croissant day."

"I’m here almost every Sunday. That has never been a thing."

His smile shifts, the corners sharpening. "It’s a new policy. Instituted by me."

As he speaks, his gaze drops from your eyes, landing squarely on the collar framing your neck. You squirm under his scrutiny, and you swear your skin is burning where his eyes linger.

Seonghwa watches your nervous movement with a subtle smirk before turning his attention across the table to Yunho.

"I remember you from the bar that night."

San scoffs loudly from his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Seonghwa doesn't even spare him a glance, his attention remaining politely on Yunho.

"I wanted to apologize for being so rude," he continues smoothly. "I was dealing with an irritable roommate. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was actually just irritable over this one."

He tilts his head down toward you, the affection in his voice unmasked. You flush, sinking a full inch lower in your chair.

Yunho blinks, quickly recovering to offer a friendly, if slightly wary, smile. "No worries. I get it. She wasn’t exactly the easiest to deal with that night, either."

You kick Yunho's shin again under the table. He barely suppresses a wince, but he maintains his strained, polite smile.

Seonghwa’s eyes drift over to San, completely unfazed by the rather unfriendly glare San is currently aiming at his head; clearly, despite what you said, San still doesn't trust him. 

But Seonghwa doesn't seem to care. He turns his attention back down to you.

"Did you take my gift, angel?"

You feel every eye at the table snap directly to you. You realize that to your friends, Seonghwa had just been playing a role last night to make Hongjoong jealous. There's no reason for him to be using a pet name like angel anymore.

You gulp hard. "Oh... um," you stammer, thinking back to this morning. "I didn't see it when I left."

Seonghwa hums, but he doesn't sound surprised. "It was on the kitchen island. Both of them were."

A chill runs down your spine. He means both of the records. But... you honestly don't remember seeing them there this morning. You didn't see Hongjoong pack them into your bag, either. 

Seonghwa’s gaze drifts downward past your lap until his eyes land precisely on the spot where you had kicked your bag beneath the table earlier.

"Are you sure you didn't pack it in your bag?" 

You stare up at Seonghwa, your mind racing. You could just brush him off and insist you didn't pack it, but the way he’s looking at you—head tilted, eyes gleaming—tells you that for some reason, he isn't going to just let this go. He wants you to check, like he somehow knows you didn't pack it yourself.

And if you refuse, you’re only going to look ten times more suspicious in front of Yunho, San, and Yeosang.

"Fine. But I know I didn't," you mutter, breaking eye contact.

You lean down, your fingers blindly grappling for the straps of the tote bag. You hoist it up and rest it squarely on your lap. Careful to keep the contents angled away from the others as best you can, you pull the opening wider.

You nudge your heels and purse aside, digging through the bag—only to freeze when the first thing staring back at you, draped across the top of your crumpled dress, is a scrap of lace. Your panties.

Above you, Seonghwa shifts. You don't even need to look up to know his eyes have dropped straight into the open bag, the only one at the table with the advantageous height and angle to see what's inside. A second later, you hear it: the quietest exhale of amusement slipping past his lips.

You quickly shove the lace beneath your dress, your cheeks blazing. Trying to look casual, you plunge your hands deeper into the bag, searching for the square of a vinyl sleeve—even though you're certain you won't find it.

But suddenly, your fingers graze something solid. You freeze, your brows knitting in confusion as your fingertips trace the flat edge. You watched Hongjoong pack your coat first. There hadn't been anything underneath it. Gripping the corner, you pull the object free from the depths of the bag.

You find yourself staring down at the sleek white cover of the G-Dragon record. Hongjoong’s gift.

You blink, confused. Immediately, you shove your hand back into the bag, digging around the bottom, checking the side pockets, and shifting your clothes around. But you find nothing else.

"It's... it's not here," you say slowly, bewildered. Looking up at Seonghwa, you lift the single record resting in your lap. "Just this one."

Did Hongjoong pack his own record and intentionally leave Seonghwa’s behind? You're certain you didn't even see him put Heartbreaker in the bag. When did he manage that?

You worry that Seonghwa might be offended, but instead, he laughs.

"Unbelievable," he chuckles, shaking his head. There’s not a trace of anger on his face—if anything, he looks delighted. "How territorial. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

You bite your lip at his choice of words. Yunho and San exchange another baffled look across the table.

"Territorial?" San echoes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Seonghwa finally pulls his eyes away from you to glance at San. The smirk on his lips softens in a way that feels patronizing.

"Just an inside joke," he replies politely. Then, his eyes drift back to your neck. Or, more accurately, the collar of the hoodie covering it. "I suppose this means his... possessiveness didn't end when I last saw you?"

Before you can even process what he's doing, Seonghwa reaches out.

You suck in a breath as the soft tips of his fingers brush gently against your neck. His index finger hooks right beneath the hoodie and lightly tugs it down as he checks for any new marks Hongjoong left when the two of you were alone. The movement is small, but it’s more than enough. The fabric shifts, exposing the skin just above your collarbone.

A collective intake of breath snaps around the table.

You slap your hand over your neck, yanking the collar back into place, but the damage is already done. In that split second, Yunho, San, and Yeosang all catch a crystal-clear, front-row glimpse of the dark purple bruises and deep red bite marks scattering your skin.

San’s mouth falls open. "Holy shit, ____." 

Yunho covers his mouth with his own hand, his eyes ricocheting between you and Seonghwa. Even Yeosang's eyes widen as they fix on the spot you're now shielding with your hand.

Seonghwa ignores it all, taking a step back from the table, calmly smoothing his hands over the front of his apron.

"Hm. I was right," he says mildly. "Well, enjoy the croissants."

He offers the three stunned men a parting nod before slipping in a quick wink in your direction. He turns, unbothered, already moving to take care of the growing line of customers at the front counter. 

The silence at the table stretches for five agonizing seconds as all four of you watch Seonghwa calmly stroll back behind the counter and greet the first customer in line.

San, who is absolutely bewildered, points an accusing finger at your throat. "What did he do to you?"

"Please shut up," you hiss, horrified by Seonghwa's audacity as you practically strangle yourself with how hard you're clutching the collar around your neck.

"____, you're telling me your tutor did that? Hongjoong left all of those on you?" Yunho asks in disbelief.

"I—well—yes," you choke out, your face burning.

It's not a complete lie. Hongjoong did leave most of them. They simply don't need to know that a few of those marks belong to the very man who just purposefully put them on display.

Was that supposed to be some sort of power move? Or was he genuinely curious if Hongjoong was just as rough alone as he was with his best friend in the room? 

"Wow," San says, shaking his head in both horror and respect. "I mean... I knew the quiet ones were supposed to be crazy, but damn."

You let out a distressed squeak, dropping your forehead onto the table. "I'm actually begging you to stop talking about it."

"Okay, fine, then let's talk about the other thing. What the hell was that?" Yeosang asks, his eyes darting back to Seonghwa over your shoulder.

You peek up at him through your arms. "What was what?"

"Seonghwa," Yeosang states plainly. "Why is he calling you 'angel'? And what was that about a gift?"

San points at him in agreement. "Right! I was gonna ask that. Why was he talking to you like you're his girlfriend? And what the fuck did he mean by Hongjoong being 'territorial'?"

You sit up, smoothing down the hoodie as you force your brain to work in overdrive.

"Oh, it was all just part of the plan," you say, waving a dismissive hand as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you, we had to push Hongjoong over the edge. Seonghwa just... went all out. He bought an IU record to give me as a 'gift' right in front of Hongjoong to set him off."

You gesture down to the other album still resting in your lap. "And it worked! Hongjoong got so jealous that he gave me a record of his own. He... well, okay, this is a little embarrassing, but he packed this bag for me this morning. He was the one who put all of my clothes inside, so I'm guessing he sneakily left Seonghwa's record behind in the process. That's why he was laughing. It proves his strategy worked."

Yunho frowns. "Okay, that makes sense, but... Hongjoong isn't here right now. So why is Seonghwa still using pet names and touching your neck?"

You swallow the massive lump in your throat. "I think that's just how he is," you say honestly, leaning into the half-truth. "It's like when I met him at the bar. He's just a natural flirt. He’s riding the high of last night, and he probably thinks it's fun to flirt with me in front of you guys."

Yeosang raises a highly skeptical eyebrow. "He certainly seemed to enjoy the theatrics of it."

"But how did he know you had those marks?" Yunho presses, not settling for your excuses. 

You open your mouth, but your brain can't think of something fast enough. "I... um..."

"Well, he was standing right above her, so he could probably see the edge of them from his angle," Yeosang suggests reasonably.

Yunho slowly nods at this.

"Or he heard them through the wall last night and figured there was some damage left over," San offers with a wicked grin.

You gulp. "For the last time, please shut up, San."

The three of them go quiet, chewing on your scrambled explanation. You hold your breath, your nails digging into the skin of your palms, hoping they don't ask any more questions.

San eventually lets out a loud scoff.

"That guy is a total weirdo," he declares, crossing his arms and glaring toward the counter. "A Grade A, narcissistic weirdo. I don't like him."

Yunho sighs, finally accepting your logic as well. "I mean... it's a little weird to keep the act going when Hongjoong isn't here, but... I guess it makes sense."

"Right," Yeosang agrees, though his observant eyes linger on your flushed face for a second longer than the others. "He made the plan work. That's all that actually matters."

You let out a slow breath, relieved. 

"Besides," San adds, his grin returning as he gestures to your covered neck. "It worked really well. I'm curious, does it hurt to turn your head?"

"San!" you hiss, burying your face back into your hands as he laughs. 

Yunho lets out a long sigh, reaching across the tiny table to affectionately ruffle your hair. You weakly swat his hand away. 

"You're a mess," he says. "A good mess, but still a mess. Go home. Take a long shower. Get some more sleep." 

"Yeah," San agrees, standing up and grabbing his empty cup. "Home. Where it's impossible for you to ghost me."

You nod, offering them a tired but genuine smile as the three men gather their things to head back to the dorms. You shove the record back inside the bag and sling it over your shoulder, following them across the café, toward the exit. But as Yeosang holds the door open for you, the chime of the overhead bell makes your feet suddenly stop. 

You look back over your shoulder. Seonghwa is behind the counter, swirling a dollop of whipped cream onto a customer's latte.

Something invisible roots you to the floor. You have a hundred questions for him burning a hole in your chest, demanding answers. Was the plan always to sleep with me? Did you know Hongjoong would react that way? Did you know he'd let you touch me, too, instead of dragging me to his room right away? Was any of what you said to me real, or was it all just part of the act? Are you truly someone I can trust, especially now that I'm involved with your best friend?

But as you stare at his perfectly composed, unbothered profile, you realize there's probably no point in asking him any of those things. Seonghwa is smart with his words. He could answer a hundred abstract questions without ever actually handing you a single shred of the truth.

If you're going to ask him anything, it needs to be something he can't charm his way out of. Just to give yourself at least a tiny bit of clarity. 

Yeosang pauses in the doorway, realizing what's going through your mind. Though he may not understand why you can't leave without talking to Seonghwa, he meets your eyes and gives a slow, barely perceptible nod. 

"We'll wait for you outside," he murmurs, his voice low enough that Yunho and San don't catch it. You give him a grateful smile as he lets the door close between you.

Taking a deep, calming breath, you turn around and walk straight up to the counter. 

You wait for Seonghwa to hand the drink off to the customer, lingering silently at the register. The second the cup leaves his hand, his eyes instantly flick to you. A slow, teasing smile spreads across his lips.

"Back for another croissant?" he asks, wiping his hands on a towel as he walks over, leaning a casual hip against the counter. "I have to warn you, I'll need to start charging you for them."

You don't smile back. You lean in closer so no one else in the building can hear you.

"Did you come into his room?" you ask, skipping the pleasantries. "While we were sleeping?"

Seonghwa doesn't flinch, his smile unwavering. 

"Your phone was dead," he says simply. "I found it next to your purse in the living room when I was collecting your things. I thought you’d want to be able to text your friends when you finally woke up."

"And you just... walked in while we were sleeping?" you whisper. The image of Seonghwa, fully dressed, quietly turning the handle to Hongjoong's bedroom, standing in the dark, watching the two of you tangled up in the sheets—exhausted from the aftermath of what he started—feels like a strange invasion of nearly all your boundaries. 

"I assumed you'd prefer a fully charged battery over total privacy. Besides, I'd already seen everything. I didn't realize you'd still be so shy."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. In fact, he looks proud of himself.

"And about my gift," he continues, seamlessly pivoting the conversation as he offers a polite nod to a new customer entering the shop, signaling he'll be right with them. "I’ll get it to you eventually, angel. Don’t worry. Joong left it in our apartment on purpose, I imagine. He's always been a bit of a sore loser when it comes to sharing his things around the house. I suppose I should’ve known that possessiveness would translate to you, too."

Sharing. You flinch at the reminder of what the three of you had done only a handful of hours ago.

"I know you're his now," Seonghwa murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. "And I'm truly happy about that. You really are good for each other. He's my best friend, and naturally, I want the best for him."

He slowly reaches out, his knuckles grazing the fabric of the hoodie covering your collarbone. Covering all the marks he left on you. 

"But I still hope you don't forget about me," he says, his voice a mesmerizing, dangerous whisper. "You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth of what happened last night, angel."

He pulls his hand back and stands up straight, smiling down at you. 

"Have a good rest of your day, ____."

You watch silently, rooted to the spot, as he turns to greet the new customer—a stressed-looking student buried under a heavy pile of textbooks—with an easy, relaxed smile.

You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth.

You don't have any idea what kind of man Seonghwa actually is. Maybe he really did fall for you. Maybe he's jealous that you so clearly prefer Hongjoong over him. Maybe he's trying to manipulate you into believing that because he was the one who pushed the boundaries last night, he now owns a permanent, secret piece of you. Or maybe you're misinterpreting everything; maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe he’s just a bored man who enjoys harmlessly flirting with his best friend's crush. Maybe this was his victory lap: he helped Hongjoong confess, and he got to have a little more fun teasing you before finally stepping back.

Your grip on the bag tightens as you watch him finish up with the customer. Yes, the lines got unimaginably blurred. Yes, you let him touch you, yes, it was intoxicating, and yes, it's a secret you'll guard with your life. But at the end of the day, Seonghwa was only ever the means to an end. 

Hongjoong was always the goal. It was Hongjoong's bed you woke up in. It's Hongjoong's record sitting safely at the bottom of your bag. It's Hongjoong's clothes you're wearing. You didn't do any of this for Seonghwa. No matter what mind games his roommate is trying to play, your heart belongs to Hongjoong.

Squaring your shoulders, you lift your chin. You turn your back on the front counter, and this time, you don't look back at the man working behind it. 

You push your weight against the door, stepping out into the bright late-morning sun, where Yeosang, San, and Yunho are waiting for you. 

They're already a few paces ahead, seamlessly falling back into their usual banter as they argue about where to go for some actual food after they take you home. 

You follow a couple of steps behind, slowing your pace and eventually coming to a halt on the sunlit path as a vibration buzzes from inside your bag. You dig out your fully charged phone, tapping the screen. One new notification is waiting for you.

Hongjoong: I meant to tell you earlier—get home safe. Let me know when you're back. 

The dots at the bottom of the chat appear, disappear, and reappear three separate times before the next text finally comes through.

Hongjoong: I'm already counting down the hours until Thursday.

A smile spreads across your face, warming you from the inside out. In a matter of seconds, all the residual anxiety and tension from Seonghwa melt away. 

You: I will. And me too.

You hesitate before sending a second text.

You: :)

"Hey! What are you doing back there?"

You look up. San is standing a few yards down the path, walking backward as he yells to you, making a show of shivering dramatically. "Come on, it's cold! Walk faster!"

"Relax, I'm coming!" you call back.

You quickly pocket your phone, hurrying to catch up with the three of them.

As you fall into step beside Yunho, you realize that though you're surrounded by three of the loudest men on campus, your mind is finally quiet. For the first time in weeks, there's no confusion. There's no lingering doubt about where you stand, what Hongjoong is thinking, or whether you're just projecting your own desperate feelings onto your tutor.

The lines have been completely crossed. You aren't just his student anymore. You don't think you ever really were.

And even though you've finally gotten exactly what you wanted, somehow, Thursday's session still can't seem to come fast enough.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

[dulceazucarmorena97]

🍭FAT-TEEZ 🍬: ATEEZ Imagine (Maknae Line)

Hyung Line

Prompt: You're (ATEEZ member)'s plus size girlfriend of a few years and he adores you <3

Warning: No smut but is suggestive/uses explicit language.

A/N and DISCLAIMER: I am a plus size Atiny, myself, and chose the title because I find it hilarious as a fellow fat. If you're triggered by anything in this imagine, please feel free to click off and find something else to read. I usually write with a very neutral way of describing (female) Y/n so that all readers can imagine themselves in her shoes; this imagine, however, is a special one for my beautiful plus size girlies.

1.) Choi San

Your cuteness makes him want to absolutely RAVAGE you

Severe cuteness aggression for you and your cheeks (both sets of cheeks 😏)

LOVES eating with you and always encourages you to eat more

Fulfills the theory that gym bros love a big girl

Loves how confident you are about your size

“Bet you can’t.” “Bet I can.” “Nuh-uh.” “Yuh-huh!” San belts out before promptly bending down and lifting you up by your massive thighs, your torso hanging over his shoulder as you squeal, “You’re gonna drop me!” “Is that so? Just a second ago you were saying I couldn’t even pick you up!” He boasts, slapping your ass (which is currently right by his head) hard. “Okay, okay, you’ve proven yourself- now put me down!” You laugh, hitting his back. He smirks as he carries you over to the kitchen counter, setting you down gently on top, “You keep underestimating my abilities,” he says, looking at you with those beautiful eyes, his dimples displayed like jewels. You can’t help but blush under his gaze, which he finds adorable, “You are too cute for your own good.”

2.) Mingi

ENAMORED with you. First sight. No questions asked.

Genuinely could stare at you doing ANYTHING for hours (his favorite is when your ass jiggles when you walk)

Tsks at you when you talk about dieting

Loves your tummy with a passion that burns hotter than the intensity of a thousand suns

Loves how your thigh is bigger than his massive hand

“Ugh!” You groan in frustration. “What’s wrong, baby?” He asks. “These stupid jeans won’t button. I just bought them like 4 months ago and I fucking gained weight because of all the stress at work. I’m so sick of this,” You cover your eyes in frustration, trying not to cry. He immediately feels a wrench in his heart at seeing how sad you are, and he immediately takes you into his arms, holding you close as he kisses the top of your hair, “Baby, it’s okay- we’ll just buy bigger jeans, no big deal.” “It’s hard finding nice jeans that fit me right. This isn’t cute,” You say, voice cracking a bit. He frowns, and steps back, looking at you for a moment. Your hands are still covering your face, so you don’t know what he’s doing until you feel his lips on your stomach. Immediately, you uncover your eyes and look down to see him on his knees, his hands resting on your hips as he looks up at you, “It’s not just cute— it’s beautiful,” He says in that low voice. You’d swear you could see hearts in his eyes, “All you need is bigger pants. But this?” Another kiss on your stomach, “This stays.”

3.) Wooyoung

insane cuteness aggression (even more than San)

Bites (booty, arms, tummy, double chin- you name it)

Shows his love by cooking for you

Gets mad at you when you speak poorly about your body

Throws literal hands when OTHERS talk about your body (once swung on a dude for fat shaming you at the club)

Ass man frfr

You’re grabbing a snack from the kitchen pantry when all of a sudden, you feel teeth on your asscheek. You yelp in pain, turning around to see Wooyoung smiling as he stands upright. “WOOYOUNG! I told you to stop doing that,” You hiss, though you’re more annoyed than actually angry. He furrows his brows and pouts, “You can’t just take away my one pleasure in life.” “Your one pleasure is biting my ass?” You snort. “Well, one of many.” You roll your eyes and return to your previous task, “Well, too bad. You’re gonna fuck around and give me rabies.” He laughs, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, “Hey…that’s mean.” “You gonna fake-pout some more?” “Maybe…” He turns his head slightly so his lips are centimeters from your neck, and it gives you delicious goosebumps on your arms— which he totally notices, “if I pout, will you kiss it better?” He places a butterfly kiss on your throat, which makes your eyes flutter, “Maybe…” You say breathlessly as you feel one of his hands release your waist to work its way down to your ass, grabbing a handful, “Then I’ll keep pouting.”

4.) Jongho

Absolutely does NOT play abt you

Genuinely finds you sexy af (and makes it known)

Loves when you show off your body and is never jealous (kinda gives him a rush knowing all that is his and his alone)

Finds your curves extra womanly

Doesn’t know how to react when you ask if something makes you look fat bc like yeah it does, but he likes that 🤔

He buttons his cuff, absentmindedly staring at his reflection, when you come up behind, straightening out the hem of your dress. When he looks up at you through the mirror’s reflection, he can see your nervous expression; how insecure you seem to be feeling as you hug your arms around your midsection, “How- how does it look?” You ask. He turns to look at you properly: he notes the way it hugs your stomach more than your other clothes usually do. He sees the color makes your hips look wider, and the halter cut shows your arms off in all their glory. The sight makes his mouth water. He doesn’t answer, just walks over to you, his eyes fixed on your chest. He brings the back of his fingers to your shoulder, caressing down your arm until he gets to your elbow, “You look…” He looks up at you, “Good enough to eat.”

[dulceazucarmorena97]

🍭FAT-TEEZ 🍬: ATEEZ Imagine (Hyung Line)

Prompt: You're (ATEEZ member)'s plus size girlfriend of a few years and he adores you <3

Warning: No smut but is suggestive/uses explicit language.

A/N and DISCLAIMER: I am a plus size Atiny, myself, and chose the title because I find it hilarious as a fellow fat. If you're triggered by anything in this imagine, please feel free to click off and find something else to read. I usually write with a very neutral way of describing (female) Y/n so that all readers can imagine themselves in her shoes; this imagine, however, is a special one for my beautiful plus size girlies.

1.) Seonghwa

thinks you're the most beautiful woman in the world

thigh worshiper

he wears your clothes for oversized looks LOL

you're the first plus size girly he's ever had and he's never going back

Hates when people say things about your body and takes it rlly personally

"Why don't you go with these?" He asks, holding up some cute jeans with cutouts at the hips, held together with laces. Your eyes widen, "Oh, God. I could never," You shake your head. He furrows his brows, "Why not? You'd look so good in them." "Seonghwa- I'm definitely not skinny enough for those." Immediately, a frown takes over his entire face. "What? I'm serious. They won't look good." "Are you kidding me?" He closes the distance between the both of you, planting his hands firmly on your shoulders and turning you around so you're looking in the mirror. He then wraps his arms around your waist, holding the pants up to your hips, his breath on your neck as he holds your gaze in the reflection. When he speaks, his deep voice coats your ear deliciously, "I don't know about you, but I think you'd look really good in these," He presses a chaste kiss just behind your ear, "And besides, it's not like you'll have to wear them for very long..."

2.) Hongjoong

loves your big tits heart

always tries to praise you so you know he thinks you're beautiful

likes pinching your muffin top (in a cute way)

isn't bothered at all by the size difference (and loves the feeling of there being too much for him to handle ;))

He lays back against the headboard of your shared bed, letting out an exhausted sigh, “I’m beat.” “I bet— you’ve been at it all morning; are you almost done recording the last two songs?” He nods, “Yeah, almost…” He gets quiet, his eyes on you as he watches you walk around the room, putting clothes away that you’ve just finished folding. His lids are low, and his mouth waters at the sight of your ass swallowing up your shorts. “Hey…come here.” You turn to him, “I’m putting away clothes.” “So?” He gives you a sly smile, tilting his head. It makes your heart flutter when he looks at you like that, and for a second, you just stand there staring back at him. You finally put the tee shirts down and walk over to him, standing at the side of the bed. He grabs your hand gently, looking up at you with those pretty, cat-like eyes, “Take a seat?” He asks, patting his lap with his free hand. You laugh, “I’m too heavy for you.” He smirks, “So?”

3.) Yunho

Loves when you wear revealing clothing that shows off that full figure

Inevitably gets jealous when other men check out that full figure

Loves eating with you and feeding you sweets (especially crème brlrrrrlrrrulée) 🩷

Is surprisingly incredibly strong for his slim frame (let’s not ask you how you know 😏)

He watches you walk over to the bar to get a refill, and he sips on the one in his hand as he waits patiently. He scans the room a bit, and when his eyes come back to you, he furrows his brows when he sees a couple guys nearby checking you out. Yunho follows their eyeline all the way to that mini skirt that he begged you to wear because he loves how delicious your legs look in it. You don’t even notice anyone staring at you at all, and it isn’t until you get back to your booth that you realizes Yunho is pouting. “What’s wrong, baby?” You ask, concerned as you set your drink down, though you don’t sit just yet. He rolls his eyes a bit, “Those guys are looking at you…” You look around to see what he means, and after a few seconds, you see them. You can’t help but laugh, “Is that why you’re upset?” He doesn’t respond, just keeps pouting. You gently tilt his face upward so he can look at you, and when you see his puppy eyes, everything in you is set ablaze as you lean down and whisper, “They’re looking but…you’re the only one who’s gonna be touching later.” His eyes are completely fixed on your lips as you speak, and when you lean in and press your lips against his, he can’t help but melt completely. Fuck those guys.

4.) Yeosang

Is rlly into the “cute” type (rounded faces with chubby cheeks)

Finds your cuteness absolutely intoxicating

Doesn’t have a physical type so much as a personality type, so dating a big girl was never off the table for him

Leaves the cooking to you (rlly it’s better this way, because…yikes 😬)

Thinks everything about you is absolutely gorgeous

You sit with your hands in your lap, your fingertips twiddling with the fabric of your pretty pink skirt. You stare out of the window, watching the night cityscape. When you turn your head, you realize Yeosang’s been looking at you, and he quickly turns away, light blush dusting both your faces. “Why are you staring so much?” “I don’t know…” He says in that deep voice that betrays his fairy-like face, “You just look…extra pretty tonight.” You want to burst at his compliment, but you try to keep it together, “Thank you…” It’s funny, really…how he can make you feel this way even after all this time. He gently reaches across the table, pinching your cheek with his two fingers, “You’re the most beautiful girl here.”

[bunny-hwa]

Sream Of Sin

28: Dom vs. Dom

Pairing: "Church" boys Ateez xFem!Reader

Genre: +18, Smut, Dark academia, Pschological Angst, Slow-burn Mystery, Love triangles, Tangled emotions, Obsession-heavy connections.

wc: 10,3k

Synopsis: The truth comes out. The war begins.

Warnings: Fluff, slight angst, talk of poliamorous activities, and adult content. Threats, intimidation, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, jealousy, obsessive behavior. Verbal confrontation, strong language, underage content references, non-consensual distribution of Intimate media and sexual talks. 

a/n: I hope you enjoy this chapter! Sorry for being MIA for almost three weeks, but work has been a bitch and I dont think it'll stop. Soooo I apologize in advance if I dont post the next chapters often. Maybe I dont have motiviation to work, or even write but you know what I have? Tickets to see Aespa live hahah.

Anyway, love you!! ❤️❤️

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

It was late night when your phone lit in the dark of your room, buzzing on your night table. Something that made you look at it in confusion. It was almost midnight. You were almost ready to sleep, you were reading some book that Seonghwa recommended to you. 

You left the book aside on your bed and grabbed your phone. You frowned immediately when you saw the person who was calling you at this hour. 

Jongho. 

“Hello?” You said. 

The line stayed in silence for a couple of seconds before you heard his voice. 

“Good night, Eunji.” 

“What happened?” You asked, visibly amused by his sudden call. 

He never greeted you, he never texted you. And of course, he never called you. This was new. 

“Can we talk?” He said quietly. 

You smiled, finding the question funny “We are already talking, Jongho.” 

You heard him scoffing, and you were sure he rolled his eyes in annoyance. 

“I’m outside your house. Let's talk face to face, Jeong.”

And he hung up. Leaving you almost speechless. You sighed, but you were already standing up and putting some sneakers on. 

In silence, you stepped outside your room, trying to not wake up your family in the other rooms. With a slow pace, you walked through the empty hallways of your house, until you reached the main door. 

When you opened it you saw a pretty black car parking right outside. You assumed Jongho would be inside, so you walked towards it and with all the trust of the world, you opened the car door and got inside. 

“Hey there, handsome.” You leaned on the seat, crossing your legs. 

Jongho scoffed, not believing the level of trust you had with him “I could’ve been a stranger, Eunji.” 

“But you aren't." You replied, a silly smile on your lips. 

He sighed “Whatever. Let's get to the point.” 

“What’s the hurry, babe?” 

“Eunji, this is serious.” He muttered, you could notice the tired tone on his voice. 

Why does he look mad? Did you do something?

“Okay... what’s going on?” You fixed your position, now facing him completely. 

He took a deep breath, arranging his thoughts, trying to know how to start this. He didn't want to scare you or make you feel attacked. He could be direct and rude with others, but not with you—not anymore at least. 

“Look… I noticed something the other day.” He stared, quietly. Watching his words. “You know I follow this camgirl, Holy JiJi, remember?” 

You stayed in silence. Why is he telling you this? Did he find out the truth?

“... yeah.” You answered softly.

“Well, I recognized the man that was with this girl. And the girl too.” He continued, his voice shaking at the end. 

You opened your eyes wide, faking surprise “O.m.g! Who?!” 

Jongho narrowed his eyes, a pang of incredulity on his chest, he knew you already knew he was talking about you. He let the silence extend to a level where the tension in the air was palpable, until he sighed, his eyes closed shut as he dragged his hands through his face. 

“San. And you, Jiji.” 

He remarked the last name, he saw how your entire form froze, the previous smile falling a little. He didn't want to push you to talk, but the only subtle way he could possibly face this situation was with zero sugarcoat, just straight to the point. 

You frowned—not scared or angry at San for being this reckless, but confused as fuck. How come that now everyone knows about your page, first Mingi and now Jongho. 

Now what, Yunho was going to find out next?

“I recognized San’s ring.” Jongho continued, taking the silence as an opportunity to clarify the thousands of questions your head might have in this moment. “I talked with him at school today, and after talking for a while I just tie the info and—”

“You figure it out is me.” You cut him, surprising him.

Jongho thought that this topic would be difficult for you, and it was, but after your talk with Mingi and his reassuring words, you weren't scared anymore. Now that Jongho knew too, you felt some kind of relief. 

You knew he was a judgemental person, with values, and with a high moral. You knew he judged you when he found out—he is probably doing it right now. But something that calmed your nerves, was that he decided to talk with you, he didn't run to your parents or Yunho, he decided to talk with you first.

Just like Mingi did. And that said more than anything. 

“Eun—”

“I know what you might be thinking.” You cut him off again, softly this time. “And it is, but everything has an explanation.” 

Jongho stares at you, amused that you didn't react the way he expected. He cleared his throat, the question that consumed his thoughts was in the tip of his tongue, the look you were giving him—pretty doe eyes staring right into his soul, but there was something else in them, sadness…?

“Tell me why, Eunji.” Jongho said softly, his voice a velvet murmur. “I want to know the truth.” 

You sighed, that topic again. Always the fucking trauma.

“First, you tell me what you think about all this.” You looked at him, finding something that could tell you that he was disgusted at you. “Depending on your answer, I’ll consider whether to tell you or not.” 

Don't get it wrong. You trusted Jongho, you knew he was a good person, and he always understood your vague words and actions. But there was still a little insecurity that screamed at you, telling you to be careful. You didn't want to get hurt, or hurt him either. 

Jongho analyzed your form, he could see how your shoulders were tense, how your eyes avoided his, how you played with your hands. He knew you enough to know that you were nervous. 

“I’m not gonna lie, Eunji.” He sighed, taking your hand in his, ready to tell you his real thoughts about this topic. “At first, I was so mad at San because he is my friend, and finding out something like this… made me feel bad.” 

You looked at him, a slight frown forming on your face “What you mean by ‘feeling bad’?

“I wonder if he was doing it for money, if he was suffering to obtain it that he had to sell his body in that way, made me feel like a bad friend for not noticing his struggles.” 

“Well, he isn't doing it for money.” You murmured. 

San was doing it just for fun, he had told you the first time that you two recorded together. 

“He mentioned that.” Jongho scoffed, still remembering San’s words. “Then I wonder why you were doing this. I know for sure you dont need the money either, you’re fucking rich.” That made you laugh, and he smiled satisfied. “The only thing that I can think of all this is that you enjoy voyeurism or some shit like that.”

You laughed again, this time a rich sound that echoed in the car. You had never thought about you having such a kink, but now that he mentioned it, maybe you do have a thing for people watching you having sex. 

“You’re laughing because you know it's true, right?” Jongho narrowed his eyes as he pulled you closer to him. “I saw you three times, Eun.” He murmured, tone so low that made you shiver in that kind of exciting way. “And let me tell you that you seem to like me watching you.” 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. You nodded, suddenly feeling shy. 

“But I know that's not the real reason behind your page.” He said and his next movements made you gasp.

He grabbed your waist and in a fast move, he had you sitting on his lap, so close that you could feel the heat of his body, the smell of his cologne, the intensity of his gaze. 

“Porbably I’m gonna judge you.” He mocked you with that smile that you loved. “But before doing so, I’m gonna listen and understand the situation. I’m not like Yunho.”

Yunho being mentioned made your entire body tense. The memory of his words, his accusations, the way he'd looked at you like you were something dirty—it all came rushing back. Jongho felt the shift in your body, the way you stiffened against him, and his grip on your waist softened.

“Hey…” He murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip. “I'm not him. I'm never going to be him. You know that, right?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat “I know.”

“Then talk to me.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers finding the collar of his shirt, playing with the fabric as a nervous habit. Where did you even start? How did you explain something that had changed the entire trajectory of your life?

“A video.” You began, your voice quiet. "The one that got leaked when I was in high school. You know about it?"

Jongho's jaw tightened, and shook his head “What video?”

“Some guy drugged me when we were doing a school project. I didn't remember anything. I found out when he sent the video to Yunho, later it leaked and I’m pretty sure all the school watched it.” You let out a bitter laugh. “I was accused of being a hooker.”

Jongho stared at you with a big frown, listening without interrupting you. You told him everything. The video surfaced online, enough to destroy your reputation. The way Yunho had believed the worst, had called you horrible names, had abandoned you when you needed him most.

Jongho's hands had stilled on your waist, his entire body going rigid as you spoke. His eyes darkened, not with judgment, but with something else… something that looked a lot like rage, carefully leashed.

“That's why you transferred.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes.” You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers twisted in his shirt. “I couldn't stay there. Everyone looked at me like I was... like I was nothing. Like I'd asked for it.”

“Eunji—”

“And then I met Wooyoung and Hongjoong.” You continued, pushing through the emotion clogging your throat. “They... they helped me. In their own weird, chaotic way. Wooyoung was the one who suggested the page.”

Jongho's eyebrows shot up “Wooyoung?”

“He said I should take control of the narrative.” You shrugged, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “That if people were going to talk about me like I was some kind of whore anyway, I might as well own it. Make money from it. Turn their judgment into something that gave me power instead of taking it away.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“At first, no. I thought he was insane.” You laughed softly. "But then I thought about it. About how helpless I'd felt when that video came out. How everyone had seen something I never consented to, something I didn't even remember. And I thought... maybe if I chose to show myself, on my own terms, with people I trusted... maybe it wouldn't hurt so much anymore.”

Jongho was quiet for a long moment, processing. His hands had started moving again, soothing strokes along your sides, grounding you both.

“San joined first.” You continued. “He was my first friend after all that situation—he was the one who defended me when some guy tried to... anyway. When Wooyoung told him about the page, he offered to help. Said he didn't mind being on camera.”

“And you believed him?”

“I trusted him.” You met Jongho's eyes. “And he proved me right. He's never made me feel unsafe. None of them have. Wooyoung films sometimes. Hongjoong too. We... we make it work.”

“So you're not just with San in the videos?” Jongho's voice was carefully neutral.

“No.” You shook your head. “I'm with all of them. In different ways. San, Wooyoung, Hongjoong... and Seonghwa.”

Jongho's eyes widened at the last name “Seonghwa knows?”

“Seonghwa knows everything.” You smiled, thinking of your gentle boyfriend, his endless patience, his unwavering acceptance. “He's not part of the videos… yet.”

He looked like he might pass out. Yet? How was it possible that his most religious friend recorded a porn video with you?... To share it?

Park Seonghwa was really mad down for you. 

He scoffed, not believing what he heard “And he's okay with sharing you with three other guys?”

“Five, actually.” You bit your lip, watching his reaction. “He knows about you and me. Also, Mingi knows too. He found out the same way you did—through the stream.”

Jongho's jaw dropped “Seonghwa knows about us fucking?

You nodded.

“Oh my god..” He muttered, dragging his free hand through his face, panic all over his body. “Fuck.”

You giggled, taking his hand off of his face “He is okay with it, Jongho.”

He sighed, trying to accept that his hyung knew he was fucking his girlfriend behind his back, he closed his eyes and changed the topic. 

“Mingi knows too? As in Song Mingi? Yunho's best friend Mingi?”

“The very same.” You nodded. “He confronted me about it today, actually. After school.”

“And?” Jongho's voice was strained, something flickering in his eyes that looked almost like jealousy. “What did he say?”

You hesitated, remembering the way Mingi had kissed you, the way he'd said goodbye. 

“He said he wouldn't tell anyone. That he understood. But he also said he couldn't... be with me anymore. Because of Yunho.”

Jongho processed this, his expression unreadable “So he walked away?”

“He said he'd still watch.” A sad smile curved your lips. “But he wouldn't touch.”

Something shifted in Jongho's expression—a softening, maybe, or a recognition of the weight you were carrying. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“That must have hurt.” He said quietly.

“It did.” You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. “But I understand. He needs to protect his friendship with Yunho. I get it.”

“And what about me?” Jongho's voice was barely a whisper. “Seonghwa hyung is not killing me, right? Where do I fit into all of this?”

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze “That depends on you, babe. I'm not going to force you into anything. I'm not going to ask you to keep secrets you're not comfortable keeping. But I will tell you the truth, always. No more lies.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not his usual guarded expression, but something real, something vulnerable.

“I'm not going to pretend I understand all of this.” He said. “The videos, the page, the... arrangement you have with the others. It's a lot.”

“I know.”

“But I'm not going to judge you for it either.” His thumb traced your jawline, gentle and reverent. “You went through something terrible, Eunji. Something no one should have to go through. And you found a way to survive. To take back your power. That's not something to be ashamed of. That's something to be proud of.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they weren't sad “Jongho…”

“I'm angry, though.” His jaw tightened. “At the bastard who did that to you. At Yunho for abandoning you. At everyone who looked at you like you were the one in the wrong.” He pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours. “But I'm not angry at you. I could never be angry at you.”

“You're not disgusted?”

“Disgusted?” He laughed, the sound warm and incredulous. “Ji, I've been half in love with you since the first time you smiled at me. Finding out you have a secret porn page doesn't change that. It just... explains some things.”

You laughed too, watery and relieved “Explains what?”

“Explains why you're so good at... certain things.” His ears turned pink, and you felt your own cheeks flush. “And why you're so comfortable in your own skin. Most girls our age are still figuring out what they want. You've known for a while.”

“Trauma will do that to you.” You shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing like a near-death experience to make you realize life's too short to be shy.”

Jongho shook his head, but he was smiling “You're impossible.”

“So I've been told.”

The laughter faded, replaced by something heavier, more charged. Jongho's hands were still on your waist, your hips, and you were still sitting in his lap, close enough to count his eyelashes. The air in the car felt thick, electric.

“You know.” You murmured, your fingers trailing up his chest. “You could always join us. If you wanted. Be a guest star on the page.”

Jongho's eyes widened in horror, his whole body going rigid “Dear god. Absolutely not!”

“Not even once?” You teased, grinning at his reaction.

“Eunji, I go to church every Sunday.” He shook his head emphatically. “I lead chapel duty. I'm pretty sure appearing in a porn video would get me excommunicated or something.”

“I'm pretty sure you had never thought about that when you fuck me."

“Because it's you, you blind my mind." He grabbed your wandering hands, holding them still against his chest. “So no videos. No cameras. No thousands of strangers watching us.”

“Fine, fine.” You laughed, relenting. “But the offer stands. If you ever change your mind…”

“I won't.”

“You had said that before, and look at us now.” You shrugged, obviously making fun of him. 

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and the tension between you had shifted into something softer, more familiar. His hands released yours, sliding up to cup your face instead, tilting it toward him.

“I've missed this.” He admitted quietly. “Being with you. Just... existing in the same space.”

“I've missed you too.” You meant it. The past few weeks had been strange without him, without the secret glances and stolen moments. “I'm glad you came tonight.”

“Me too.” His thumb traced your lower lip, his eyes darkening. “There's something else I should tell you, though. Before I forget.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing “Ann sent a message earlier. To me, San, Mingi, and Yeosang. She wants us to meet at her house tomorrow after school.”

Your heart stuttered “About what?”

“She didn't say. Just that she had something important to tell us.” His jaw tightened. “Given how she's been acting lately... I don't think it's good.”

Ann. Again? You almost groaned. 

You just got rid of a fucking bastard, and now you had to deal with Ann again? Fucking sake, god couldnt give you a damn rest. 

“Thank you for telling me.” You pressed your forehead against his, grateful for his honesty. “Will you... will you tell me what she says? After the meeting?”

Jongho was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he nodded “Of course. But Eunji... if she knows about the page—”

“She doesn't.” You shook your head. “She can't. Only a handful of people know, and none of them would tell her.”

“Then what does she want?”

“I don't know.” Fear coiled in your stomach, cold and unwelcome. “But whatever it is, I need to be prepared. Please, Jongho. Tell me what she says.”

“I will.” He pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapped tight around you, his chin resting on top of your head. “I promise.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, finding comfort in the embrace. His heart beat steady against your cheek, a calming rhythm that chased away some of the anxiety.

“Jongho?” You murmured against his chest.

“Hmm?”

“Can you kiss me?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes soft in the dim light “I thought you'd never ask.”

His lips met yours, gentle at first, almost tentative. It had been weeks since the last time and the familiarity of it made your chest ache. He tasted the same, felt the same, smelled the same. 

Like warmth. Like safety.

The kiss deepened, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head to a better angle. You sighed against his mouth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. There was no urgency here, no desperate hunger. Just sweetness. Just affection. Just two people who cared about each other, trying to hold onto something good in the middle of so much chaos.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting together.

“I really have missed you.” He whispered.

“I know.” You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw. “I missed you too.”

He kissed you one more time, soft and lingering, before reluctantly releasing you “You should go inside. It's late.”

“Probably.” You made no move to leave.

“Eunji.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” You laughed, climbing off his lap and reaching for the door handle. But before you opened it, you turned back to look at him. “Thank you, Jongho. For listening. For... everything.”

He smiled, that rare, genuine smile that made your heart flutter “Always.”

You slipped out of the car and walked back toward your house, feeling his gaze on you the whole way. When you reached the front door, you turned and waved, and he waved back, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the car's interior.

Then you stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it, your heart full and heavy all at once.

Tomorrow, Ann would make her move. Tomorrow, secrets might be exposed and friendships might shatter.

But tonight, you had this. You had Jongho's understanding, Mingi's bittersweet goodbye, Seonghwa's unwavering love, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.

Whatever came next, you would face it together.

In the car, Jongho watched the front door close, waited until he saw your bedroom light flicker on through the window. Only then did he start the engine and pull away from the curb.

His mind was racing—with everything you'd told him, with the weight of the secrets he was now carrying, with the memory of your lips against his. He thought about Ann's message, about the meeting tomorrow, about what she could possibly want.

Whatever it was, he would be ready. He would protect you. He would keep his promise. But as he drove through the dark streets, one thought echoed above all the others:

He was in way over his head. And for the first time, he didn't mind at all.

·:*¨♱✮♱¨*:·

Yeosang drummed his fingers on the desk in an anxious rhythm, his eyes locked to the wall clock instead of paying attention to what the teacher was saying.

Just five minutes, five minutes and he’ll see Ann dropping a bomb to his friends. He was ready to see her fall to the dirt again. Just like she has done since she decided to mess with you. 

He looked at Mingi two rows in front of him, his shoulders all tensed. And Yeosang knew why, because Mingi knew you would be involved in whatever Ann had to tell them, and that scared him. 

When the bell rang, Yeosang waited for Mingi to pick up his things, Yunho was there too, waiting for his best friend. But Yunho couldn't know where they were going, so he stood up and walked towards them with calm steps. 

“Hey.” He greeted them. 

“Yeo, what’s up?” Yunho smiled at him. “Want to play at my house later?” 

“Sounds good.” Yeosang smiled back. “But I have some stuff to do with Min first, right man?” He looked at the younger. 

Yunho frowned a little, his eyes darting between his two friends.

Mingi gulped, but nodded as he grabbed his backpack “Yeah…” He smiled at his best friend. “See you later at your house.” 

The tallest narrowed his eyes, this two were acting weird as fuck. He knew they were weird, but today was the kind of weirdness that was suspicious. 

“... Okay.” He murmured, still a rare feeling in his tummy. “Don’t be late.” 

“Of course not.” Yeosang said, that calm smile curving his lips. 

Yunho looked at them a last time before waving a little goodbye and turning away to walk out of the classroom. 

Yeosang and Mingi stayed in silence for a couple of seconds, both of them making sure that Yunho was far away before speaking about what was going to happen at Ann’s house. 

“So…” Mingi started. “What do you think Ann wants this time?” 

Yeosang shrugged “Don’t know, but let's go and find out.” 

With that said he started to walk, Mingi following him. When they stepped out of the classroom they saw two familiar boys standing there—San and Jongho. Both of them waited with crossed arms and a visible frown. 

“Ready to have a talk with that crazy bitch?” San asked, mock in his voice. 

Jongho smiled, his feet already moving towards them “San is driving us, let's go end Ann’s circus.” 

Yesoang smiled back, thrill running down his spine. This was just starting but it was already exciting him. 

—

Ann sighed with nervousness when she heard knocks on the door. She had an adrenaline rush when she decided to create that group chat and send the messages.. Now she was regretting it. 

With an uncomfortable feeling on her chest, she walked to the door and with a final sigh she opened it, finding four men standing on her doorstep. 

“Hey, Ann.” Yeosang was the first to greet her. 

“Hi, guys. Come in.” Ann gave them a tight smile, stepping to the side.

The boys stepped inside one by one, each of them offering her a little nod as they passed her. San was the first one to sit on the couch like it was his house, Mingi followed him. Jongho stayed on his feet behind them while Yeosang decided to stay in a corner where he could watch all of them. 

Ann closed the door behind her with a soft click, she faced the four men in her livingroom, hesitating where to sit. 

“Let's start this.” San said, leaning comfortably on the couch in a lazy gesture. “I have stuff to do.”

Mingi shoved him slightly at his mean behaviour, San just rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah.. sure.” She mumbled, and sat on the individual couch in front of them. 

She stayed there in silence, feeling their stares on her, waiting for her to talk. Why is she hesitating so much? Didn't she want to tell them what were you doing? And Yeosang was there to support her. 

She looked at Yeosang standing next to her, he gave her a slight nod, encouraging her to speak. She took a deep breath and turned to the boys again. 

“Last week, I…” She gulped nervously before continuing. “I discovered something.” 

Immediately, Jongho narrowed his eyes. Is it possible that she really knows about your page? 

“What did you discover?” Mingi asked, clueless.

Ann took another quick look at Yeosang, and spilled everything in a full sentence:

“Seonghwa and Eunji recorded an intimate video and I'm sure they posted because I saw Seonghwa editing it.”  

Silence. 

Thick. Cold. Silence. 

San and Mingi looked at each other with wide eyes. Jongho frowned. And Yeosang bit his tongue to suppress the smile forming on his lips. 

Ann lowered her gaze as she cursed herself mentally, she messed up. 

After a long silence, San cut it with an amused laugh “What?” 

Nobody answered, Ann kept her eyes occupied looking at the floor. Mingi now biting his nails in anxiety, because how the fuck did she find out? That surprised him more than knowing that Seonghwa hyung was involved in the page too. Jongho sighed, his eyes tight shut; this was the last thing you wanted, you didn't want her to know this. 

“Oh my fucking god, Ann.” San talked again, gaining the boy's attention. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

This time, Ann looked up at him and waited for the attack she knew San had for her. But it didn't come, he just stared at her with an expression that she had never seen in him: Pure anger. 

“I-I…” 

“You are to damn obsessed trying to fuck Eunji’s life, don’t you?” Jongho said, surprising everyone in the room with his initiative.

Ann frowned at that “What? No, I–”

“Ann, do you know that saying this kind of stuff can cause really big problems?” Mingi cut her off, in a calmer way than Jongho. “This isn't a topic to play around.” 

“I know.” Ann nodded, her voice sounding more confident. “That’s why I decided to tell you before telling Yunho.” 

With that, San stood up from his seat in a quick move, his shoulders tensed and wrath invaded his chest. Yunho being mentioned in that sentence blinded his thoughts, completely. 

And if you’re involved, he couldn't stay in silence. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” San said between tight teeth. “You’re suggesting that someone has a porn page just because she decided to record a sex tape with her boyfriend? Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

Silence. 

Ann looked at him with wide eyes, her chest hurting at his harsh words. And one more time, she was treated badly by him because of you. Again. Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them drop, she looked at Yeosang one more time, asking him for help. It was his idea after all. 

But Yeosang didn't say anything, he just stared at her in shock. 

Fake shock, because he internally was enjoying this a little too much.

“San.” Mingi called him, scared of his behaviour. 

“No!” San turned to Mingi, making him jolt, and pointed at him. “This bitch is putting shit on my best friend and you want me to do nothing? Fuck off.” 

“Hyung, calm the fuck down!” Jongho yelled, taking big steps towards him and forcing him to sit back, and murmured just for him to hear. “Don’t mess this shit even more.” 

San connected his gaze with Jongho’s and took a big breath, relaxing his body in the process, and nodded at the youngest. If he was mad, he would mess things up. And that included hurting you in the process. 

With the oldest completely calm now, Jongho stood to his full height and faced Ann. His features were calm, but he was shaking with anxiety inside. 

“Ann.” He called her softly. “Tell us why you think that?” 

She hesitated, blinking several times trying to make the tears in her eyes disappear, she swallowed the knot on her throat with an aching gulp—And took a quick look at San, now seated on the couch with his elbows on his knees, looking everywhere else but in her direction. 

“Ann.” Jongho said again. 

“I saw Seonghwa showing San that video.” She started, her voice low. “The video was in an editing app...” 

“So you assumed that they would update it somewhere, right?” Jongho asked, still calm.

Ann nodded, and unconsciously, her eyes drifted to Yeosang again. This time, Mingi noticed it.

“Why are you looking at Yeosang so much?” He asked, confusion all over his face.

“I—”

“She talked to me first about this.” Yeosang spoke for the first time since they arrived there. “She wanted to tell Yunho, but I told her that was a bad idea.”

“So she decided to tell us?” 

“Yeah.” He nodded.

San laughed in disbelief “What the fuck, man….” 

The room was thick with tension, each person processing the information in their own way. Ann's eyes were still wet, her hands trembling in her lap. Mingi had stopped biting his nails and was now staring at Yeosang with a new kind of suspicion. Jongho stood like a statue, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“I was just trying to help.” Yeosang said, his voice soft, almost wounded. He looked at Ann with something that resembled concern. “She came to me first. She was scared. I thought... I thought if she talked to you all, it would be better than going straight to her family.”

Ann's head snapped up, her tears forgotten “What? No! That's not—” She stood up from her seat, her voice rising. “You told me to tell them! You said they deserved to know the truth! You're the one who—”

“Ann.” Yeosang's voice was calm, almost pitying. “I told you to think carefully before doing anything. I never said you should accuse her of something without proof.”

“You did!” She was shaking now, her composure completely shattered. “You said Seonghwa was acting weird too! You said—”

“I said that if what you saw was true, then it was serious.” Yeosang shrugged, his expression unchanged. “I never told you to spread rumors. I never told you to call everyone here and make accusations. That was your choice.”

Ann stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The betrayal in her eyes was almost painful to watch—if any of them actually felt sympathy for her.

San scoffed, looking between them “So you dragged us here because Yeosang gave you some vague advice? Are you serious?”

“No, I—” Ann's voice cracked. “He made me think—”

“We're not here because of what Yeosang said.” Mingi interrupted, his voice firmer than before. “We're here because you chose to believe the worst about Eunji. Again.”

Ann flinched “That's not—”

“Couples record that kind of things sometimes.” Mingi continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “It's not that unusual. People do it for themselves, for memories, for fun. It doesn't automatically mean they're posting it online for the world to see.”

Ann's jaw tightened “Then why was Seonghwa showing it to San?”

San opened his mouth to respond, but Mingi beat him to it.

“Because they're best friends? Because people share things with people they trust? There are a million reasons that don't involve a secret porn page, Ann.”

“Exactly.” San leaned forward, his eyes locked on Ann. “Hwa is my best friend. Eunji too. We've shared a lot over the years. A video between them isn't my business to judge, and it sure as hell isn't yours.”

Ann's hands curled into fists at her sides. She looked at San, at the defiance in his eyes, and something inside her snapped. The words came out before she could stop them, sharp and venomous.

“Because you're fucking her too.” Her voice was low but steady, each word hitting like a stone in still water. “You're sharing her with Seonghwa. That's why you're defending her.”

Silence.

Absolute. Devastating. Silence.

Mingi's eyes went wide, his brain short-circuiting. He turned to look at San, then back at Ann, then at Jongho, searching for some sign that he'd misheard. But the tension in the room told him everything.

Fuck. His heart was pounding. He thought he was the only one. The only one sneaking around with you behind Seonghwa's back. But San too? And Seonghwa knew it?

Yeosang's composure finally cracked, just a fraction. His eyebrows rose slightly, his lips parting in genuine surprise. He'd known about Jongho. He'd suspected something between you and San. But this was a confirmation.

His group of friends was full of fucking secrets.

Jongho closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. He'd expected this—or something like it. Ann was too observant for her own good, and her obsession with you had made her dangerous.

San, however, didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. He didn't look away. Instead, a slow, almost mocking smile spread across his lips.

“So what if I am?” He tilted his head, his voice calm, almost bored. “What does it have to do with you, Ann?"

Ann's mouth fell open. She'd expected denial, outrage, something she could use. She hadn't expected... this.

“That's—” She stammered. “That's disgusting! You're both… Seonghwa is your friend, and you're—”

“Sharing?” San finished for her, his smile widening. “Yeah, we are. And frankly?” He stood up, towering over her even from across the room. “It's none of your fucking business. Or anyone else's, Ann.”

“This isn't normal!” Ann's voice was shrill now, desperate. “People should know—”

“People should know what?” San stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “That two consenting adults have an arrangement that works for them? That Seonghwa isn't the jealous type? That Eunji has more than enough love to go around?”

Ann backed away, her back hitting the wall “That's… that's not—”

“You have no right.” San's voice was soft now, but there was steel beneath it. “No fucking right to assume things about her based on a snippet of a video you weren't meant to see. No right to spread rumors about something you don't understand. No right to try and destroy her life because you're jealous that she has people who love her.”

“I'm not jealous—”

“Really?” San laughed, the sound hollow. “Then what is this, Ann? What are you hoping to achieve? That we'll all turn on her? That Yunho will hate her even more? That she'll finally be as miserable as you want her to be?”

Ann's eyes filled with tears again, but this time she couldn't stop them from falling “I just wanted you to—”

“I don't care what you wanted.” San cut her off, his voice hardening. “Listen to me carefully, because I'm only going to say this once.”

He stepped closer, close enough that Ann had to tilt her head back to look at him. His expression was cold, his eyes dark.

“If you ever try to hurt her again. If you spread these lies. If you go to Yunho or anyone else with this bullshit…” He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. “You will regret it. I will make sure of it. And I'm not the only one.”

He glanced back at Jongho and Mingi, both of whom nodded almost imperceptibly. A silent promise. A united front.

Ann's breath came in short, ragged gasps. She wanted to scream, to fight back, to expose every single one of them. But the look in San's eyes, the absolute certainty, terrified her.

“We're done here.” San stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let's go.”

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the door, Jongho and Mingi following without a word. The door opened, then closed, leaving Ann alone in the living room with Yeosang.

She stood there for a moment, trembling, tears streaming down her face. Then she turned to Yeosang, desperate for someone to take her side.

“Yeosang, I—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. His expression was no longer sympathetic, no longer concerned. It was blank. Almost... amused.

“You really stepped in it this time, Ann.” He shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “I told you to be careful.”

“You told me…” Ann's voice broke. “You said they deserved to know! You said—”

“I said a lot of things.” Yeosang shrugged, moving toward the door. “But I didn't make you do anything. You chose this. You always choose this.”

Ann's legs gave out, and she sank onto the couch, sobbing. Yeosang watched her for a moment, his head tilted, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he smiled. A real smile, wide and satisfied “This was even more fun than I thought it would be.”

He walked out the door, leaving Ann alone with the wreckage of her plans.

—

Outside, San was already in the driver's seat, the engine running. Mingi sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his mind still reeling. Jongho climbed into the back, closing the door with a soft thud.

“Well, now what?” Jongho asked.

“She's done for now, anyway. But she won't stay still forever, she’ll find something to keep trying to fuck up Ji.” 

“So you both know about the page then?” Mingi's voice was quiet, thoughtful. His mind still running. 

Jongho nodded “We do, but not Yeosang.”

“Fuck.” Mingi muttered. 

"We need to tell her what happened.” San said.

“She already knows Ann was planning something.” Jongho glanced at him. 

“Let's tell Seonghwa too.” San murmured, giving him a knowing look. “I’ll take you home, Min.” 

They needed to tell the others too, and unfortunately, Mingi wasn't part of the group. 

The car fell into silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. But they had one idea in common: 

Ann was wounded, but not defeated. And a cornered animal was always the most dangerous kind.

—

Back in the house, Ann sat alone in the darkening living room, her tears finally slowing to hiccups. She pulled out her phone, staring at the screen, at the group chat she'd created, at the messages that had started all of this.

She'd lost. Again.

Every time she tried to tear you down, you only seemed to rise higher. Every time she tried to expose you, more people came to your defense.

She couldn't win. She couldn't even compete.

But she couldn't stop either.

Because if she stopped, she'd have to admit the truth—that she wasn't trying to expose you for some noble reason. She wasn't protecting anyone.

She just wanted San.

She was just jealous. Desperately, painfully jealous of a girl who had the boy she wanted.

And that was a truth she couldn't face.

So she'd keep fighting. Keep scheming. Keep trying to find the one thing that would finally make you fall.

Even if it destroyed her in the process.

✮

All of you were in San’s bedroom. Hongjoong seated right in front of the big window as he smoked a cigarette, Wooyoung was leaned against the closed door, San and Jongho were seated on the small couch in the middle of the room, and you and Seonghwa were on San’s bed, Hwa leaning against the headboard while you were leaning on his chest.

The scene looked like a normal friend’s hang out, gossiping around—but this wasn't simple gossip, it was a real problem. 

“What the actual fuck…” Hongjoong scoffed, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

Was the only thing the whole room heard the moment Jongho and San finished telling you all the details about what happened just an hour ago. 

“Her obsession with you is insane, Sannie.” Wooyoung mocked him, sly smirk curving on his lips. 

San scowled “It’s not funny, Woo.”

Wooyoung lifted his hands apologetically, but his smile stayed intact. 

“She’s fucking sick.” Seonghwa said softly. 

You just nodded, still processing all the information. Somehow this made you feel anxious… she didn't know about your page, but she already had suspicions. There was a little probability that she might find out about your camgirl identity. And that scared you a lot. 

When did this become so big? At the beginning you were just playing around with her and—

“It’s all my fault.” You said out of nowhere interrupting their conversation. 

Everyone turned to see you in confusion. 

“What?” Jongho asked. 

“I started all this.” You said as you move to sit properly between Seonghwa’s legs. “If I didn't play with her feelings this wouldn't be happening.”

“What are you talking about, angel?” Seonghwa asked this time, sitting properly too. 

You locked eyes with Hongjoong, Wooyoung and San. They knew what you were talking about, and you noticed the moment Wooyoung let out a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my god, that's true.” He said, a disbelief laugh dropping off his throat. 

“Please explain, Eunji.” Jongho insisted, a deep frown on his forehead.

“When we were friends I thought she liked Yunho, but then I noticed that she was into San..” You started explaining, but the rest of the story was pretty mean, and you knew Jongho would get mad. Therefore, you continued. “So I thought it would be fun to play with her.” 

“Play in what kind of way?” Jongho narrowed his eyes, he could already feel what you were going to say next.

“I asked San to be cheesy with her, just to make her think San was into her too. Then…” You bit your lip in shame, now that you’re saying it aloud… What you did was wrong.

Hongjoong, noticing your struggle to continue, he took the initiative. He took a last drag of his cigarrate and spoke: “During the retrait Ann saw San and Ji fucking, since that day she tried to sabotage her to get San’s attention.”  

You heard Seonghwa gasp in surprise, Jongho looked at you with a serious expression, and Wooyoung suppressed a laugh. 

“Eunji.” Jongho started.

“I know, I know!” You cut him off, already knowing that he was about to scold you. “I was such a bitch, but we thought it was going to be fun.” 

“Angel, that was kinda cruel.” Seonghwa said as he grabbed his arms around your waist. “I can imagine why you did it, but it was cruel, baby.” 

“I know!” You whined dropping back on his chest. “But I didn't think she would take it that personally.” 

“She is crazy, to be honest.” Wooyoung muttered. “We were just having a little fun with her.” 

“Her obsession with San is incredible.” Hongjoong scoffed again. “It wasn't all your fault, pretty. She is sick on the head.” 

“Facts.” San nodded. 

Seonghwa sighed, his hold on your waist becoming more tight, “We need to be careful with her anyway. We don't know what could be her next move.” 

Jongho hummed in agreement “Let’s try to stay away from her, and don't provoke her.” The last sentence was clearly directed at you for the way he looked at you. 

You gave him a tight smile, but nodded. 

“You still have to present a project with her dude.” Wooyoung reminded him. 

Jongho groaned “I can deal with her for a couple of days.” 

“All right, changing topics.” Hongjoong clapped and pointed at Jongho with his lighter before lighting a new cigarette. “What are you doing here?”

Jongho looked at him with a frown, fucking rude. He thought.

“Joong.” You warned him, a real smile forming on your lips. 

You feel the vibrations of Seonghwa’s laugh on your back “Our jealous captain here.” He murmured against your ear, making you giggle. 

“He knows.” San told him in a vague tone. 

Hongjoong frowned “Knows what?” 

“Everything.” Jongho added, facing Hongjoong without fear.

Immediately, Wooyoung looked at you with a surprised expression, you made a gesture with your hand expressing your excitement about the situation. 

Nobody had talked to Hongjoong that way—direct and fearless of his harsh personality. 

“Well, well.. This guy has some guts.” Hongjoong smirked, taking the first drag of his third cigarette. “Who told you?” 

“I figured it out, and then I talked with Eunji.” Jongho shrugged.

“I hope he isn't going to be part of us, pretty.” He said to you, giving you a knowing look that said ‘I don't like him.’

Before you could say anything, Jongho spoke again:

“I don't want to be part of whatever shit you have.” He said with a pretty rude tone, not tolerating this guy talking in that way at him. “I’m just here because I care for Eunji and she trusted me with this part of her life.” 

You nodded, agreeing with his words. Hongjoong arched his eyebrow at you, he wasn't mad that you told him, he was amused by Jongho’s maturity. But that didn't mean he couldn't make fun of this little guy.

“And fuck her behind our backs.” He wasn't asking, he affirmed. 

You almost choked with your laugh. Wooyoung and San laughed aloud, holding his stomachs. Seonghwa giggled too while Jongho’s cheeks flushed bright red, really ashamed by those words.

Hongjoong gave him a sly smirk, knowing the effect he provoked on him. That’s what Hongjoong wanted, making him aware that he was the leader here, he was the one that led the group.

And everyone knew that. Hongjoong needed to let Jongho know that he was the one in charge here. 

“Joongie hyung, you’re being so rude.” Wooyoung sang in mockery.

You laughed this time, catching the reference of that popular song. Wooyoung winked at you. 

“Whatever, that is none of your business.” Jongho said after his little moment of embarrassment. “That’s only mine and Eunji’s business.” 

“You’re forgetting that she has a boyfriend.” Hongjoong pointed at Seonghwa. 

“Isn’t like you respect his place that much.” Jongho muttered, scoffing.

“But we have an agreement, man.” San reminded him. “So it is his business.” 

Jongho stayed in silence, feeling like a bucket of cold water just dropped over his head—He didnt remember about that, that he did fuck with you behind his friend’s back. Even if you had told him many times that Hwa was okay with it, still was doing it without him knowing. And that was unfair—a betrayal. 

“Hyung… I—” 

“It’s okay Jongho.” Seoghwa shook his head, a kind smile on his face. “I already knew about you two, and I accepted it.” 

“I told him everything the moment we started dating officially.” You added, calming him a little with your words. 

“So… how does this thing work?” Jongho asked, really confused.

If Seonghwa was your boyfriend, then what role did the others have in your life? Your lovers, just fuck buddies, or workmates? 

“If she already told you everything you have to know that we were already together.” Wooyoung started. “Not as a whole couple, but as a group with the same crush.”

Jongho stared at him, confused all over his features “What does that even mean?”

San chuckles softly, “We all like Eunji, and we have individual relationships with her, but we don't have labels.” 

“We just let things flow.” Hongjoong clarified.

“Seonghwa is her boyfriend.” Jongho started softly, the gears in his brain working. “But you are just her fuck buddies?” 

San hummed and nodded “Something like that, but we’re more that just fuck buddies, we love her in different ways.” 

Jongho looked at you, asking for confirmation and you nodded offering a sweet smile. He sighed, closing his eyes. Still processing all this. 

“Then why is this guy acting like he is Eunji’s boyfriend?” He pointed at Hongjoong with a frown.

Hongjoong arched his brow, his cigarette on his lips “I’m the one who leads the group activities, kid.” 

“Orgies, you meant.” Jongho scoffed. The ‘joke’ hanging on the air.

“So, are you going to be part of this or not, Saint Jongho?” Wooyoung asked him.

He narrowed his eyes “I already told you that my stuff with Eunji is none of your business.” 

Hongjoong chuckled, but humorlessly “I don't like this guy.” 

“Hyung, don't be mean with the kid.” San said, a sly smile curving on his lips. 

Hongjoong’s eyes never left Jongho’s, it was like both of them were fighting each other just to prove their own points. And none of them wanted to lose. 

“I don’t care if you don’t like me.” Jongho stated. “I’m not here to be liked by anyone.”

Hongjoong chuckled, exhaling the smoke towards the ceiling, finding Jongho’s words funny “Yeah, you’re just here to fuck her and pretend that doesnt make you part of this.” 

“I don't need your approval.” Jongho’s jaw clenched with force, real anger starting to flow through his veins. 

Hongjoong leaned forward, elbows to his knees, and looked directly at the youngest “You’re wrong, kid.” 

Jongho frowned at hearing that nickname again. He is just one year younger than him, why is he calling him kid?

“You do need my approval.” His voice was flat, his eyes darkening. “Not Seonghwa’s. Not Eunji’s. Mine.”

“You—”

“I am,” Hongjoong cut him off with harsh tone. “—the one who tells when to touch, when to kiss, when to look at her. Because when we are all together, I lead.”

Jongho narrowed his eyes “All together?” 

“Orgies, you called them.” Hongjoong gave him a sharp smile. 

No fucking way. Jongho thought, his eyes flying to see Seonghwa with wide eyes. 

Seonghwa just gave him a slight nod, confirming Hongjoong’s words. 

“Yes.” Hongjoong continued. “When we are all together I make the decisions. I decide the pace, the intensity, the order. Everything. And they know it.” 

Your cheeks flushed bright red, memories of all the intimate moments you had shared with them replaying vividly in your brain. It was true.. All of it. It wasn't just because Hongjoong was a possessive freak over you, it was because he knew how the dynamic worked. 

He knew how Wooyoung loved to be degraded and being told what to do. He knew how San enjoyed sharing his dominance with him—even if he had to follow his orders. He knew now how Seonghwa enjoyed to see you losing your damn mind, how he loved seeing how much you were loved and took care by the rest. 

Hongjoong knew you, and he knew how much you loved everything he planned in those group activities. 

And everyone in the room was aware of it. 

“Well, I'm not interested in your dynamic.” Jongho said, refusing to be part of that shit. 

“That’s okay.” Hongjoong’s voice dropped to a lower tone. “You can have your private moments with her if she wants and Seonghwa is okay with it.” He shrugged, almost bored with the conversation. “But just remember that when we are together you’ll follow my lead. And if you don't like it, then don't come at all.” 

Jongho scoffed “You can’t—”

“I can.” Hongjoong interrupted him again, hard expression on his features. 

The room fell into a tense silence, even Wooyoung stopped smirking, his eyes wide at the verbal confrontation. San was tense on the couch, ready to stand up if he needed to intervene. Seonghwa's arms had tightened around your waist, grounding you.

Both men stared at each other again, having a fight with their gazes. Then Jongho nodded, he wasn't the type to follow others, and he wouldn't follow him. But he knew he wouldn't win this debate. 

“Whatever.” He murmured, his eyes still locked on Hongjoong’s. “I’m not interested in joining.” 

“Are you sure?” Hongjoong raised an eyebrow in mockery. 

“Yes.” Jongho said firmly, and stood up from the couch. He walked towards the door, and looked at Seonghwa, then at you. “I’m just with her.” 

Your heart stuttered. This was why you liked him—this quiet confidence, this refusal to bend to anyone's will except his own and yours. He wasn't playing anyone's game. 

“Seonghwa hyung.” He called him. “Only if you’re okay with it.” 

Seonghwa nodded, offering him a soft smile “I trust her, and I trust you.”

Jongho nodded at his hyung “Thanks, Hwa.” Then his eyes returned to you. “Then just us. Not group activities, not filming. Just you and me.”

You smiled, a warm feeling in your chest “That would be great then.” 

“Of course you would like that, pretty.” Hongjoong made fun of you, but there wasn't real mockery in his voice. “Well, but if you ever want to join us—”

“I wont.” Jongho answered quickly. 

“—the offer stands.” Hongjoong finished his sentence ignoring the sudden interruption. “You’re a dom. We could have a lot of fun together.” 

Jongho almost laughed, “I know I won’t.” 

“Like Justin Bieber said: Never say never, baby.” Wooyoung said randomly, breaking the serious moment.

You giggled at the silly quote, and Seonghwa rolled his eyes. 

Wooyoung being Wooyoung. 

“We’ll see, Jongho.” It was Hongjoong’s last words. 

The tension in the room suddenly disappeared. You sighed, relieved that the things didn't escalated. 

Wooyoung let out a dramatic sigh, slumping against the door “Thank god we didn't end fist fighting.” 

“Not today.” San muttered, knowing that this won't be the last talk his young and younger friend would have. 

Jongho’s lips finally curved in a real smile, shaking his head “You all are fucking insane.” 

“You too.” You muttered, and everyone laughed.

Jongho looked at you with something soft in his eyes, something that only you understood. 

San clapped, ending the show and shifting to the important thing “All right, we have a bigger problem than Saint Jongho not joining Eunji’s harem.” 

“Right.” Hongjoong nodded.

“That crazy bitch is not going to stop until she destroys our babygirl.” Wooyoung said bitterly. “What do we do, hyung?” 

“Nothing.” Hongjoong answered. “Just try not to be all over Ji. Let's try to act like a normal group of friends.” 

“That would be hard.” San scoffed, already imagining it. 

“We have to try.” Hongjoong’s voice was firm. “Ann knows a lot of us. If she finds more proof, we’re fucked.”

“For now she is just a girl with a grudge.” You added. 

Seonghwa hummed, agreeing, “For now, we just need to be careful.” 

Everyone nodded.

Whatever came next, you wouldn't face it alone. And that, more than anything, was what gave you hope.

·:*¨♱✮♱¨*:·

The only sound that echoed in the room was the movie playing on Yunho’s TV, a movie that none of them were enjoying. Both deep in their own thoughts. 

Ann was seated next to Yunho, close enough to fill the illusion of a normal couple. Yunho was holding a bowl of popcorn on his lap, his eyes never leaving the TV screen—even if he wasn't paying attention. 

Yunho sighed, already tired of pretending to be okay with her presence, “I’m getting some drinks, do you want something special?” He said as he moved the bowl to Ann’s lap.

Ann hummed, thinking “Maybe just water, please.” 

He nodded with a soft smile as he stood “Be right back in a minute.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Ah! Yu, can I take your phone to send me the pictures we took?” 

“Sure.” He said, already walking towards the door. 

Ann watched him go, her smile fading the moment he disappeared.

She wanted to do all these kinds of stuff with only one man—Choi San. But lately, being around him felt totally different from the beginning, it was like... like she was trying so hard to act, when it was his role in all this. 

He was distracted, distant, always looking at his phone when he thought she wasn't watching. 

It was weird. 

She took Yunho’s phone that was lying on the nightstand, she pressed her finger on the scan button to unlock it. 

As she hummed a random song, she scrolled through the recent photos they took. She deleted some where she looked like a mess. There was a good one—her smiling and Yunho looking at her with soft eyes. She was about to click the heart below when her thumb slipped and the photo disappeared.

“No, no, no—shit.” 

She clicked to the trash folder, scrolling past the photos she had deleted, looking for the one she—A video?

Her thumb hovered over it, a confused scowl on her face. Yunho was meticulous about taking pictures or recording videos, she still remembers the first time she looked at his gallery. It was empty, zero memories. The first photo he had on his phone was one that she took on their third date.

His trash folder should be empty, but he had this video file. From almost five years ago.

The video didn't have a thumbnail, it was just dark. Her heart started to beat fast, and it was a signal that she shouldn’t watch it. 

But the adrenaline to know the content of the video was stronger than her inside voice. 

She pressed play… and then she realized why she shouldn't open it in the first place. 

Her eyes widened in complete shock, her hand flying to cover her mouth. 

What the fuck is this? 

And why does Yunho have it?

She couldn't believe what her eyes were seeing, but definitely was you. 

You were lying on a bed, your face half-hidden by tangled hair, your eyes closed. Unconscious, maybe, or just deeply asleep. The camera focused on your neck first—the column of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, and the marks scattered across your skin like fallen petals.

Hickeys. Bruises. Evidence of something rough, something hungry.

Ann's breath caught. She watched as the camera panned lower, past your bare shoulder, past the sheet pulled halfway down your chest, to—She saw it. The white liquid. Thick and visible.

Who would record something like this? Why would you record something like this? This was wrong, because comparing this short video with the one she saw, wasn't just a couple’s intimate video. 

This looked like a way to show off. 

And if Yunho had it, if Yunho had seen it and deleted it—must be what she is thinking.

You did this years ago, but at the moment was wrong. So wrong that maybe started the ridiculous hate Yunho has towards you. 

You really did have a porn page. That had to be. 

Ann’s mind raced with many thoughts, but not concern, not horror, not disgust, not pity—she saw it as her wildcard to finally knock you off your gold pedestal. 

This was all she needed to finally win for once. 

And without thinking twice, her fingers moved on autopilot: Restore, share, send to, delete. 

The door cracked and she dropped Yunho’s phone back on the nightstand, her heart almost coming out of her chest. She smiled the moment the door opened and Yunho stood inside the room

“I got more snacks.” Yunho announced, his arms full of different color bags and two drinks. “Thought we could eat some sweets.” 

“That’s lovely, Yu. Thanks.” She stood up to help him.

He grinned, and leaned to kiss her forehead in gratitude. 

But without Yunho noticing, Ann was already planning her next move.

And she knew exactly what she was going to do. 

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private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER NINETEEN

cross-posted on ao3

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter eleven. chapter twelve. chapter thirteen. chapter fourteen. chapter fifteen. chapter sixteen. chapter seventeen. chapter eighteen. chapter twenty (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), 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: 12.0k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm a little nervous about this one so i hope you enjoy!! i'm also posting this at 3am so please excuse any typos even though they're usually there anyway

chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, rough sex, finger sucking, dacryphilia, choking, biting/marking, praise kink, degradation, hair pulling, throat fucking, mirror sex, bondage, overstimulation, spanking, edging, daddy kink (oppa), creampie, jealous/possessive behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

Hongjoong's bedroom is dead silent.

You stand frozen in the middle of the carpet, drowning in the oversized fabric of his sweater, eyes locked on him. He hasn't moved in two full minutes. His hand is still clamped around the doorknob. He's breathing heavily, his bare chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as his gaze stays fixed on some empty point on the wall across the room. 

The intense heat from just moments ago—the heat between all three of you—is gone. In its place is this suffocating silence that's already made your stomach plummet. You feel like you have whiplash. One second, everything was burning and impossible to think through; now, everything just feels cold. You suddenly have the awful realization that you just did something you can never, ever take back. 

"Hongjoong...?" you ask quietly, your voice shaking from the anxiety of not knowing what's coming next.

He doesn't respond. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at that same spot. Then, slowly, his fingers loosen from the doorknob. He pulls his hand off the metal and drags it through his messy hair, pushing the sweaty strands out of his face. 

"You... you can sit."

His voice is flat. Drained of any trace of what happened between you just a few minutes ago.

Your knees practically buckle, and you drop onto the couch before you even realize your body has moved. The cushion dips beneath your weight as you pull your legs together, your fingers twisting nervously around the hem of his sweater.

He still won't look at you. You can't tear your eyes away from him, though every second of it makes the knot in your stomach twist harder. Your anxious gaze runs down his bare chest. Every muscle is pulled taut under the dim light of his bedroom. Seeing your normally composed tutor like this—half-naked and visibly tense—feels surreal.

What just happened? How did the plan derail so fast? It was supposed to be a fake date with Seonghwa to make Hongjoong jealous. To force a reaction. In a way, you guess it worked. But it was never supposed to escalate that far.

Or... was it? Was this Seonghwa's plan all along? Was trusting him a huge mistake? You chew on the inside of your cheek, terrified. Is Hongjoong regretting it? Is he furious with Seonghwa for pushing things too far? Is he disgusted with you for surrendering to it so easily?

Finally, he turns his head.

You brace yourself, preparing for the anger you're certain is coming.

But it isn't anger staring back at you.

It's shame. 

Hongjoong pushes himself away from the doorframe and walks toward the couch. He doesn't sit beside you; he claims the farthest cushion possible, leaving a wide stretch of space between you. He leans forward, elbows dropping onto his knees. You don't dare move. You hardly dare to breathe.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.

"I'm sorry." 

The word knocks you off balance. Sorry?

You stare at him, your lips slightly parted as a dozen different responses pile up on your tongue, stacking up behind your teeth—but none of them make it out. You look at the empty stretch of couch between you. He's sitting so far away. Just five minutes ago, there wasn't a single millimeter of space between you, his skin burning against yours, his hands all over your body. Now, he's closed himself off again. 

Does he regret touching me? you wonder, a cold ache settling in your chest. Does he really believe it was that big a mistake? The cruelst, most insecure part of your mind whispers an even worse fear: Did he even want me at all, or was he just doing it to 'win' against Seonghwa?

You swallow hard, forcing your paralyzed vocal cords to work. "Why..." Your voice cracks. You wince and try again. "Why are you sorry?"

Hongjoong's hand reaches up to grip the back of his neck, roughly massaging the tense muscles there before he exhales. He still refuses to look at you. His eyes stay glued to the carpet. 

"I'm your tutor."

Your stomach sinks.

You gaze at the side of his face, your heart breaking completely.

Your tutor.

As if the last thirty minutes could be reduced to a single line of professional misconduct.

When you don't answer, he shakes his head faintly.

"I crossed a line, ____," he says quietly, your name slipping from his mouth like it hurts to say it. "I'm sorry." 

You sit perfectly still on the edge of the cushion, your mind scrambling to understand what he means. What exactly is he trying to say? That it was all just a lapse in judgment? That tearing you away from his best friend, crashing his mouth against yours, fully claiming you—that all of it was nothing more than a mistake he wishes he could undo? 

A stinging heat builds behind your eyes.

You drop your gaze before he can see it, staring down at your lap instead of his face. Your fingers tremble as they curl into his sweater, tugging the sleeves down until they swallow your hands. 

"Did you..." you start, hating how small you sound. You force yourself to finish the question, even as your words threaten to shake apart. "Did you only do it because... he was there?"

Hongjoong flinches.

His head snaps toward you, making you jump. For the first time since the door shut, he actually looks at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes you crumble. 

"Is that really what you think?" he asks. A bitter sound escapes his throat, not quite making it to a laugh. "You think I don't know what the two of you planned?"

Your eyes go wide.

Before you can even question how he knew, he abruptly pushes to his feet. He turns away, crossing the room in a few long strides, pacing the short length of the opposite wall.

"I didn't do it because he was there." You hold your breath as you watch his shoulders tense, the words forcing their way out of his mouth. "I did it because I couldn't stop myself anymore."

Your heart stops. You track the rigid line of his spine, your focus dropping to his hands at his sides. They're trembling.

"I've spent every Thursday sitting three feet away from you," he says through gritted teeth, "pretending I don't feel anything while I watch you trip over your pronunciation again and again. Acting like I'm just doing my job. Then I go home and sit on that couch, staring at the wall, wondering what's wrong with me for feeling this way about my own student."

Slowly, reluctantly, he turns back to face you. When his eyes finally meet yours again, they look even more shattered than before. 

"Your plan worked," he breathes, looking at you from across the room. "Seonghwa pushed me, and I used it. I let the jealousy take over because... because..."

His voice falters. He breaks eye contact, turning his head toward the wall, his jaw locking so hard a muscle jumps beneath his skin as he refuses to finish the sentence.

The room goes still. You can't speak. A tremor runs through your entire body from where you sit, paralyzed on the couch. You hadn't forced this out of him. You hadn't asked for a confession. And yet, he's unraveling anyway, pulling apart every boundary he just tried to rebuild.

"Because I'm weak," he finally forces out. The words are quick, tossed aside with a self-deprecating ease, but the sentence doesn't land right. You can tell that it isn't what he originally intended to say. "I knew what you two were doing. From the moment you told me he 'answers your texts,' I realized the whole thing was a game. And I still let myself lose, because..."

He trails off again. For a second, it almost seems like he might actually say what he means this time, but he doesn't. His head turns toward you, but the vulnerability from a second ago is now hidden.

"Was a game all it was to you?" he asks, his gaze pinning you to your spot on the couch. "You and him... laughing about how easy it was to make me lose my mind for you?"

You quickly shake your head. Everything is spiraling, going wrong. Another hot wave of tears blurs your vision as the words tumble out.

"No, Hongjoong, I—"

"Why are you still here?"

His voice slices through yours.

The words snap your mouth shut. You stare at him, stunned. You don't recognize this exposed, unstable version of Hongjoong at all—he's nothing like your careful tutor or even the possessive man you first met thirty minutes ago. He takes a step toward you, and though it isn't much, the distance doesn't quite feel controlled anymore.

"You got what you wanted," he continues, deadly quiet. "You pushed, and you made me snap. You made me say those... those things back there." He looks away like the memory is something he can't stand to hold. His voice breaks. "What... what else do you want from me?"

You can't move. A tear slips free, falling silently down your cheek.

He knows. He knows what you want from him without you ever having to say it out loud. And still, he won’t give it to you.

His eyes catch the tear tracking down your skin, and suddenly, all the anger drains out of him at once. He stops in his spot near the edge of his bed, no longer pacing. His eyes drag over you, absorbing the wreckage piece by piece. The tear sliding down your cheek. His oversized sweater swallowing your body. Your bare legs tucked defensively beneath you. And finally, the bluish-purple marks he left scattered across your neck.

He stares at the evidence of his loss of control. Slowly, he lifts a shaking hand, readjusting his glasses as he exhales through his nose. 

"Look at you," he says quietly. His voice isn't angry anymore. "You're a mess because of me."

You look up at him through your blurred vision, your heart doing a confused flip. There’s nothing in him you can read clearly right now, no emotion that stays still long enough for you to make sense of. He holds your gaze for one excruciating second longer before a sigh leaves his lips, and he turns his head away to stare elsewhere, shutting you out.

But watching him look away again finally breaks you.

Before you even fully register what your body is doing, you're lifting your arm, using his sleeve to wipe your damp cheek. You push yourself up from the couch on unsteady legs.

"It wasn't a game to me, Hongjoong."

Your legs are shaking so badly you feel like you might collapse, but your exhausted voice finally finds its footing. 

"Is that really what you think?" you ask, forcing him to listen even if he refuses to look. "That I'd let Seonghwa touch me like that... that I'd let you do what you just did to me... as a joke?"

Hongjoong's jaw locks tight, his chest heaving as he desperately tries to pull his walls back up.

"Then why?" he grits out after a moment. "Why him?"

"Because you weren't doing anything!"

The words spill out of you, all the months of agonizing tension, mixed signals, and silent pining finally reaching their breaking point.

"You ignored me for an entire week!" you snap, your frustration bleeding into every syllable. "You disappeared and left me with some shitty backup tutor because you were too scared to show your face after kissing me!"

Hongjoong's head whips back toward you, startled. His lips part, a defense already forming on his tongue, but you refuse to let him speak.

"I was there. I sat across from you every week, too," you continue, shaking. "I tried so hard not to feel anything. I fought it just like you did. But I couldn't help it. I tried to understand what you were thinking, what I meant to you... But every time I thought we were getting somewhere, you went right back to being professional."

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he forces his expression into something unreadable.

You keep going.

"But then... everything," you breathe out, your hands still balled into fists inside the sleeves of his sweater. "Offering to help me outside of our sessions. Asking for my Instagram. Replying to my story. The design. The songs. All the little things told me I wasn't imagining everything. All of it confirmed that you feel the same way I do." 

Hongjoong doesn't interrupt. His eyes are guarding whatever thoughts are in his mind, making it impossible to tell what's breaking through and what he's still holding back.

You take a step toward him, your legs no longer shaking now that you're finally letting it all out. "You invited me to your apartment, Hongjoong. You kissed me on Monday! And just ten minutes ago, you—"

You cut yourself off as your throat tightens so painfully that you can't even force the rest of the sentence out. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

"It wasn't a game," you say again, quieter. "I was desperate. I wanted you to stop avoiding me. I wanted you to admit what you feel—to me, and to yourself." You lift your chin, gathering every last ounce of strength you have to lock onto his eyes. "I don't care that we crossed a line tonight. I just want you to be honest with me." You pause, your voice wavering. "I just want you to tell me how you feel."

He's quiet for a long moment. The breath he'd been holding in eventually escapes him as he turns his body fully toward you, his shoulders squared yet unsteady.

"You said I was scared?" he asks shakily. "Yeah, ____. You're right. I'm terrified of how easily you make me forget every rule I've ever made for myself."

He reaches out before he seems to fully think about it, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. Without meaning to, you lean into the empty space between you. But before his skin can make contact with yours, he catches himself. His hand falls back to his side, his fingers curling into a tight fist against his thigh.

"I didn't ignore you after Monday because I didn't feel anything," he confesses. "I ignored you because I felt too much."

Your heart flutters involuntarily as you listen. 

"I... I don't know why, but since the first time I saw you, I’ve been thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t have. And Monday... Monday was when it stopped being something I could only imagine." His throat bobs as he swallows. "Ever since then... every time I've thought about you, I’ve had to stop myself from walking over to your dorm and doing exactly what I did tonight."

You suck in a sharp breath. His gaze drops slowly to drag over your body once more, taking in the sight of you in his sweater, standing in the middle of his bedroom.

"And now you're right here," he says, the words rough. "In my room, wearing my clothes, telling me you actually wanted this." That bitter, breathless sound escapes him again. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me, ____? Do you really want me to tell you the truth? The truth is that if I actually tell you how I feel... you'll never be just my student again."

You hesitate as you realize what's happening. Though trembling, you take another step forward, leaving only one step left between you, forcing him to look down. Close enough that there's nowhere left for either of you to hide. You study his face instead of answering straight away, absorbing the desperation written plainly across his features.

"Then stop trying to make me just your student," you whisper. "Because I haven't felt like 'just your student' since you brought me that strawberry Milkis all those sessions ago."

Hongjoong quickly looks away. A string of muttered Korean spills from his lips—words spoken too hastily and quietly for you to hear. 

But when he looks back down at you, the final wall has crumbled. The look in his eyes is nothing short of devastating.

"I've never done this before, ____," he says, his voice so quiet that you have to lean closer just to hear it. "I don't know how to be someone who... feels things like this." His hands flex at his sides, his fingers curling before releasing helplessly. "I don't even understand it myself. When I'm around you, everything changes. I get nervous. I get jealous. I say things I could never bring myself to say in English."

His gaze drops, lingering on your lips with a hunger that makes your skin prickle before snapping back to your eyes.

"In Korean, it's easy. I can say whatever I want because I know you won't understand. I can tell you exactly how much it hurt watching you walk into my apartment with someone else tonight." He searches your eyes nervously. "But if I say it in English..."

He pauses, trailing off, caught between hesitation and longing. 

"If I say it in English, then I can't pretend I didn't mean it. You... You'll finally know the truth," he whispers. "And the truth is... I don't have the words in your language to explain how badly I want you. English is too small. It doesn't come close to the way I've been thinking about you for months—about how you could be more than just my student. Every lesson, I've been forcing myself to stay professional, to keep that table between us... but there isn't a single word in the English language for what you do to me."

You look up at him, your heart swelling as the reality of what he's admitting washes over you.

"Then stop trying to find the words," you whisper.

You take that final, inevitable step, closing the last inch of distance between you until your chest is nearly brushing his bare skin. 

"If English isn't enough... then show me. You've been teaching me how to speak for months, Hongjoong. Now, teach me how you feel."

The vulnerability in his eyes makes it almost impossible to breathe out your final words.

"Teach me in a language we both know." 

Hongjoong doesn't move.

He stares down at you, letting the silence stretch until it feels heavier and somehow louder than the desperate challenge you just threw at him.

For a moment, you worry he's about to step back again. That you pushed him too far. 

But you're wrong.

This time, he doesn't rush. There's no desperate grasping hands, no reckless clash of teeth like before.  

He slowly leans in closer.

Both of his hands reach for you. There's a faint, barely-there tremble in his fingers as they hook under the hem of your sweater. His knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your hip, sending shivers over your body. 

"Then pay close attention," he says, his voice shaking. You see something shift behind his eyes as his grip on the fabric tightens. "Arms up."

You obey without hesitation, lifting your unsteady arms above your head.

He slowly draws the sweater up your body. He lets the thick fabric drag along your skin, brushing up your stomach, over your ribs, and catching on the curve of your chest before slipping over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind him without even looking. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

The cool air of the bedroom hits your bare skin, making you shudder. But Hongjoong doesn't close the gap between you just yet. He remains motionless, his eyes tracing the length of your body, drinking you in as though he's committing the sight of you to a forbidden memory. When his attention settles on the faint, blooming bruises across your collarbone and the curve of your neck, his eyes darken. 

His hands lift again. His fingertips are warm when they find you, the calloused roughness of his skin brushing along the line of your collarbone. The pads of his fingers glide upward, trailing the delicate bone of your neck until his palms bracket your jaw. He tilts your face up, his thumbs swiping over your cheekbones, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Look at me," he says softly. He leans in, the hot, shaky flutter of his breath brushing over your lips. "You want me to show you how I feel? Then look at what you do to me."

His thumbs drag across your face one last time before his hands descend. They trace the pulse at your throat, over the slope of your bare shoulders, trailing down your sides until his fingers splay across the small of your back.

He pulls you against him.

A gasp leaves your lips as your skin meets his. But what completely knocks the breath out of you is the frantic beat of his racing heart against yours. And lower, pressing against your bare stomach through the thick cotton of his sweatpants, is the hard, undeniable proof of his arousal. 

He doesn't need to explain it with words. You can feel exactly how desperately he wants you.

Hongjoong bows his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His nose brushes right over the marks left behind by his and Seonghwa's earlier battle—but this time, he doesn't use his teeth. His lips part, and he presses a tender kiss directly over the darkest bruise on your collarbone.

The wet heat of his mouth sends your hands drifting up of their own accord, your fingers weakly curling into the muscles of his shoulders just to keep yourself standing. 

"Breathe," he murmurs against your skin. He kisses another mark, his tongue swiping soothingly over the damaged skin. "천천히." Slowly. He leaves another lingering kiss, mapping the shape of your throat as he begins to walk you backward. His grip on your lower back is firm, guiding your legs step by step across the floor. You don't even look behind you; you surrender to his lead, trusting the pressure of his palms on your waist as he soothes every last bruise he left before. 

The backs of your knees hit the edge of his mattress.

You expect him to follow you down, to pin your wrists to the sheets and hover over you like he did earlier. But instead of letting you fall back, Hongjoong's hands slide from your waist to grip your bare hips. He holds you steady as he sits you on the very edge of the bed.

Without breaking eye contact, Hongjoong lowers himself, dropping to his knees right between your parted legs. 

Slowly, he lifts one hand, his fingers hooking around the frames of his glasses and taking them off, reaching blindly to the side to set them on his nightstand. Without them, his gaze is piercing—the look of a man who has finally found the courage to take what he's wanted for months. 

"Open wider," he instructs quietly.

You let your knees fall further apart. He shifts closer, slotting his broad shoulders perfectly between them. His eyes drop. He takes in the sight of your bare cunt completely exposed to him, his pupils blowing wide as he breathes you in.

He leans forward. You suck in a soft gasp as you feel his breath fan over your already soaked core. Your hands grip the edge of the mattress behind you.

"Shh," he murmurs, the sound vibrating right against your most sensitive flesh. "괜찮아." You're okay. "This isn't like before. I'm going to take my time." 

His tongue drags up the length of your slick slit in one long stroke. 

A choked whine tears from your throat. Your hips jerk forward on instinct to chase the friction, but Hongjoong's hands immediately clamp down on your thighs, his thick fingers digging in to lock you in place, denying you any say in the pace.

"움직이지 마. Don't move," he reprimands, looking up with an eyebrow raised. "Hwa got to taste you before I did. That doesn't seem fair, does it?"

You shake your head, your voice lost.

"No," he hums, massaging your hips with his thumbs. "It's not. So now, I'm going to fix that." 

He dives back in, and suddenly every nerve in your body is electrified. He's methodical, his tongue rubbing circles and lapping at your folds with a torturous rhythm. He learns your body inch by inch: which stroke makes your walls clench, which angle makes your hands grip the bedsheets tighter, and how much pressure drives a whimper out of you. It's overwhelming. It feels so good you can barely stand it, the pleasure building so heavily your head falls back.

Hongjoong stops abruptly.

"____."

Your name is spoken sharply enough to snap your head forward. Your eyelids flutter open, finding his lips glistening with your juices from his place between your legs. 

"내 눈 피하지 마," he growls, his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. He pauses, watching your pleasure-hazed brain struggle to translate, and repeats it in a low English rasp. "Don't look away from me." 

"I... it feels..." you stammer, your mind too far gone to form a sentence.

"I know." His eyes are gleaming at how undone you already are for him. "Why do you think I didn’t let you look at Hwa when he did this? Why do you think I made you keep your eyes on me while he had his hands all over you?" 

You stare at him pathetically, your nails leaving little indents in the bedsheets. 

"Because I'm the only one I want you to see when you break."

He leans in again, and keeping your eyes on him while his mouth absolutely wrecks you is impossible. He sucks hard on your clit, sending a blinding rush of pleasure through your core. You cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably. Every time you try to squirm away from the intensity, his grip on your hips tightens, reminding you of what he instructed.

"Please," you beg, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. You're already so sensitive from before. He's quickly pushing you past your breaking point. "Hongjoong, I can't—"

"You can," he breathes against your wet skin.

To make matters worse, he slips two thick fingers deep inside you, stretching you open as his tongue continues to lap at your clit. You moan, a tear spilling over your cheek.

The sight of you crying makes his lips curl.

"That's it, cry for me," he groans, thrusting his fingers in and out of your tight pussy while his mouth devours you. "Show me you wanted this just as bad as I did."

Your mind is too far gone to even think of asking him to slow down. The combination of his degrading praise, the fullness of his fingers, his relentless tongue, and his hungry eyes watching your every twitch pushes you over the edge. 

You sob his name, your body bowing off the mattress as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers. You try to clamp your shaking thighs shut around his head, but he holds you open as he swallows down every last drop of your release until your body finally stops trembling.

When he finally pulls back, his face is a mess of your arousal. You're a wrecked, teary mess on the edge of his bed.

Your tears won't stop falling. The overstimulation, the humiliation, the months of waiting for this very moment—it all spills out of you in choked breaths. You try to turn your head, lifting your shaking hands to shroud your face, overwhelmed by what's just happened to you.

But Hongjoong's hands wrap around your wrists, easily pulling them away. He pushes forward, his body caging you in as he rises up over your thighs, forcing your back flat against the rumpled sheets. He hovers over you, his knees settling on either side of your hips.

"Don't hide from me," he murmurs huskily, releasing one wrist just in time to wipe away a fresh tear rolling down your cheek. He watches you with dark, hungry eyes, absolutely intoxicated by you. "씨… You're so pretty when you cry for me. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to make you look like this?" 

You whimper, and a smile of pure disbelief creeps onto his lips.

"So responsive," he whispers. He brushes your hair out of your face, his touch gentling. "You're such a good listener. You always have been."

Your heart flutters as his praise melts the last of whatever's left of your brain. 

He slowly lifts his hand. The strong scent of your own arousal hits you right as he brushes the damp pads of his middle and index fingers against your bottom lip. 

"Open," he commands.

Your teary eyes meet his as you just barely part your lips.

"You made such a mess," he purrs. His thumb presses down on your chin to gently force your jaw open wider. He slides the two wet fingers into your mouth, his eyes turning pitch black as they come to rest on your tongue. "Clean them for me. Taste how sweet your cunt is."

You let out a muffled whine, your cheeks burning crimson as you obediently close your lips. You swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking the slick taste of your own climax directly off his skin.

A low groan vibrates deep in Hongjoong's chest. He watches your mouth work, his jaw clenching as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your mouth, making you suck on him to the same rhythm he just used on your cunt.

He slowly withdraws his hand, letting his wet fingers drag over your swollen bottom lip. A thin thread of saliva strings between his skin and your mouth for a split second before it snaps.

Hongjoong studies your flushed, thoroughly ruined expression one last time before he pushes himself off the mattress. He stands tall at the bedside, his eyes locked on yours as his hands drop to the waistband of his sweatpants. In one impatient motion, he shoves them down his thighs and steps out, kicking the fabric aside to join the discarded sweater on the floor.

You’ve seen his length already tonight, but seeing him like this—right in front of your face, with his entire focus pinned solely on you—is entirely different. He isn't ridiculously long, but he's overwhelmingly thick; the mere sight of his girth makes your pulse jump into your throat. 

"이리 와. Come here," he orders. He points to the edge of the mattress, right in front of where he's standing. "On your knees."

You scramble forward, your thighs sliding over the rumpled sheets until you reach the very edge. You gently drop to your knees in front of him, the height difference forcing you to crane your neck back just to look up at his face.

He strokes his length, looking down at you silently with a dark, expectant gaze.

You part your trembling lips, leaning forward to take him into your mouth. You whimper softly, your tongue swirling tentatively around his tip. But as you try to sink down further, you can't. He's just too thick; you can barely wrap your mouth around his girth, your lips and jaw stretching uncomfortably. When you try to force a deeper swallow, you choke, pulling back with a wet gasping sound to catch your breath.

Hongjoong's eyes narrow. Before you can recover, his hand reaches into your hair. His fingers tangle deep into the roots at the back of your head, his grip tightening into a fist against your scalp. A startled moan breaks from your lips, and the moment your mouth opens, he pushes his hips forward, using his grip on your hair to guide his thick cock past your lips.

"Is this the best you can do?" he murmurs, holding your head exactly where he wants it. "You played all these little games tonight, begging for my attention. Now you finally have it, and you can't even suck me off properly?"

A stifled whine breaks around his length, tears pricking your eyes from the stretch of your jaw. 

"You're usually such a fast learner," he grunts, his hips rolling forward to push himself deeper down your throat. "Prove you can follow instructions. Stay still."

You try to relax your throat, forcing yourself to swallow down the mass of him as he sets a meticulous pace into your mouth. The lack of oxygen makes your head spin. The overstimulation from your orgasm rushes back tenfold, twisting into a throbbing ache between your legs that makes you desperate for his touch all over again.

Needing any kind of relief, your trembling hand drops from his thigh, reaching down between your own legs. You press your fingers against your aching clit, desperate to rub away the maddening tension building in your core.

You don't even get to swipe your fingers once.

Hongjoong's free hand snaps down, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. He yanks your hand away from your center so fast you nearly gag on his cock.

"Did I tell you to touch yourself?" he asks coldly. He pulls your arm up, forcing your hand to press flat on the mattress beside your knee. "Keep your hands on the bed."

He thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt and holding his length against the back of your throat for three long seconds. You choke, tears spilling out of your eyes, before he finally pulls back to grant you a second to drag a breath through your nose.

The strict denial shatters you. The empty, pulsing throb between your thighs is torture.

"Please," you gasp wetly against his slick skin, another sob tearing from you. "Hongjoong, please..."

"Please what?" he demands, his fingers tightening in your hair, forcing your teary, flushed face to tilt back up toward his. 

"Please fuck me," you beg, looking up at him with wide, wrecked eyes. "I need you inside me again... please, Hongjoong, just fuck me." 

His eyes flare at the sound of your begging. He stares down at you while a smirk cuts across his face. He releases his punishing grip on your hair, his hands dropping to your shoulders as he hauls you up from your knees.

"일어나." Get up.

He pushes you further back on the mattress, but he doesn't lie you down. Just across from the bed stands the same headless mannequin from Monday, draped in a half-finished suit jacket and blocking the view of the wall. Without ever taking his eyes off you, Hongjoong reaches behind him and shoves the mannequin aside. The base scrapes loudly against the floor, revealing the sliding closet door behind it.

The entire door is a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. 

You choke out a panicked sob as you catch sight of your reflection. You look ruined. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen and slick with his precum, your chest is heaving, and the dark bruises from earlier stand out starkly against your flushed skin. You look desperate, practically begging for him to touch you, and seeing that hunger on your own face is just too humiliating to bear.

"Please... no," you whisper, your heart dropping to your feet as he sinks onto the bed behind you.

With an embarrassed sound, you bring your shaking hands up, once again burying your face in your palms as you try to twist your head away from the glass.

Hongjoong snatches your wrists, yanking them down.

"봐." Look.

You try, but the shame is too much. The second his grip on your wrists relaxes, you squeeze your eyes shut and duck your chin to your chest, trying to escape your own reflection. 

An exhale leaves his lips. "좋아," he says simply, his tone chillingly calm. Fine.

Before you can react, he wrenches both of your arms firmly behind your back. You squirm, trying to pull away, but he easily traps both of your wrists in one hand. With his free hand, he reaches down over the edge of the bed, grabbing a leather belt from a pile of discarded clothes underneath.

Anticipation spikes in your chest. "Hongjoong—"

"You wanna keep hiding your face?" he cuts you off calmly as he loops the leather around your wrists. You squirm harder, wriggling your fingers helplessly, but he pulls the strap taut and fastens the buckle, locking your hands securely together against your lower back. "You asked me to fuck you. We're both going to watch exactly what that looks like."

He moves closer behind you, his chest pressing against your bound arms. His hand comes around to grip your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces your head up. He makes sure you stare straight ahead, your humiliated eyes locking with his unblinking ones in the reflection.

"You lost your hand privileges when you decided not to follow directions," he murmurs right against your ear, his gaze pinning you down through the glass. "You don't get to hide anymore." 

He pushes you forward. Unable to catch yourself with your hands bound, you stumble clumsily, your knees hitting the mattress as your upper body bends forward. The angle forces your hips up into the air and arches your back, leaving your chest completely bared and exposed to the mirror.

The leather belt pulls your shoulders back, thrusting your chest out and painting a graphic picture of your submission. Behind you, Hongjoong settles into place on his knees. In the reflection, you watch his hungry eyes track the movement of his own hands as they grip the soft flesh of your hips tight enough to leave more marks. 

"Look up," he says. 

You force your teary face up, locking your eyes on the glass just as he aligns his thick length with your soaking entrance. He doesn't prep you or tease you with a slow entry; he knows you're ready to take him. He drives his cock forward in one thrust, sinking into you fully. 

A breathless moan tears from your throat. Your toes curl into the mattress, your calves cramping from the unbelievable stretch of him. He's so impossibly thick, filling the empty ache inside you so perfectly that your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.

A sudden resounding smack echoes through the bedroom. 

The stinging slap of Hongjoong's hand against the side of your ass jolts your eyes wide open, making you cry out.  

"쳐다봐," he snaps, his eyes burning holes into your reflection. Look at me. "Eyes on the mirror. Don't you want to watch me take what we've both been imagining for months?"

You whimper pathetically, forcing your gaze back to the glass just as he pulls his hips back. You gasp at the wet, embarrassing sound of him sliding out before he thrusts into you again. 

The visual is somehow more intoxicating than the physicality. You watch his torso collide with your smaller frame, seeing the throbbing mass of his cock stretching your folds open before disappearing inside your cunt over and over again. He sets a deep rhythm, burying himself completely with every thrust, making sure you witness every single second of it. 

The loud smack of his hips connecting with yours echoes relentlessly through the bedroom. Every single time Hongjoong drives his hips forward, your bound hands shift against your lower back, making your face flush in humiliation as you watch his cock bury into you through the mirror. The fullness, the stretch, the lack of control—it all builds into a sensory overload that fries your brain.

Fresh tears spill over your lower lashes. You let out another sob, your knees trembling. "Hongjoong, please—it's too much, it's—"

"Too much?" he murmurs, though his tone lacks any real sympathy. In the reflection, you see the satisfaction in his eyes as he watches your tears fall. "I thought you wanted me to teach you how I feel. Are my feelings too much for you to handle?" 

He slows his pace anyway, his hands sliding from your hips up to your waist. With one tug, he pulls your torso upright, straightening your spine until your bare back is pressed against his chest.

The sudden shift in angle forces his cock to angle upward inside of you, hitting a spot so deep you let out a high, piercing moan. Because your hands are bound, you have absolutely zero balance. You slump back against him, your trapped wrists resting uselessly between your lower back and his stomach, leaving you reliant on his frame to keep you from collapsing.

Hongjoong keeps his left arm wrapped tightly around your waist, locking you against him. His right hand comes up to your face, his fingers wrapping around your jaw with strict pressure to keep your head perfectly straight.

"Pay attention," he breathes against your ear.

He begins to thrust again in the new, upright angle. With every thrust, his length drags against your sensitive walls, but the angle completely misses your aching clit. 

You squirm desperately, your wrists twitching as you try to adjust your hips, practically whining to get the external friction you need so badly to tip you over the edge again.

Hongjoong's arm flexes around your waist, his bicep tightening to keep you in place, denying you the angle you're begging for. "가만히... 있어," he reprimands between thrusts, his grip on your jaw tightening enough to keep your tear-stained face glued to the glass. Stay still. In the mirror, his jaw is clenched, his muscles flexing with every powerful thrust as he fucks you, his gaze locked on your reflection.

"Look how pretty you are when you listen," he praises darkly, his hips snapping forward, shaking your entire body with the force. "그래서 네가 내 최애 학생이야."

You cry out as he hits that deep spot again, your mind too hazy to even try to translate it.

"이해 안 돼?" You don't understand?

You shake your head helplessly. 

He grunts, calming his thrusts for a split second as he leans closer to your ear. "I said..." He thrusts again, hard and deep, his thumb slipping past your parted lips to press against your tongue. "This is why you're my favorite student." 

You moan on his finger as he continuously hits that same, devastatingly deep spot, unable to hide your face from him. It's becoming too much again. The relentless pressure is building a fiery tension in your lower stomach, even as he denies you the external friction you crave.

Your whines turn frantic, and you suck harder on his thumb as your head falls back onto his shoulder. Your inner walls begin to flutter and clench around his cock as the intensity of the overstimulation pushes you right to the very edge. 

"P-Please, Hongjoong, I'm gonna—" you cry out, your voice muffled by his thumb. Your thighs tremble as you squeeze your eyes shut, chasing the release that's about to crash over you.

In the mirror, Hongjoong's eyes narrow as he feels your walls rapidly contracting around his cock. The realization that you're about to climax flashes across his features.

"아직. Not yet," he groans, abruptly pulling out. You whine at the sudden loss, but he doesn't give you a second to breathe. His hands drop to your shoulders, spinning your body around before lowering you flat onto your back.  

He quickly unbuckles the leather belt and throws it to the floor, granting you a split second of false hope that your hands are finally free. But instead, Hongjoong keeps his hold on your wrists, dragging them above your head and pressing them into his pillows, binding you in his grip once again. His knees cage your trembling thighs as his large frame hovers over you, his free hand trailing down your body. 

"Please," you whisper, your hips squirming to settle the ache between your legs. "Please, I need—"

"You need what?" he asks while aligning himself with your entrance again, letting the thick head of his cock brush against your swollen folds, but refusing to push inside.  "Ask properly." He presses the tip just barely past your entrance to tease you. "Remember what I taught you. Use the right title. Who am I to you? Who's taking care of you right now?"

You shut your eyes, his strict teasing burning through your foggy mind. You desperately search through your vocabulary, your mind landing on the one word you knew you'd never use unless you destroyed every last boundary between you. "오...오빠," you stutter, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Please, 오빠... please let me cum..."

Another satisfied grin spreads across his face as he lightly pats your cheek. "잘했어." Good job.

He brings his hips forward, burying his length deep inside your soaking cunt. You moan as your walls stretch to accommodate him all over again. The second he bottoms out, his hand shoots up, wrapping firmly around your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to cut off your air, but the pressure of his fingers pins you securely to the mattress.

"Look at me," he commands, pressing his thumb against your racing pulse.

You look at him through your blurry vision. "오빠!" you cry out, feeling him starting to lose control, his jaw locked tight as he thrusts deep into you. "Please, 오빠, I wanna... I wanna..."

He leans down, his body pressing you deeper into the sheets. His lips finally crash into yours, hungrily tasting the flavor of your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours to explore inside. You moan into his lips, feeling his hard cock twitch and pulse inside of you as he gets closer to his own climax.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing wetly over your jaw and down to the crook of your neck, where the bruises still stain your skin. 

"We left... such a mess on you earlier," he breathes against your collarbone between thrusts, his tone dripping with possessiveness. "Let me fix it."

He presses open-mouthed kisses right over the worst of the bruising, soothing the abused skin, but the softness doesn't last for long. His teeth graze your neck, finding an unblemished patch of skin right above your collarbone. He bites down—not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough stinging pressure to make you gasp out loud—and sucks hard. He leaves a fresh mark of his own, ensuring it overshadows the others.

"내 거야," he murmurs against the new bruise. Mine. "You won't let him touch you again, will you?"

You shake your head quickly, tears spilling into the tangled mess of your hair. "No," you cry helplessly, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. "I—I promise! Only you... please, I—I'm so close—"

His fingers flex around your throat, tightening as his pace turns deeper. He looks down at your wrecked, desperate expression, his eyes dark.

"좋아," he praises against your ear. Good. "Show me you belong to me. Cum for me, 자기야." 

The permission shatters you. You scream his name, your back arching off the mattress as a violent orgasm tears through your body. Your inner walls flutter wildly, clamping down viciously around his cock.

Hongjoong's eyes roll back into his head the second he feels your tight pussy milking him. "씨발," he hisses. "미치겠네... 너무 꽉 조여..."

Breathless curses tear from his throat as he shakily thrusts into you three more times, chasing your climax with his own. He lets out a final groan, burying himself to the absolute hilt and holding his hips against yours as he finally spills deep inside of you, filling you with hot, heavy pulses of his cum.

Your desperate sounds slowly fade, leaving only the ragged ones of your shared breathing to fill the room.

Hongjoong hovers above you for a few lingering seconds as he rides out the last of his high. Slowly, the tension begins to drain from his muscles. He pulls out softly, and the sudden loss leaves you shivering against the damp sheets. Instead of pulling you with him, he collapses onto his back on the empty side of the mattress, staring at the ceiling as he gasps for air.

You slowly untangle your trembling limbs, your body feeling utterly spent and beautifully boneless. Your hazy brain can't even begin to process what just happened.

For a few long minutes, neither of you says a word.

Eventually, Hongjoong is the one who breaks the silence.

"So..." he breathes out, his voice hoarse.

You swallow, your throat dry and aching from screaming his name. "So..." 

Another stretch of silence passes. You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes are impossibly wide, locked in a dead stare at the ceiling above. You watch the strict dominance that just possessed him completely evaporate into a dawning panic.

You can practically see his brain rebooting, the realization of every single boundary he just demolished crashing down on him at the same time.

"Are you okay?" he blurts out suddenly, his head snapping to look at you. "Does anything hurt? I wasn't too... I mean, I know I was..." He cuts himself off, his hands coming up to aggressively rub at his face. "Do you want water? You probably need water. I should get you water."

"Hongjoong, no," you say weakly, barely able to move. "I'm okay."

He doesn't look convinced. He sits up frantically, his hands patting blindly at his nightstand until his fingers find the metal frames of his glasses. He hastily shoves them onto his face, blinking through the lenses, and immediately pushes them up the bridge of his nose.

He quickly readjusts them.

A second later, he readjusts them once again.

His panicked gaze lands on you after his eyes adjust. He takes in your wrecked expression, the mess of the bedsheets, and the bruises he left all over your neck and collarbone. He swallows hard.

A cool draft from the air conditioner suddenly hits your bare skin, and you shiver.

Hongjoong sees it immediately. "Are you cold?" he asks, already moving to scramble off the bed. "I have sweatpants. Or a hoodie. You can have the sweater you were wearing earlier, or a clean one, I have plenty—"

"Hongjoong," you interrupt gently, stopping him before he bolts to his closet. "I'm cold, but don't worry about clothes. I'll just get under the blanket."

"Right. Yes. The blanket. Okay."

He practically dives to grab the thick, crumpled duvet from the foot of the bed. He tugs it upward, clumsily trying to drape it over you to cover your body. In his frantic attempt to make sure you're tucked in and comfortable, he leans over you, his hands braced on either side of your shoulders as he smooths the blanket up to your chin.

Suddenly, he freezes.

You're staring up at him, and he's staring down at you. It's the same position as earlier—him hovering over you, trapping you beneath him—but now, it's so much different. It's not strict or possessive; it's intimate, it's gentle, and it's overwhelmingly vulnerable. The spiraling panic in his expression slowly melts away as he looks at you. This time, the silence between you shifts to something soft. Warm. You watch his eyes trace your features, a quiet debate noticeably flashing behind his lenses.

He swallows again, his throat bobbing. Then, slowly, he leans down. He presses a gentle kiss to the very center of your forehead.

He lingers there for a moment, letting out a shaky exhale against your skin, before he pulls back. He finally collapses into the space beside you, pulling his half of the duvet over his own bare waist.

Your heart flutters as the quiet settles over the room again. You turn your head to look at him, and he looks significantly calmer, the nervous tension finally draining out of his shoulders.

After a few more silent moments, he speaks again.

"____?"

"Yeah?"

A pause. You watch his nervous hands fidget with the blanket.

"I know I said a lot of things earlier," he begins, his voice incredibly soft and sincere. "And I know I told you that I wanted you. But I need you to know... it wasn't just about tonight."

He turns his head on the pillow, his eyes locking on yours. 

"I like you," he confesses quietly. "I think I have since our very first session. I spent a long time trying to convince myself that I was just being a good tutor by offering you private lessons, but the truth is... I just wanted to be near you. I wanted to get to know you better. I know it's wrong of me. I know it's completely unprofessional. But I don't think I can hide from it anymore. I... I really like you, ____. I always have."

Slowly, an uncontrollable grin breaks across your face. Your heart swells so violently it aches, all the anxiety and desperate pining of the last few months completely washing away in an instant.

When you don't say anything, Hongjoong's newfound confidence visibly falters. His eyes dart over your features nervously, mistaking your silence for hesitation.

"Say something," he adds, his voice pitching up with a hint of that earlier panic. "Please."

Your grin only widens. "I like you, too, Hongjoong," you whisper softly. "I have since the first time I saw you."

The relief that washes over his face is instantaneous. His tense posture completely dissolves, and finally, a smile breaks through, pushing his cheeks up and crinkling the corners of his eyes behind his lenses.

He shifts closer, hesitating for only a second before sliding an arm under your pillow to pull you closer to him. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet kiss, a silent promise that the games, the jealousy, and the professional boundaries are finally, officially gone. 

His bedroom feels entirely different now. You lie tangled together beneath the duvet in a warm, comfortable silence. Hongjoong is flat on his back with you tucked against his side, his arm wrapped around your bare waist. Your head rests against his chest, and beneath your cheek, you can hear his steady heartbeat. His free hand is buried in your hair, his fingers lazily mapping the shape of your scalp in soothing circles. 

It's domestic. It's romantic.

You can't believe it's actually happening.

Am I dreaming? you wonder, tracing a mindless pattern over his ribs with your index finger. Did I fall asleep at dinner with Seonghwa, and this is just the desperate fantasy my brain came up with? You try to reconcile the gentle man currently playing with your hair with the man who just completely ruined you in front of a mirror. He was so effortlessly dominant, reading your body's reactions with accuracy that you assumed only came from years of experience.

"Hongjoong?" you ask softly, breaking the quiet.

His fingers pause in your hair. "Yeah?"

You hesitate, your hand flattening against his chest. "I know you said earlier that you... um, never felt like this before... but then... how were you so..." You trail off, biting your swollen bottom lip as heat rushes to your cheeks. You can't even say it out loud without feeling another pulse between your thighs. "...so, um... in control?"

You feel his entire body freeze beneath you. A sudden, surprised chuckle rumbles against your cheek. 

"I... I've been thinking about it. How it would go. How... how I would do it. A lot," he admits, his voice shy and extremely embarrassed. 

You blink, pulling back a little, your brow furrowing slightly. "Thinking about it... like, in general? With others? Or..."

Hongjoong shifts before you can finish the thought. He props himself up on one elbow, the duvet falling lower on his waist as he looks down at you. You shift too, looking up at the sudden, breathtaking devotion in his eyes.

"____," he says so quietly and seriously that your heart skips a beat. "Think about all the covers I posted. All the songs I've been writing. All the clothes I've designed in the past few weeks."

He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a tangled strand of hair out of your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.

"All of it was for you. You're my muse." He lets his hand drop to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips. He looks at you like you're the only thing in his room—the only thing in his entire world. "Even my fantasies are made for you." 

His confession sends a fierce blush rushing straight to your cheeks. You bite your bottom lip, shyly breaking the intense eye contact. 

Your sudden bashfulness seems to break the spell. Hongjoong blinks, realizing what he just admitted. A matching flush creeps up his neck, painting the tips of his ears red. He drops his hand from your jaw, his gaze nervously darting down to the tangled duvet at his waist. 

"I meant what I said earlier, though," he murmurs as his fingers pick nervously at a loose thread on the blanket. "I... I've never actually done any of this. I've never slept with anyone before."

Your chest aches with how much affection you feel for him in this moment. "I know," you say softly, trying to reassure him. 

Hongjoong completely freezes. His head snaps up, his eyes going wide behind his glasses. 

A second too late, you realize that probably wasn't the best thing to say. 

"You knew?" His voice cracks as he starts to panic. "Was it obvious? Did I... did I hurt you? I knew I shouldn't have been so rough... I'm sorry. I just—I got so caught up in you, I didn't mean to hurt—"

"No! No, Hongjoong, wait," you stammer, quickly pressing your palm against his chest to stop his spiraling. "You didn't do anything wrong! I mean... yes, you were... um... rough. But..." You swallow hard, feeling your face heat up all over again. "...I liked it."

Hongjoong blinks rapidly at you. "You did? I mean, I figured you did by the way you were... uh..."

You both blush again as he trails off, deeply embarrassed. You simultaneously avert your eyes.

"Yeah," you mumble, suddenly finding his collarbone incredibly fascinating to look at. "I... I liked it when you told me what to do. When you kept pushing me, even when I said it was too much. And... I really liked it when you talked to me in Korean. Especially when I didn't understand. It all... it felt like..." You trail off, avoiding his eyes, struggling to find the words. 

"Like... tutoring?" Hongjoong offers quietly, his voice a little shaky.

You blush even harder, nodding against his skin. "Y-yeah. Like tutoring," you whisper. 

An awkward, incredibly flustered silence falls over the two of you.

But then, Hongjoong slowly looks back down at you. His expression is confused, his panic receding just enough for logic to kick in. "If I wasn't doing anything wrong... then how did you know?"

You bite your lip, wincing apologetically. "Um... Seonghwa told me."

Hongjoong goes incredibly quiet. He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth and abruptly looks away from you, his gaze snapping back up to the ceiling.

"Hongjoong?" you ask tentatively, shifting a little closer to him, suddenly remembering the fear you shared with Seonghwa right before dinner. "Are you mad at him? Are you... mad at me?"

He lets out a breath, his eyes closing for a brief second. "I'm not mad at you," he says, his voice tight. "I know... I know I haven't really been fair to you. I've been running from my feelings for months, and you were getting tired of waiting. I get it." He pauses, his jaw ticking again. "But Hwa? Yeah. I'm mad at him. He barely even knows you. What makes him think he has the right to tell you these things? To take you out to dinner? To do... everything he just did with you?" 

You know exactly what he means. You think back to everything that happened between the three of you. Now that your brain is finally clearing from the heavy fog of pleasure, the questions start filling your mind.

"If you were, um, this jealous..." you begin hesitantly, "why did you let him stay with us? Why didn't you just bring me here in the first place?"  

He goes quiet again, staring blankly ahead. 

"Because I was scared," he admits, the bitterness bleeding out of his voice. "I was so jealous. It was killing me to watch him touch you, thinking about what would happen if I let the door to his room close without me in it." He finally turns his head, his eyes shimmering with insecurity. "But... I wasn't ready to be alone with you like this. I was so nervous, ____. I didn't... I didn't think you'd want me anymore if you knew I had no idea what I was doing."

Your heart softens. You shift your body, propping yourself up slightly to look at him better, hesitating before sliding your hand up to cup his cheek warmly. 

"No, Hongjoong. Of course not," you say, meeting his gaze directly. "If anything... I wanted you even more when I found out I'd be your first." 

Hongjoong's breath hitches. He searches your face, looking for any sign of pity or deceit, but all he finds is honesty. 

You watch the last remnants of his anxiety melt away. While a part of him is undoubtedly still furious with Seonghwa, the relief that washes over his face is clear. You knew you were his first. And you still wanted him. 

He turns his head, pressing a soft, shy kiss to the center of your palm, which makes you smile. For a few minutes, you both rest there. He holds you close as the quiet of the room wraps around you both.

But you know Hongjoong well enough by now to know that his brain is never quiet for this long. Now that his lack of experience is out in the open, you can practically hear his thoughts racing at a million miles an hour. 

"Have you..." he starts, his voice hesitant as his fingers trace absentmindedly over your waist. "Have you dated a lot of guys?"

"No," you answer honestly, letting your hand slide from his cheek as you settle your head back against his chest. "Just one, really. I dated a guy in high school."

"How long did it last?"

"Almost a year," you recall with a small shrug. "It was the typical high school romance. We went to prom, studied together, hung out with the same friends... it wasn't anything crazy." 

"Why did you break up?" he asks. "Did you end it, or...?"

"Yeah, I broke up with him."

"Why? What did he do wrong?"

You let out a tiny, amused exhale at his interrogation. "It wasn't that he did anything wrong," you explain. "He didn't cheat on me or anything like that. I just... I knew we weren't going to last. The spark wasn't there. It just wasn't right."

"Oh," Hongjoong murmurs. He nods slowly, his thumb resuming its strokes against your side.

You look up at him as he bites his lip. He goes quiet for a long moment. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are suddenly wide and terrifyingly hopeful. 

"Have you..." he swallows hard. "Have you ever... done this before?" 

Your entire body freezes. 

Wooyoung.

The name crashes back into your mind. The memory of lying in different, tangled sheets in a different man's arms just a few weeks ago suddenly comes rushing back. You hadn't thought about that night in so long, but now... 

Your heart rate spikes. How on earth are you supposed to answer this? How can you look at Hongjoong—who just confessed everything to you, who was terrified you wouldn't want him because he was a virgin—and tell him the truth? How can you admit that you lost your virginity to someone like Wooyoung?

And worse—how could you possibly explain that it happened so recently? While you already had feelings for Hongjoong? While he already had feelings for you?

Hongjoong tilts his head, his thumb stopping on your waist again. "____?" 

You take a deep breath. If you confess the truth now, it wouldn't just be about losing your virginity recently. He'd realize that you recklessly let a guy like Wooyoung fuck you while actively falling for someone else. Worse, he'd realize that you're a liar. He'd know how easily you looked him in the eye that day in the library café and lied about celebrating Yunho's birthday, when in reality, you were going to Wooyoung's place. He'd immediately piece together that session in the library when he saw Wooyoung's name pop up on your phone, remembering when you brushed it off and said he was just a friend.

The web of lies is already too tangled. If Hongjoong found out the truth now, he'd be heartbroken, yes—but he'd also despise you. 

"I..." Your voice trembles slightly. You force yourself to swallow the lump of guilt lodged in your throat. You avert your eyes, unable to meet his hopeful gaze. "I have. Once."

You feel his chest fall as his shoulders drop just a fraction. When you briefly dare to peek at him, the light in his eyes has dimmed slightly as he realizes you aren't each other's firsts.

"How... how long ago?" he asks, his voice a little quieter. "How old were you?"

The dread gnaws at your insides, making you feel physically sick, but you have no choice. You can't let him find out about Wooyoung. 

"A few years ago. I was seventeen," you lie, forcing your voice to stay as steady and casual as humanly possible. "With my ex."

Hongjoong stares at you for a long moment. You know he notices your averted eyes and your sudden stiff posture, but maybe because of his total lack of experience, or because he's so caught up in his own feelings, he misinterprets it. Maybe he assumes you're just shy. Maybe he thinks you feel guilty for talking about an ex in his bed.

Either way, he lets out a breath, accepting your answer with a visible sense of relief. Even though you weren't a virgin like him, your first time is safely locked away in the past. It isn't a threat.

"Okay," he murmurs softly. "Okay. Thank you for telling me."

You close your eyes, accepting his relief while your stomach twists into anxious knots. Your secret is successfully buried. Wooyoung will no longer play any role in your feelings for Hongjoong. 

But as Hongjoong pulls you closer, you realize that you can never, ever take this back. Not even an hour after finally confessing your true feelings to the man you want, you've already built your foundation on a lie.

You try to focus on the warmth of his skin and the steady sound of his breathing, forcing your racing heart to slow down. You shove the guilt into a dark corner of your mind and lock it away. But as the quiet drags on, you can feel the energy in his bedroom shift. The relief that had briefly settled over his features begins to morph back into that tight, nervous tension. He stares up at the ceiling, chewing on his lip.

"I'm sorry for asking so many questions," he murmurs, letting out a sigh. "I'm just... I'm terrified of making a mistake."

You lift your head from his chest. "Hongjoong—"

"I don't know what I'm doing, ____," he interrupts softly. "I'm used to knowing all the answers. But this... these feelings, you... It's all completely new to me. I'm scared that I'll do something wrong and mess this all up." 

You shift closer, a small, affectionate smile spreading across your face.

"Hongjoong," you say quietly. "You probably are going to make a mistake." 

He blinks, startled, not expecting you to be so blunt.

"And I will, too," you add, your voice softening. "We're going to mess up. We're going to overthink things, we're going to be awkward, and we're going to get stupidly jealous. But it's normal to not be perfect. You don't have to be my tutor right now. There are no right answers for this. We're just going to figure things out together."

You can feel the anxiety unspool from his muscles as he exhales.

"Figure it out together," he repeats softly, testing the words on his tongue. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

You grin, tracing a teasing circle over his collarbone. "I promise, things will figure themselves out. As long as you actually show up for tutoring from now on."

He winces, dropping his forehead against your shoulder to hide his face.

"I'm sorry about last time," he mumbles, his warm breath tickling your skin. "I was such a coward. I just... I didn't know how I could do it. Seeing you across from me, smelling your perfume, staring at the lips I kissed a few days ago... I panicked just thinking about it." He turns his head, shifting so that he's looking down at you again as a frown pulls at his lips. "But I was so anxious the entire time. I was so jealous that another guy got to sit there and listen to you talk so innocently in his native language. And now that I know how rude he was to you... Well, he'll be lucky if I don't contact the Language Center tomorrow to have him fired."

You let out a startled laugh. "Fired? Hongjoong, he was probably just in a bad mood because he had to work on a Thursday night. It's okay."

"It doesn't matter. It's his job," he argues. "I told him exactly what to say to you, and exactly what you'd say back. And he still messed it up. Clearly, they need to replace him." He pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Maybe I'll recommend Hwa. He can meet a different girl to take out to dinner."

You shake your head, completely endeared by how petty and sweet his jealousy is. "But Seonghwa just got that new job at my favorite café."

"Right. I forgot he did that." Hongjoong rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, his jaw ticking. "The café is your favorite?"

You nod.

He huffs, muttering under his breath, "저 씨발새끼 일부러 그랬네." 

You blink. "What does that mean?"

Hongjoong quickly turns his frown into a smile. "I said I'll be sure to drop by often to see both of you, then."

A warm, fluttering sensation settles in your chest at the thought. "Okay. I'd like that."

He pulls your waist a little closer then, letting out another deep, contented breath as he settles against you.

"So," you continue, raising an eyebrow. "You won't skip tutoring this week?"

"I'll be there," he promises. His expression softens as he reaches out, gently running his fingertips through your tangled hair. "I won't ever miss it again. Even if it kills me to sit across that table from you and pretend I'm not thinking about what we just did."

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks at his words, your heart doing a happy flutter.

Hongjoong chuckles, his eyes dropping to your lips. He leans in, his voice dropping to a quiet rasp. "지금은 너무 떨려서 여자친구 해 달라는 말을 못 하겠지만, 곧 할게. 약속할게."

You blink up at him, a helpless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Now what does that mean?"

Hongjoong's grin widens. He pulls you against his chest, completely closing the distance to press another sweet, lingering kiss to your lips. 

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are shining with adoration.

"You'll have to wait until our next session to find out." 

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

cross-posted on ao3

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter eleven. chapter twelve. chapter thirteen. chapter fourteen. chapter fifteen. chapter sixteen. chapter seventeen. chapter nineteen (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), 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: 12.1k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. all translations are at the end :)

chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, threesome (f/m/m), p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, rough sex, finger sucking, spit kink, choking, biting/marking, nipple play, praise kink, hair pulling, overstimulation/dual stimulation, creampie, voyeurism/exhibitionism elements, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

Your heart is already lodged somewhere high in your throat when Seonghwa pushes the door open.

With a shaky breath, you quickly consider the possibility of turning around and pretending you forgot something in the car. But Seonghwa’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside before your nerves can convince you to run.

The apartment is warm, and the savory smell of something clearly meant to be cooked for hours—slow-cooked beef, herbs, onions, and vegetables—overwhelms your senses. Garlic, too, though whoever used it had been a little too generous. You scrunch your nose.

Seonghwa notices and a quiet laugh escapes him, and he pats your back once as if you’re a child caught making a face at their vegetables. "I'll go a little easier on the garlic next time," he murmurs fondly under his breath.

You blush, embarrassed that you reacted at all, your heart now beating even faster than before. But the clatter of a ceramic lid being set down on a countertop makes your head snap to the kitchen. 

Hongjoong is standing near the island, his back half-turned toward the door, leaning slightly over the slow cooker as he presses the buttons on it with increasing irritation. He's dressed in a slightly oversized sweater and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His dark hair is a soft, messy disaster, sticking out in every direction like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He hasn't noticed you yet. 

"형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아," Hongjoong calls toward the doorway without looking up. His finger jabs another button. "아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아."

You obviously don’t understand the words, but you can tell from the way he's squinting at the crockpot that something isn't working. 

Seonghwa lets out another quiet chuckle behind you and nudges the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He guides you further into the apartment.

"It's okay, Joong," he says, switching to English for you to understand. "My date and I ended up eating out."

Hongjoong jumps so violently that he knocks the side of his head straight into the cabinet above him.

"아씨—!" he curses as he recoils, wincing hard and clutching the side of his head. The wooden spoon in his other hand lifts defensively as though it might somehow help. He rubs the sore spot with a tight grimace. "I forgot you were bringing back a—"

He turns around.

The rest of the sentence never quite makes it out as his eyes finally land on you. 

Whatever casual annoyance had been resting on his face disappears instantly, wiped away by a shock so visceral it freezes him in place beside the kitchen island.

Hongjoong goes perfectly still.

"...date." He says it like he's asking a question. Like the word doesn't fit the reality he's looking at. 

His eyes—usually so carefully averted around you—are wide and completely unshielded.

His stare moves over you slowly, cautiously, like he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing. It lingers on the low neckline of your velvet dress, your lip gloss glinting faintly when you swallow, and your hair falling over your shoulders. But his confusion only lasts for a second before his gaze hesitantly drops lower. His eyes lock onto the place where Seonghwa's hand disappears behind you.

For a moment, he just stares blankly at it. Then his face shifts again. The confusion gives way to something harder to read.

A sudden twist of guilt coils in your stomach, and you have to fight the instinct to pull your body away from Seonghwa. Hongjoong looks completely out of place in his own kitchen. You want to run across the room, to explain, to apologize, to do anything that might soften the look on his face. But Seonghwa's fingers flex against your spine, stopping you before you can move. 

"We went to omakase," Seonghwa says smoothly, shattering the silence that settled over the room. He's totally nonchalant, not even bothering to glance at his best friend. Instead, his attention stays on you, an adoring smile playing on his lips that would look innocent to anyone else. His fingers slide slowly from your back, tracing along your dress before wrapping confidently around your waist. With an easy tug, he pulls you closer. "Have you ever been, Joong?"

Hongjoong doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at Seonghwa. He goes silent, his eyes lingering on the place where Seonghwa’s hand is currently pressing into the velvet at your waist.

When his gaze finally trails back up to your face, the confusion is gone. His usual shyness is nowhere to be found. His face begins to twist: his expression tightens, contorting into strain. Your body squirms in Seonghwa's grasp.

"No," he says. His voice is short, clipped at the edges with a coldness that sends a shiver sliding down your spine. "I haven't."

You can't look away from him. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you stand there, still as stone. It worked, you realize in a panic. Oh my god. It actually worked.

"Well, it was incredible," Seonghwa says with a satisfied sigh, pretending not to notice the tension. He leans in closer to you, his face just a few inches from yours. "Wasn't it, angel?"

Hongjoong’s entire body goes rigid, his eyes snapping to his roommate as he registers what he called you. As you stare at him, you see his knuckles pale, draining of color as his hand clenches hard enough to strain the wood.

"It was," you manage to agree, your voice slightly breathless. You finally force yourself to look away from Hongjoong, swallowing hard as you turn your attention to the man holding you. "I'd never had fresh flounder like that before tonight."

"I knew you'd love it," Seonghwa smiles. He reaches up with his free hand, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The silence that follows suffocates you. Hongjoong doesn't say a word, doesn't try to break it, but you can still feel his gaze on you.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Seonghwa says at last, finally dropping his hand from your waist. "I have a gift for you."

You blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned anything about a gift. Still, you force yourself to play along. "What?" you say, a small, nervous laugh slipping into your voice. "Hwa, you—you shouldn't have..."

At the sound of the nickname leaving your lips, Hongjoong’s eyes narrow from across the kitchen.

Seonghwa catches your eye and offers a tiny, barely-there wink before stepping away from you, walking backward toward the hallway.

"Wait right here, angel," he says. He turns and disappears. A second later, you hear the click of his bedroom door opening.

And just like that, you're left alone with Hongjoong.

The air in the kitchen feels like it's been sucked out of the room. You stand awkwardly in the space between the living room and the kitchen, staring down at the toes of your expensive heels, suddenly terrified to lift your head. But you can feel him—his attention locked on you. 

You've seen Hongjoong nervous before. You've seen him shy, overly careful with his words. You've seen him anxious, fidgeting with his glasses when he doesn't know what to say. And you've seen him strictly professional, retreating behind politeness when things drift into something past simple tutoring.

But as you finally gather the courage to lift your chin and meet his eyes across the room, you realize you have never, ever seen Hongjoong like this.

He looks away first, staring down at the granite as he slowly lowers the wooden spoon and sets it down beside the crockpot.

"So," he starts, his voice rough and a little nervous as he continues to avoid eye contact. One of his hands drifts across the counter absently, his fingers tracing the island's edge before tapping twice against the granite. "You and Seonghwa..."

He trails off. He doesn't finish the sentence. It's not even really a question, but as he slowly lifts his eyes back up at you, the look in them makes it very clear that he's waiting for an answer anyway.

You force your chin up, holding his gaze, though the nerves make your palms feel sweaty. But you refuse to ruin the plan by revealing how terrified you are. "I saw him on Thursday," you say, your voice somehow remarkably steady. "When... when you weren't at tutoring."

Something passes over his features before he straightens his posture again, pulling his shoulders back. 

"How are you feeling, by the way?" you add carefully. 

Hongjoong catches your tone right away. He stares into your eyes for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw shifting as he clenches it. 

"I..." He looks down briefly, both hands gripping the edge of the granite. "I feel a lot better now."

You swallow, forcing the tightness in your throat down as you nod. "You must've been sick for a while," you push back, remembering Seonghwa's words: don't let him off the hook. "I never heard back from you on Monday night."

Hongjoong doesn’t reply. His fingers curl tighter. You know he's smart enough to realize what you’re doing—he has to suspect, on some level, that you and Seonghwa are playing a game with him. But Seonghwa's acting had been flawless, and the doubt is clearly gnawing at Hongjoong. There's no way for him to prove whether this date was real or not. For all Hongjoong knows, the way you and Seonghwa had just been holding each other was real.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looks away for a second, visibly fighting to calm his simmering anger. When he looks back at you, his expression is different—contained. Carefully redirected.

"How..." he starts before clearing his throat to buy himself a second. "How was the substitute?"

Of course, he retreats to academics. But that's fine. This is the chance you were hoping for, the chance to make him feel what his absence did. Disappearing wasn't harmless, and it left you dealing with the consequences.

"He told me," you say carefully, "he didn't ever have to dumb things down for his other students like he did for me."

Hongjoong's face drops. 

"What?" he says, shock crossing his features with a subtle guilt following close behind. "He said what?"

Though you still feel bad about the plan, a bit of satisfaction slips in anyway.

You don’t repeat yourself. "I ran into Hwa after I left," you say, making sure to emphasize the nickname. "I was pretty upset, and he... he helped me." You pause, watching Hongjoong’s face contort through a million different emotions as the realization starts to set in. "Then he bought me a drink. Told me the only cost of it was to go on a date with him."

Hongjoong is silent, staring at you. You can see his mind racing behind his eyes. 

"And you..." he says quietly, his breath unsteady. "...you agreed?"

You nearly hesitate before you nod. "I did."

You refuse to break eye contact, even though your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip your bag to hide them. You don't give him anything more than that.

You can actually see his restraint starting to break: his shoulders have gone rigid, his mouth has tightened into a line, and his hands are still braced against the counter. And yet... he still says nothing. 

You begin to get more nervous with every ticking second. Why isn't he reacting? Seonghwa had been so certain that by now, you'd force somethingout of Hongjoong—he'd finally make a move, protest, or at least make some kind of jealous comment. Instead, you're left with nothing but that complicated, unreadable look.

"You look..." Hongjoong finally speaks, his voice lower than before. His eyes drag hesitantly down your body, taking in the careful way you put yourself together tonight—the dress in his favorite color—before gliding back up again. "...dressed for it."

You try your best to fight off your blush.

"I am," you reply, though your voice wavers with a slight tremble that makes you want to kick yourself. You pause, trying to smooth it over. "It was... fancy. Hwa is... definitely a gentleman."

You can see his tongue poke hard against the inside of his cheek as he bites something back.

"How so?"

"He answers my texts."

The moment the sentence leaves your mouth, you almost slap a hand over your mouth. Shit.

You didn’t mean to be so direct. The plan had never been to corner him outright. You and Seonghwa had explicitly talked about this: you have to play the game smoothly, beat around the bush instead of throwing your feelings straight at him. Otherwise, he might panic and run away again.

But it's too late. The words are already out there. And from the way Hongjoong stills, you know he understood them perfectly. He understands just how much his silence hurt you.

Hongjoong looks completely stuck, his mouth opening slightly like he's about to defend himself, but no sound comes out.

Before he can pull a single word together, you both hear the sound of footsteps.

Seonghwa steps back into the kitchen, either oblivious to what just happened or perfectly pretending to be. He’s holding a vinyl record, a small, silver bow taped to the plastic sleeve. He steps right into your space again, his arm sweeping confidently around you as he holds the gift out.

"Here you go, angel," Seonghwa says warmly. "Since you’re picking up Korean so quickly, I wanted to give you something to help you practice."

You blink and take the record. It’s IU’s A Flower Bookmark.

"Oh," you breathe out, surprised by the actual thoughtfulness of it. "Seonghwa, this is—"

But Seonghwa leans in until his lips are practically brushing your ear. You blink again; this wasn't the plan. You explicitly agreed to keep all the fake-flirting at a normal volume so Hongjoong could hear every last word of it. But Seonghwa's voice drops to a murmur meant only for you.

"Listen closely to track five. Meaning of You," he whispers, the warmth of his breath sending an unexpected shiver down your neck. "The lyrics reminded me of you."

Your heart does a strange stutter. You look up at him, your eyes wide. He’s looking back at you with a softness that isn’t just convincing for Hongjoong; it feels real to you. 

Is he... still acting? 

His hand resting purposefully on your waist, the genuine care in his eyes—it suddenly doesn't feel like a game anymore. The butterflies erupting in your stomach are unmistakably real.

You blush deeply, looking down at the record to hide the confusion written all over your face. "Thank you, Hwa," you murmur shyly. "It… it means a lot to me."

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, locked in a soft, quiet orbit.

"그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야."

All of a sudden, Hongjoong's voice shatters the moment.

You both snap your heads toward him.

Hongjoong has finally let go of the counter, but he isn't looking at you. His glare is fixed on Seonghwa; whatever he said was clearly meant only for his roommate to understand. 

Seonghwa, however, doesn't flinch. In fact, his grip on your body tightens. He meets Hongjoong's glare with a cool, nonchalant calm.

"그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야?" he replies.

You discreetly nudge his arm with your elbow. "Seonghwa, what—what are you saying?" you whisper, your hands tightening around the IU vinyl. This was definitely not part of the plan. You don't understand a word they're saying, and the energy in the room has shifted around you. "I don’t understand."

He doesn't answer you. He isn't even looking at you anymore.

Hongjoong suddenly pushes off the kitchen island, his eyes locked on Seonghwa as he stalks past the two of you, heading straight for the large display of records in the living room. 

"선물 줄 거면," Hongjoong says, his back to you as his fingers aggressively flip through the stack of records next to his player, "적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘."

You look up at Seonghwa, silently pleading for him to translate, to help you figure out what on earth is happening. But Seonghwa’s jaw is set, his eyes tracking his roommate with an impassive face.

Finally, Hongjoong pulls a sleeve from the stack. He turns around, marching straight back over to you. He stops much closer than he usually allows himself, invading the little bubble you and Seonghwa had built.

Hongjoong holds the record out to you.

"You said you liked GD," he says, his voice entirely different now in English. It's quieter, yet rougher around the edges, stripped of his usual composure.

You hesitate, your heart racing. You look into his eyes—searching for your tutor—but he's barely there. Slowly, you reach out and take the vinyl from his hands. You look down at the cover.

One of a Kind. G-Dragon. 

"Listen closely to track four. That XX." He pauses, swallowing hard. His eyes dart down to Seonghwa's hand on your waist before dragging back up to meet yours. "It's..." Hongjoong suddenly hesitates. "It's my favorite."

The apartment plunges into silence as you lose your breath. You can barely feel Seonghwa beside you anymore. All you can see is Hongjoong.

You know this song. It's been one of your favorites for years—besides, you remember stalking Hongjoong's Instagram, scrolling all the way to his very first post: a grainy video of him covering it. You know exactly what the lyrics say. 

What does that bastard have that I don't?

Your heart flutters. 

Why can't I have you?

Right now, Hongjoong is standing in front of you with everything he's been too afraid to say out loud completely bare in his eyes. He's confessing to you, right here, right in front of Seonghwa... but as your fingers grip the edges of the G-Dragon record, a frustrated ache blooms in your chest.

If you can do this through lyrics, you think, staring back into his eyes, why can't you just say it to me with your own words?

But Hongjoong doesn't seem interested in seeing if you understood the message. 

His eyes move to Seonghwa. It's a silent standoff, and you swallow nervously as you feel the air shake with all the things the two men aren't saying out loud. You clutch both records to your chest, feeling caught in the crossfire of a battle you don’t even understand.

Eventually, Seonghwa is the one to break it.

"Thanks for checking the crockpot, Joong," Seonghwa says. His voice is perfectly polite, but there’s a dismissiveness to it that leaves no room for argument. "But I think you could give my date and me some privacy now."

Good, you think, the breath trembling as it leaves your lungs. Back to the original plan. Whatever just happened between the two of them with the records, Seonghwa is steering the ship back on course.

Hongjoong falters. The intense look in his eyes fractures. He looks at his best friend with an unreadable expression.

"Right," Hongjoong says after a long moment. "I won't bother you. I'll just be in the kitchen."

It’s an absurd statement, considering the kitchen and the living room are essentially the same open space. But Hongjoong turns on his heel anyway,retreating back behind the island.

He yanks the plug of the crockpot out of the wall with unnecessary force. Picking up the wooden spoon he had abandoned earlier, he aggressively starts scooping out the ruined, slow-cooked beef, dropping it piece by piece into the trash can.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. You wince at the sound of the ruined dinner hitting the bottom of the garbage bag. Technically, he's giving you privacy—but his rigid back and the tense line of his shoulders make it painfully obvious that it's still very much the three of you in the room.

Taking advantage of the fact that Hongjoong’s back is turned, you tilt your head up to look at Seonghwa. You hug both the IU and G-Dragon records even tighter to your chest, leaning in close so your voice won’t carry over the aggressive scraping of the wooden spoon.

"Seonghwa..." you whisper, your brow furrowed with anxious confusion. "What just happened?"

Seonghwa looks down at you. The sharpness he had just directed at his best friend melts away instantly, replaced by a relaxed ease. He lowers his head, closing the distance between you until his lips are just a breath away from your ear.

"Don't worry about the specifics," he murmurs. A satisfied undertone coats his words, almost comically at odds with the tension floating around the apartment. "It’s going exactly how I thought it would. He’s getting jealous."

You dart a quick, nervous glance past Seonghwa's shoulder. Hongjoong is practically stabbing the inside of the crockpot now.

Seonghwa's hand resting on your waist flexes slightly to pull your attention back to him. He pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking onto your eyes with a burning focus.

"But," he continues, "he still needs a little more of a push." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Do you trust me, angel?"

You stare up at him, uneasy. Do you trust him? At this point, you really don't even know anymore. The lines between what's real and what's fake are blurring so fast you feel like you're losing your footing. Seonghwa's touch feels a little too warm, his acting a little too convincing, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach do another complicated flip.

But as another loud thwack echoes from the kitchen, you can't deny the truth: his plan is working. Hongjoong is breaking. He's undeniably at war with his emotions, fighting back the jealousy of seeing you on a date with his best friend. If you ever want Hongjoong to finally admit his feelings, you know that you have to see this through to the end.

Right now, Seonghwa is once again the only hope you have.

You swallow down the lump of anxiety in your throat.

"I do."

Seonghwa’s lips curve. 

"Good. Then it’s time to improvise."

He doesn't waste a single second. Without warning, his volume rises, leaving the whispers behind.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look in this dress, angel?" he asks, his voice carrying effortlessly across the open floor plan. He drops another wink just for you. "Blue really is your color. My favorite, too."

You flush, a sudden heat rushing to your cheeks. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the immediate reaction from the kitchen: the furious scraping stops. Hongjoong’s shoulders tense, his back still turned to you both.

"You've only mentioned it about twenty times, Hwa," you giggle, trying to keep your voice playful despite the nerves eating away at you.

Seonghwa laughs. He moves both of his hands to your waist, his grip firm as he turns your body fully toward him.

"But you know what I haven't mentioned yet?"

You raise an eyebrow, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer. Is this really necessary? you think, glancing over to the kitchen. Hongjoong is facing the other way—he can’t even see how closely Seonghwa is holding you.

"What?" you ask, your voice betraying a tremor.

"Our dance."

Your eyes immediately dart toward the kitchen to see if Hongjoong heard him, but before you can even catch a glimpse of your tutor, Seonghwa's hand slides up your neck. Two of his fingers hook gently under your chin, guiding your face back to his. 

"Eyes on me," he murmurs under his breath before speaking louder. "You owe me, angel, remember?"

You stare up into his eyes. So... this is it? Another dance? 

But... Isn't this "improvisation" too similar to the original plan?

"I..." You want so desperately to look back at the kitchen, to gauge if Hongjoong is finally about to snap, but Seonghwa's thumb sweeps a distracting path across your jawline, demanding your full attention. You force the words out. "Of course I remember."

Caressing your cheek, he says softly, "Then follow me, angel. Let me finally have my dance with you." He pauses, letting a beat of silence stretch. "In my room."

Your heart stumbles over itself. The look Seonghwa is giving you right now is far more dangerous than anything you’ve seen from him all night.

Panic begins to claw at the edges of your mind. It's nearly exactly what you discussed, but for some reason, it feels wrong. Is this still part of the plan? Or is this "improvising" not for Hongjoong's sake at all?

Before you can really process what's going on, Seonghwa’s fingers slide down your arm, lacing through yours. He gives your hand a gentle tug, softly taking the vinyls out of your hand and placing them on one of the living room tables before leading you down the hallway.

He doesn't look back at the kitchen. He doesn't check to see if his plan worked. He walks, his grip on your hand warm, pulling you further away from the living room and closer toward the door of his bedroom.

Your breath gets trapped in your throat as the panic finally sets in, every step feeling like you are crossing a point of no return. 

This isn't supposed to happen. Hongjoong's supposed to stop you. Hongjoong's supposed to—

The loud clatter of wood hitting the floor freezes both you and Seonghwa in your tracks.

"걔 네 방에 안 가."

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot upward in surprise as he whips his stare behind you; clearly, he hadn't anticipated Hongjoong actually speaking up.

You instantly spin around. Hongjoong hasn't moved from his spot in the kitchen, his back still turned to you, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the edge of the counter. His shoulders are locked, and his voice is so low and commanding that it makes goosebumps flare over your skin.

And yet still, you have no idea what he just said.

Seonghwa pauses in his spot halfway down the hallway. He stares at the wooden spoon discarded on the floor.

"Relax, Joong," Seonghwa says slowly. "It's just a date."

"그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어." 

Hongjoong finally turns around. The look on his face makes your breath catch in your throat. He's staring at Seonghwa with the most cutting glare you've ever seen.

Your brain scrambles, desperately sifting through the flashcards and tutoring lessons, trying to decipher what was just said. 그럼... then. 여자...woman. 사귀어... was that 'to meet'? No, that was 만나요. You mentally kick yourself as you realize you can't quite piece it together. 

Seonghwa meets Hongjoong's furious glare with total stillness. He lets the silence stretch for what feels like an hour before he speaks again.

"왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어."

You feel yourself starting to panic. You don't understand a single syllable of Seonghwa's words. He's talking too fast, too aggressively. You look frantically between the two men, completely lost. Why is he doing this? Seonghwa promised he wouldn't speak in Korean; the whole point of the plan was to let Hongjoong—and you—hear everything. 

"굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어?" Hongjoong practically growls, abandoning the kitchen island and stalking toward the hallway until he stops just a few feet away from you. His voice drops into a furious whisper. "다른 사람도 많잖아."

"왜 네가 신경 써?" Seonghwa shoots back.

Hongjoong's jaw locks. Seonghwa takes a purposeful step closer to his bedroom door and wraps his hand around the handle. 

You freeze, your heart plummeting into your stomach as your mind screams at you. Why is he actually trying to go inside? Hongjoong is right here! He's stopping us! Isn't this what the goal was? Why isn't he letting up?

"너 걔 좋아해서?"

Seonghwa's thumb rests on the latch. 

Hongjoong freezes. The anger in his eyes fractures, breaking into something painful. When he speaks, his anger is quieter.

"알잖아, 나…" He swallows, his voice nearly breaking. "나 걔 좋아한다고."

Seonghwa goes quiet. You stare at him, begging for him to tell you what's going on, but he simply watches his best friend with an unreadable look, the tense air thick enough to choke on. Then, slowly, he pushes the handle down. The door clicks open.

"그럼 영어로 말해."

Hongjoong goes dead silent. He doesn't move a muscle. He stands there in the hallway, his eyes wide and panicked, staring right at Seonghwa. And when he doesn't speak... Seonghwa doesn't wait. 

He steps backward into the dark room, his hand tightening like a vise on your waist, and spins you inside with him.

It's so sudden that you gasp, stumbling as the world blurs around you. 

The room smells just like Seonghwa's cologne tonight, shadows draping over his bed and desk, but you can't focus on any of it. Your head is spinning. You don't know what was just said. You don't know what is happening. All you know is that you put every ounce of your trust into Seonghwa's hands, and as you stand trapped in the dark of his bedroom, it suddenly feels like a horrible decision you can't take back.

Through the half-open doorway, Hongjoong is rooted to the floor of the hallway. His hands are balled into fists so tight his knuckles are trembling.

"왜 이런 짓을 한 거야?" Hongjoong asks, his voice thick.

But Hongjoong isn't looking at his best friend anymore.

His eyes shift directly to you.

He looks at you standing in the middle of Seonghwa's bedroom, dressed in the beautiful blue dress you picked out just for him to notice. His gaze drops to Seonghwa's hand, still resting possessively on your waist, before trailing back up to your wide, terrified eyes. You stare back at him, silently pleading. Please, your eyes beg him. Say something. Do something. Before it's too late. 

Seonghwa’s hand slides up your back.

"못 해?" he murmurs, staring straight at Hongjoong. "그럼 내가 데려간다."  

Seonghwa pulls you by the waist and twists your body so you're fully facing him. The shadows of his dark bedroom cloak him, painting the focus in his eyes even more intense than before.

He leans down until his mouth is hovering right over your ear.

"Angel," he whispers, his voice so low it’s hidden from the man in the doorway. "I need you to keep trusting me."

Trust him? Your chest heaves as you take shaky breaths, looking up at him with wide eyes. You cannot trust this man. You don't even know what game he's playing anymore, or if it's even a game to him at all. Every instinct in your body screams at you to shove him away, bolt past him, run out of the apartment without looking back. It's over. It didn't work. If Hongjoong is willing to stand there and watch you get dragged into his best friend's bedroom without intervening, then nothing will ever force him to confess.

But before you can pull away, you turn your head.

Hongjoong is still there, framed by the warm light of the hallway, perfectly still. It's as though he forgot Seonghwa was even there. His eyes are still locked entirely on you.

The anger from a moment ago has drained away, leaving his face devastatingly blank, but his gaze is so heavy it feels like it's just the two of you in the room. You can't hear Seonghwa breathing beside your ear. You can't hear anything at all. Hongjoong isn't leaving; he hasn't retreated to his room or turned his back. He came after you.

It has to mean something, you realize, your breath trembling. He wouldn't still be standing there if he didn't care. You stare into his eyes, and Seonghwa's words echo in your racing mind: He just needs a little more of a push.

You tear your gaze away from the doorway, looking back up at the man holding you. Taking a final shaky breath, you give Seonghwa a single, imperceptible nod.

The moment you signal your surrender, his hand yanks you against his chest. Another quiet gasp escapes your throat. His free hand comes up, his long fingers sliding against your skin to cradle the back of your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

There's no hesitation. No gentle, questioning brush of lips.

"Angel..." he murmurs, the word ghosting across your lips as he leans in.

He crashes his mouth against yours, like he's been starving for this exact moment all night. Your mind goes white. The apartment, the plan, the man in the doorway—it all dissolves, shrinking down to nothing but the heat of Seonghwa's mouth and the bruising pressure of his hands holding you captive.

His thumb strokes across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, parting your lips. The arm banded around your waist tightens, crushing the velvet of your dress until there is absolutely zero space left between your bodies.

Suddenly... you've forgotten why you're here.

Without realizing you're even moving, your fingers fly up, clutching desperately at the front of his shirt. That tiny, breathless surrender seems to snap something. He groans quietly as his hand slides from your jaw to the nape of your neck, his grip tightening as he angles your head and kisses you deeper, savoring the taste of you. Your head spins, the lingering anxiety burning away into a heady, intoxicating fog as you melt entirely against him, lost in the overwhelming softness of his lips—

"그만."

Seonghwa freezes. His long fingers go still against your jaw, his warm breath hovering just a millimeter from your swollen lips. Your eyes flutter open, the haze of the kiss shattering as your brain struggles to process the growl that just ripped from the doorway.

Seonghwa’s eyes flick over your head. The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous—the seductive warmth vanishes, replaced by a calculating gleam. Slowly, he lets his hand fall away from your face.

Only then do you dare to turn your head.

Hongjoong steps over the threshold, and the sight of him makes you suck in a breath. He doesn't look like your tutor anymore. His chest is heaving with erratic, shallow breaths, his dark hair is a mess, and his eyes are practically burning holes into you behind his glasses. There's no confidence radiating from him; only desperation. 

But instead of letting you go, Seonghwa’s arm wraps tighter around your waist. He pulls you backward, away from Hongjoong, into his chest so hard you stumble.

"I thought I said to use English, Joong," Seonghwa says, locked on the man stalking toward you.

Hongjoong closes the distance in a few strides, stripped of all usual caution. He stops just inches away from where Seonghwa is gripping you. He's so close. You look over his body, seeing the faint tremor in his shoulders, the adrenaline running through his veins making him vibrate. His face is twisted into a bitter smirk, but there's absolutely no humor in it—it's pure jealousy.

"손 떼," Hongjoong whispers. His voice shakes on the first syllable.

Seonghwa lets out a slick smirk of his own. Instead of obeying, his hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip. "She didn't seem to want me to stop."

Hongjoong’s eyes snap down to you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest, your lips still swollen from his best friend's mouth. A noise escapes his throat. He reaches out. His hand trembles before his fingers touch your skin, tracing the line of your jaw, his rough, urgent touch completely lacking Seonghwa's smoothness.

"You... You're too smart to be playing games like this, ____." 

Your lips part on instinct. Your lungs refuse to give you air. You're frozen, pinned between the desperate need for the man you've been agonizing over for months and the desire for the man caging you against him.

"Tell me..." Hongjoong says lowly, ignoring Seonghwa now. "Did you want him to kiss you?"

You can't speak. When you don't answer, Hongjoong’s jaw locks so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His hand suddenly tightens, his fingers digging into your cheeks as his eyes fixate on your lips—the exact spot where Seonghwa just kissed you.

"씨발…" he growls under his breath, his chest rising and falling. "박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야."

He stares at your mouth for another second, and when you let out a quiet whimper at the pain of his hands on your face, whatever tether was holding him back snaps.

Hongjoong's eyes blaze as he tips your face up and crashes his mouth against yours.

There's nothing gentle or practiced about it; his kiss is angry, unplanned, a collision of teeth, his tongue forcing past your lips, violently trying to wipe away every mark of Seonghwa from your mouth. He pants against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he kisses you like he can't stop himself. His hand slides into your hair, gripping tightly as he pulls you closer.

Butterflies twist violently in your stomach. You melt into the brutal, uncoordinated heat of it, leaning closer into him as your own tongue rises to meet his crazed pace. Your thoughts finally go entirely, blissfully blank, overwhelmed by the feeling of him finally, finally taking what he wants, leaving you with only one thought echoing in your head:

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—

But while Hongjoong is kissing you breathless, his hand sliding down your jaw to wrap a desperate grip around the front of your neck, Seonghwa doesn't just back away.

His fingers begin trailing up your sides. The metal tab of your zipper is suddenly pulled down the length of your spine. A breathless little gasp spills straight into Hongjoong’s mouth. You instinctively arch your back away from Seonghwa’s hands, accidentally pressing your chest against Hongjoong.

Hongjoong breaks the kiss with a ragged breath. He's panting, staring down at you darkly. His lips part, his throat bobbing like he’s trying to drag the words out of it, but nothing comes out. He’s mute, his hand gripping your neck and keeping your face tilted toward him, his eyes blown wide.

"It’s easy, Joongie," Seonghwa taunts from behind you. He tugs the zipper all the way to the base of your spine, but he doesn't slide the dress off your shoulders just yet. You feel him lean down, his fingers gently brushing your hair out of the way. His lips press a kiss against your shoulder. "Three words. Just like this."

Seonghwa slowly trails open-mouthed kisses along the line of your shoulder blade. His hands grip the curve of your hips tightly as he works his way up the column of your neck. Your eyes flutter shut. The contrast of Hongjoong's panicked energy and Seonghwa's slow worship is intoxicating. Your head threatens to fall back against Seonghwa's chest, stopped only by the hold Hongjoong still has on your neck.

Seonghwa's lips reach the shell of your ear.

"I like you, angel."

He gently takes your earlobe between his teeth, nibbling just hard enough to send heat straight down to your core. A helpless whimper slips past your lips.

At the sound, Hongjoong’s eyes snap from your mouth up to your eyes. "Don't make sounds like that for him," he grits out. His fingers flex, his grip on your neck tightening, a reflex that only draws another involuntary whimper from your throat.

Seonghwa chuckles between soft, wet nibbles down the side of your neck. "Why shouldn't she?" he murmurs. "I'm the one making her feel like this." 

As he speaks, one of his hands slides up from your hip. It grazes your stomach, inching higher and higher until it rests over your chest. Through the loosened fabric of your dress, his hand cups your breast, squeezing gently, kneading the sensitive flesh as his teeth graze your collarbone.

"Tell him how good you feel," he whispers against your skin.

"I... I..." you stammer, your mind melting as your eyes flutter shut again. Seonghwa hums, prompting you to go on. "I... I feel so good, Hwa..."

You feel his satisfied smirk press into the skin of your neck. Without warning, Seonghwa opens his mouth and sucks fiercely at the sensitive sweet spot beneath your ear, pulling a loud, breathy moan from your lips.

Your hands flail blindly, desperately needing to latch onto something in the overwhelming pleasure. One hand reaches back, your fingers tangling into Seonghwa's dark hair.

Your other hand lands squarely on Hongjoong's shoulder.

Then, beneath your palm, you feel it—his entire body quivering.

"그가 널 기분 좋게 해줄진 몰라도," Hongjoong mutters as his eyes bore relentlessly into yours. You don't understand the words, but the way his fingers tighten at your throat makes you gasp. "네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아."

"이젠 아니야," Seonghwa nearly groans in response. He ignores the lethal warning in his roommate's eyes, sliding his other hand up your stomach to join the first. He kneads both of your breasts through your dress, his hips slowly pressing into your backside as he sucks harder at your neck. "나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는."

"이 자식," Hongjoong hisses through his teeth. His eyes flick past you to the bed behind Seonghwa before his jaw tightens, his free hand sweeping your hair off the other shoulder, baring your skin as he forces your chin higher. "그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게."

He crashes his lips against yours again, but this time, it's somehow even rougher, angrier, more possessive. The hand at the front of your throat squeezes, using the leverage to pull your body forcefully forward, trying to wrench you out of Seonghwa’s hold.

Seonghwa refuses to let you go. His hands tighten, working needier and hungrier over your chest.

Hongjoong breaks the kiss, his lips trailing a hot, frantic path across your jawline and down to your exposed collarbone. You're trapped. You're pinned between the bodies of two men, your mind numb as they devour both sides of your neck simultaneously. You whimper as Hongjoong's teeth scrape against your skin. 

It's too much. Your knees start to buckle, your head spinning. A desperate sound tears from your throat. "H—H—"

"It's Hwa, angel," Seonghwa groans wetly against your skin, his thumbs brushing over your peaks.

"Hongjoong," the other man grunts, a demanding correction. He doesn't bother to release your neck, his mouth moving up the column of your throat, leaving messy marks everywhere his lips touch.

He trails up your jawline until his mouth finds your ear. He bites down on the cartilage, pulling at it with his teeth, an aggressive nip that makes you gasp. Then, you feel the wetness of his tongue laving over the bite.

He pulls back just an inch and whispers.

"침대 위에서." 

Finally, you can make out what he's saying.

On the bed.

You freeze in place, panting. Goosebumps erupt all over your flushed skin. Behind you, Seonghwa’s movements halt, his hands still resting on your chest.  

Before you can even process the command—before your weakened legs could possibly follow it—Hongjoong takes matters into his own shaking hands.

He grabs you by the waist, his fingers digging into your sides, and forcefully yanks you out of Seonghwa's arms, pushing you backward. 

The back of your knees hit the mattress, and you fall onto Seonghwa’s bed.

Your head bounces softly against the pillows, but you don't even have a second to catch your breath. Hongjoong follows you down. He cages you in, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your hips as he hovers over you, his dark, frantic eyes tracing the lines of your heaving body.

"눈 나만 봐."

Hongjoong's command is sharp, but there's a catch in his breath underneath it, like he's forcing it to be firm. 

There are just enough vocabulary words in that short sentence for your brain to translate through your haze: Eyes. Me. Only. Look. Keep your eyes on me.

You obey without a single thought, wide-eyed and breathless, staring up at him as he hovers over you.

"알겠어?" Do you understand? Hearing that strict tone coming from Hongjoong's lips sends a rush of heat to your core on the spot. You nod quickly, incapable of forcing any words past your throat.

He reaches down, his hand still visibly trembling as his thumb comes to rest against your cheek. He caresses your skin softly, like he's still afraid to touch you. "Smart girl," he praises quietly.

As his thumb softly brushes across your cheekbone, the panic in his eyes seems to stall. He looks dazed, like it's finally registering in his brain that he has you here, beneath him, yielding to him.

"존나 예쁘다," he breathes out. 

So fucking pretty.

You stare at him, your whole body catching on fire at the realization that your tutor is talking about you—talking to you—like that.

His thumb slowly slides from your flushed cheek down to your mouth, brushing roughly over your bottom lip. Almost like it's second nature, your lips part. A tiny, disbelieving smirk starts to tug at the corner of his mouth—the reaction of a man who can hardly believe what he's seeing, learning what he's allowed to do in real time. His thumb slips past your parted lips, coming to rest heavily on your tongue.

Without thinking, you close your lips around it and start sucking softly.

Hongjoong sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes darken, filling with lust from watching you take him into your mouth. The last threads of his composure finally melt away as he stares down at your wide, doe-like eyes.

"I’ve been staring across that table for so long," he says, his voice wrecked, his free hand sliding from your jaw to grip the side of your neck. "Wondering if I’d ever actually get to touch you the way I imagine."

His fingers flex against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing for him. He smirks, knowing you won't understand what he says next.

"오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게."

You blink up at him, sucking softly as you try your hardest to translate, but it's no use.

Hongjoong's smirk widens as he pats your cheek at the attempt.

"진짜 아름다워."

Seonghwa's whisper cuts in from beside the bed. He steps closer, looking down at you. You glance up at the two men hovering like predators above you, the sight stealing your breath so suddenly that you nearly choke around Hongjoong’s thumb.

Seonghwa’s eyes are gentle yet simmering with desire, his gaze tracing the lines of your body like you're something he’s been imagining he’d only ever see in a dream. But Hongjoong... Hongjoong is staring at you with pure possessiveness. Your usual awkward, hesitant tutor is completely dead and gone, replaced by a man pushed so far over the edge by jealousy that he's finally brave enough to take what he wants after months of denying himself.

Hongjoong’s gaze drops to your mouth, completely enraptured by the wet, soft sound of you sucking on his thumb. Slowly, his dark eyes glide down your body, tracking the heavy velvet of your dress where it clings to you.

"이 드레스 예쁘네," he says lowly, his voice becoming raspy as his eyes lock onto the curve of your chest. "내가 좋아하는 색깔." His trembling hand slides from your neck, his fingertips tracing the fabric. "이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게."

You have no idea what he's saying, but your eyes widen even more when he slowly slides his thumb out of your mouth. It slips past your lips with a quiet, wet pop.

Without breaking eye contact with you, Hongjoong nudges Seonghwa sharply with his elbow. "벗겨."

Your breath hitches. A vocab word. Take it off.

Seonghwa scoffs, bristling at being ordered around in his own bedroom. He reaches down, his fingers tracing the exposed line of your waist where the zipper is wide open, and mutters defiantly. "내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게."

Hongjoong barely reacts. His dark, blown-out eyes flick to his roommate. "그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아?" he asks quietly. "벗겨."

Seonghwa doesn't look at him, but a soft sigh escapes his lips. He reaches down, his fingers sliding gently through a strand of your hair.

"You really are beautiful," he murmurs. He smirks down at you, but the look in his eyes is gentle. "Relax for me. I'll make you feel good."

Hongjoong’s own smirk returns as Seonghwa slowly starts slipping the dress off your shoulders.

"네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어," Hongjoong says as his eyes rake over your bared skin. "하지만 걘 나를 봐."

Seonghwa drags the fabric down over your chest, fully exposing the lace of your bra. His hands slide to your waist, giving your sides a gentle tap to prompt you. You shakily arch your back off the mattress, allowing him to slide the dress completely down your hips and off your legs. He smiles softly as he folds the velvet neatly before setting it gently on the floor. 

You're left in nothing but your bra and panties, exposed under the heated gazes of the two fully clothed men above you.

The dress barely touches the floor before both men move. 

Hongjoong's shaking hands dart out, his fingers wrapping tightly around both of your wrists. With one swift movement, he pins your arms above your head against the mattress. 

But Seonghwa refuses to be shut out. 

While Hongjoong pins you down, Seonghwa moves to the foot of the bed, stepping between your legs. His hands trace unhurried paths up your bare calves and over your thighs, pushing your knees apart, spreading your legs. He leans down, pressing unbearably soft, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His hands slide up to cup your hips while his thumbs trace over your panties.

A shaky gasp escapes your throat. Your back naturally arches off the mattress, reaching for Seonghwa’s hands, your head instinctively turning as you try to get a glimpse of what he's doing between your legs despite Hongjoong pinning you down.

The needy whimper you let out for the other man makes Hongjoong's eyes flash.

"나만 보라고 했지," he snaps. 

Before you can even process the demand, Hongjoong dips his head, and his mouth crashes against your collarbone—right over the exact spot Seonghwa had kissed so gently before Hongjoong pushed you to the bed. But where Seonghwa is careful and teasing between your legs, Hongjoong is losing control entirely. He sucks and bites at your skin, leaving his own bruised marks in his wake. 

You moan softly, your hips helplessly bucking up into Seonghwa's hands.

You feel a wet heat pool between your legs as Hongjoong pulls back. He stares unabashedly down at your chest, at your breasts hidden beneath your bra. 

He shifts his weight, releasing one of your wrists. He uses his free hand to cover the cup of your bra, his fingers squeezing you roughly through the fabric.

"I try so hard to be professional," he confesses, his voice still trembling as that same hand slides around to your back, pulling another subconscious arch from your spine. "But when you're sitting there... looking at me with those eyes while I'm trying to tutor you..."

He trails off, biting down hard on his bottom lip as his eyes drag down your trembling body. His fingers hook around the clasp of your bra.

"You make it impossible to remember why I shouldn't touch you."

With one rough, impatient tug, he unclasps your bra. Your breasts immediately spill out into his waiting hand, and he yanks the delicate lace away, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

At the same time, Seonghwa's fingertips hook around your panties. He drags the thin material down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your shivering skin, until he slides them over your ankles and drops them softly to the floor next to your dress.

His hands trace back up your calves and over your knees, spreading your legs wider. A rush of air hits your skin, and the realization crashes over you: you're completely, fully exposed beneath them. Naked, trembling, and entirely at their mercy.

Hongjoong's eyes are consumed by the sight of your bare chest. His hands cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with a trembling grip. He watches the sight of his own hands on you, swallowing hard before breaking his stare and smashing his lips against yours again.

His kiss is messy and urgent. He trails his open mouth down your jaw, sucking another harsh mark into your neck, before working his way down to your chest. As his mouth reaches your breast, he traces soft, wet circles around your nipple with his lips. Without warning, he flicks his tongue over the sensitive peak.

A surprised moan tears out of your throat. 

Hongjoong pauses, looking up at you through his suddenly fogged-up glasses. He quickly rips them off and throws them somewhere on Seonghwa's beside table, a smirk pulling at his lips as he keeps dragging his tongue over the peak, his other hand roughly kneading your other breast.

"Sensitive, 자기야?"

Before you can even gasp out an answer, he closes his lips and sucks hard. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut, hands balling into the bedsheets as you become overwhelmed by his touch. He suddenly pinches your other nipple between his fingers, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your already dripping core.

"눈 나만 봐," he repeats, his fingers pausing their torment. 

He waits, refusing to move another inch until your fluttering eyelids snap open.

"좋아," he praises, his voice shaking. Good.

He sucks even harder. He squeezes and rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger with such rough, possessive desperation that you cry out, your back arching high off the mattress to press yourself deeper into his mouth. “Hongjoong—”

While Hongjoong is fully claiming your top half—kissing, licking, and sucking bruises all over your chest—you can’t see what Seonghwa is doing; you can only feel him. He presses impossibly soft kisses against the inside of your knee. Flushing hotly under Hongjoong's devouring mouth, you instinctively try to squeeze your thighs shut to hide yourself.

But Seonghwa’s hands clamp down on your knees, holding you in place.

"No," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your skin. "Don't hide from me, angel. I want to see all of you."

He kisses a path from your knee up to your inner thigh. You shake uncontrollably, whimpering and moaning as your brain short-circuits from the dual stimulation. He stops right before he reaches your core, leaning in close just to get a good look at how slick and needy you are for them, pressing hot kisses to your upper thighs.

"예쁜 보지..." he says under his breath. "나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네…" 

A grunt rips from Hongjoong's throat, his lips pulling away from your breast with a wet smack.

"넌 대체 한 게 뭐야?" he mutters, glaring down the length of your body at his roommate. Hongjoong moves his mouth to the soft side of your breast. He bites down and sucks, leaving yet another mark on your skin. "이거 다 나 때문이잖아."

Seonghwa's tongue suddenly darts out, dragging a long, wet stripe straight up your soaked folds.

A violent jolt shoots through your entire nervous system. You cry out loud, your head tossing to the side against the pillows.

"Hwa!" you moan out, your eyes rolling back into your head as his tongue begins circling your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Hongjoong recoils at the sound of his roommate's name falling from your lips. His jaw locks, a wave of jealousy crashing over his features. He instantly bites down harder, his hands gripping your waist, punishing you with pleasure just to make you scream his name instead.

"내 이름 불러," he commands, his hot breath hitting your skin. Say my name.

"H—Hongjoo... Ho... Joong…" you stammer, your voice wrecked.

"크게 말해."

Your mind goes hopelessly blank. Seonghwa’s tongue is lapping over your dripping core, sending wave after wave of blinding heat through your body. The overload of both men devouring you makes it impossible to translate in your head.

When you just lie there whimpering, Hongjoong stares dead into your unfocused eyes. He cocks a dark eyebrow, a new blend of the tutor you know and the wildly jealous man you're trapped beneath.

"Don't know what that means?" he tsks. He shakes his head, the disappointment in his expression making you feel incredibly small and desperate to please him. "And here I thought you were making progress with your listening."

"I am," you whisper helplessly, practically moaning the words out as Seonghwa presses two long fingers against your slick entrance, teasing but refusing to push inside. "I... I am..."

Hongjoong's eyes are unyielding as he holds you on the very edge of your sanity.

"Will you listen carefully?"

You nod frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as your hips buck upward, begging for Seonghwa’s fingers to just enter you already.

"Yes!" you sob out. "Yes, I will!"

You put all your strength into focusing on his words, desperately trying to focus as Seonghwa's fingers slowly start to press inside your dripping hole. His tongue relentlessly teases your clit, but you force your wide, teary eyes to stay locked on the man hovering over your face.

"혀."

Vocabulary—tongue. You nod once, frantically. He sees the understanding click in your eyes, and he reaches down, his pointer finger tapping against your closed lips.

"내밀어."

His fingers tap your lips again, making you obey before your brain finishes translating.

Sucking in a shaky, whimper-filled breath, you part your lips and stick your tongue out for him. Hongjoong's eyes narrow as he leans down, his mouth curling right above yours.

He spits, letting his saliva land right on your tongue. 

"삼켜," he whispers. 

Swallow.

You obey instantly, swallowing it down and sticking your tongue back out to prove it.

A grin breaks across Hongjoong’s face, utterly intoxicated by your submission. He pats your cheek. "좋아. 내 모범생."

Good. My star student.

Seonghwa’s fingers suddenly start moving inside you. He'd slipped them all the way in without you realizing—you were too consumed by Hongjoong even to notice. A loud, broken moan escapes you as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth latching onto your clit at the same time.

Hongjoong watches you fall apart under his roommate’s fingers hungrily, tracking every buck of your hips. 

But as your breathing turns into high-pitched sobs, Seonghwa gets too swept up in his own lust. Panting, he pulls his mouth away from your pussy, his eyes glazed over. He reaches down for the buckle of his own pants, clearly intending to take exactly what he’s been teasing. While he fumbles with his belt, he crawls up your body to capture your lips for a desperate kiss.

But Hongjoong's hand shoots out, gripping his wrist and stopping him. When Seonghwa groans and tries to pull his arm back, Hongjoong shoves a hand hard against Seonghwa’s chest, pushing him back against the mattress. 

"안 돼," he orders. No. He glares down at Seonghwa. "입술은 내 거야."

Seonghwa stares up at Hongjoong, wiping his mouth—still wet from your slickness—with the back of his hand. There's a smugness in his eyes, knowing he successfully pushed his friend to his breaking point, and he doesn't fight him. He yields, pulling back just enough to let Hongjoong take the reins as he works on unbuckling the rest of his belt.

Hongjoong's eyes look back at you.

A breath later, his expression hardens. 

He moves, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your hands and knees, his grip harsh, sweaty, and jealous. You let out a startled squeak as your bare knees sink into the mattress, your back arched with your chest pressed to the pillows. Hongjoong kneels behind you, his dark eyes raking over your exposed core already wet with both your desire and what Seonghwa left behind. 

You glance over your shoulder, wrapping your arms around one of Seonghwa's pillows to steady your trembling body. You gasp as you watch Hongjoong's hands fly to his waistband, shoving his pants down his thighs. 

His cock springs free, his erection hard, twitching, and already glistening red. He's so thick that his own fingers hardly wrap around his girth as he strokes it slowly, watching your reaction with an unreadable look. 

There’s hesitation in the way he breathes, his chest rising and falling, like he’s taking one final second to memorize exactly what he’s about to do before he crosses the line of no return.

Then, something shifts in his face. He reaches out, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair, and forces your cheek down into the mattress, completely cutting off your line of sight.

You let out a startled whimper as you feel him line his tip right at your entrance, his hands clamping down hard on your hips to lock you in place. But just before he pushes inside, his hand leaves your hip to point a shaking finger over your back, aiming right at the empty space at the head of the bed.

"가서 입에 물려," he orders, his voice trembling through the command. 

You try to lift your head, straining against his grip on your hair to look over your shoulder and gauge what he just said. But before you can move, a shadow falls over you. You blink through the hazy, overstimulated fog.

Seonghwa is kneeling at the head of the bed, right in front of your face. He's pulled out his own length from his pants, not nearly as thick yet much longer than Hongjoong's, already dripping with precum. He smiles down at you, that gentle look returning to his eyes. His hand wraps around his base, stroking himself as he guides his throbbing tip right to your parted lips.

"You're doing well for us, angel," he murmurs, his fingers brushing away the hair in your face. "Now open up."

You open your lips, taking Seonghwa’s cock into your mouth.

Behind you, Hongjoong's hands grip your hips tighter, his thumbs digging into your skin. He leans over your back, his hot breath hitting your ear as he looks down at you from behind.

"You've wanted this just as long as I have, haven't you?" he asks, his voice trembling with pent-up desire.

You shake violently as Seonghwa starts to thrust into your mouth slowly, but you nod frantically, trying your hardest to look up at your tutor.

But a nod isn't enough for him. His grip turns bruising, demanding words. "말해." Say it.

You pull back from Seonghwa just an inch, a desperate tear slipping down your cheek. "네. 나… 너 갖고 싶어." I want you.

Hearing his own language fall from your lips in such a broken, needy confession seems to shatter him fully. 

"우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어," he whispers, his fingers shaking as his voice cracks. "지금… 나만 생각해."

He thrusts his hips forward, burying his thick cock deep inside your tight hole in one push. 

You scream, the sound completely muffled by Seonghwa’s cock as he guides his length right back into your mouth. Your fingernails dig into the bedsheets, the bedframe shaking as Hongjoong begins to fuck you from behind. His hips snap forward without any rhythm, completely uncoordinated, relying solely on the instinct to stretch you, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over again.

In front of you, Seonghwa strokes your hair, taking in your muffled sobs around his sock, thrusting his hips gently into your mouth. 

"Look how good he’s making you feel," Seonghwa moans, staring down at you sucking him, your body jerking as Hongjoong pounds into your cunt. "Just take it, angel. Give it all to Joong."

Hongjoong leans his weight over you, his hips bucking as his chest slides against your sweat-slicked spine. His free hand reaches blindly around your side to roughly play with your breasts, tweaking your nipples as he fucks you breathless.

"씨발, 존나 조여…" he curses between pants, his hips slapping wetly against your thighs.

Seonghwa moans above you as he guides his cock in and out of your mouth. "Are you really that tight, angel?" he groans, watching you take his friend. "씨발... I bet you feel so fucking good..."

"내 거… 넌 내 거야," Hongjoong grunts. His pace accelerates, his thrusts growing faster as you moan out his name. You're crying, drooling, and choking around Seonghwa’s cock, taking Hongjoong's dick, completely breaking apart. Your knees wobble beneath you, threatening to give out as you feel his length twitch inside you, sending hot sparks to your core and dragging you closer to the edge. 

Hongjoong feels your legs shaking and slides his hands down your ribs, locking around your waist to hold you up.

"무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아," he orders, angling his hips to hit the spot that makes your eyes roll back.

Seonghwa pulls his hips back just enough to let his length slip from your lips, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe the spit and tears from your chin. "You hear him? Stay up on your knees and take it right," he whispers. His eyes are completely glazed over as he watches his best friend stretch you out. "Show him what an angel you are."

You let out a broken, breathless sob, trying to nod. Hongjoong hits the very back of your walls and grinds there, his hand pinching your nipple hard.

"내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네," he groans. 

Seonghwa pushes past your lips again, thrusting sharply in time with Hongjoong's brutal pounding. "씨발..." His own voice is shaking now. He strokes your hair, breathing heavily.

Time distorts. You can no longer separate Hongjoong's filthy Korean from Seonghwa's breathy English. You moan both their names blindly into Seonghwa's cock.

Hongjoong's thrusts lose all rhythm, his control cracking, giving way to his desperate need. 

"내 모범생," he growls, his voice cracking on the words. "진짜 미치게 완벽해."

Seonghwa’s hands tangle tightly into your hair, holding your head in place as he thrusts deeper into your mouth. "Come for him," Seonghwa begs you, his eyes squeezing shut as he gets closer. "Please, angel..."

"H—Hong—Hongjooong—!" you sob out, letting Seonghwa slip from your lips, your fingernails shredding into the pillows as the orgasm rips through your body. Your walls clench violently, milking Hongjoong's cock with stuttering spasms.

Hongjoong lets out a guttural groan at the feeling of you coming around him. He grabs your hips, buries himself as deep as he physically can, and releases inside you with hot, relentless pulses.

In front of you, Seonghwa grips his own cock, his eyes rolling back. He strokes himself furiously as he watches his best friend finally take you over the edge, a loud, helpless moan ripping from his throat as he finishes in thick ropes right onto your chest and the sheets beneath you.

Hongjoong stays slumped over your back, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade as his chest heaves. He's trembling just as hard as you are, his grip on your hips slowly loosening as the last few shuddering pulses of his orgasm bleed out of him.

Slowly, he pulls out. You hear the wet sound of him sliding out of you, the only sound other than the ragged gasps tearing from all three of you.

Without Hongjoong holding you up, your arms give out.

You collapse forward onto the mattress, your cheek hitting Seonghwa’s damp pillows. Your whole body feels like liquid. Your muscles twitch with the aftershocks of your climax. You can barely even keep your eyes open.

Behind you, the mattress shifts as Hongjoong falls back onto his heels.

In front of you, Seonghwa slumps back against the headboard, his long legs sprawled out. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Glistening sweat covers his entire body. He wipes a hand roughly over his mouth, his dark eyes slowly trailing over your exhausted, shivering form, taking in the messy proof of exactly what they just did to you.

As the haze of the orgasm finally starts to clear, your brain slowly begins to form thoughts again. 

What did we just do?

You force your heavy eyelids open, using whatever strength you have left to push yourself up onto your elbows. You look over your shoulder.

Hongjoong is sitting at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. The man who was just cursing at you in filthy Korean is gone. You can practically see the panic replacing the jealousy. When he senses your gaze, he looks over at you. His eyes dart to your bruised lips, down to your chest covered in his best friend's release, and then to his own shaking hands resting on his thighs. He looks shocked by what he just did.

You shakily turn back around as you hear Seonghwa shifting against the headboard.

He grabs a box of tissues from the nightstand, tossing it gently onto the bed. He looks at Hongjoong's panic and lets out a breathless sigh.

"네가 이겼어, 중아," he murmurs. His voice is raspy, stripped of the seduction from earlier. His gaze, however, softens as he looks at his best friend. "이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어?"

Hongjoong flinches. He looks back at the wall, swallowing hard, his jaw ticking.

Seonghwa pulls one of the tissues out of the box and gently wipes his release from your chest, careful not to touch you too harshly. Once you're cleaned up, he pauses, brushing the sweaty hair out of your face and smiling softly at you. He lets his thumb caress your cheek one last time before he reaches over to a pile of clothes, picking up one of his random hoodies thrown carelessly to the floor.

"Here, angel," he says, holding it out to you. "Let's get you covered up."

Trembling, you reach your arm out to take it.

"No."

Hongjoong croaks the word, staring at Seonghwa's hoodie in your hands. 

Before Seonghwa can react, Hongjoong reaches down and grabs the hem of his own sweater. He pulls it over his head, leaving himself bare-chested at the edge of the bed.

He crawls forward, his hands shaking with the sweater in his grasp. He pulls it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves, hiding your body from view. The care in his hands is so gentle it aches, but his eyes refuse to meet yours.

After you're dressed, he quickly turns away, hastily pulling his sweatpants back up and tying the drawstring. He stands up, staring firmly at the closed bedroom door. 

"Come with me," he says. His voice is hoarse.

He doesn't wait to see if you follow. He just turns, grabs his glasses from the dresser, and walks out into the hallway. 

You hesitate for a moment, your legs trembling as your bare feet softly touch the hardwood floor. You pull the oversized sleeves of his sweater over your hands, trying to sink away from what just happened. But before you follow Hongjoong out of the room, you glance back one last time.

Seonghwa is still leaning against the headboard, his breathing finally steady. A satisfied look rests on his handsome face. He catches your eye and smiles.

"Thank you for such an incredible night, angel," he says, giving you a slow, teasing wink.

You still have no idea what his true intentions were tonight. You don't know if he just wanted to break his best friend or if he genuinely wanted a piece of you for himself. But as you look at the empty doorway, you realize it doesn't matter anymore. He did exactly what he promised. He pushed Hongjoong over the edge.

You give him one last look before stepping out into the hallway, following after Hongjoong. 

He leads you past the kitchen, past the crockpot still sitting on the counter, and pushes open the door to his own bedroom.

You follow him inside as he holds the door open for you. Your heart is pounding in your throat, but for an entirely different reason now. The lust is gone, replaced by the terrifying anxiety of what comes next.

Hongjoong stands in the doorway for a second. His hand grips the handle tightly. The anxious, overthinking tutor you know is back, standing on the precipice of a reality neither of you actually thought you'd ever have.

He looks at you, swallowed up in his sweater. With one last, shaky breath, he steps fully inside the room. 

Hongjoong shuts the door behind you.

translations:

형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아. Hyung, I think the slow cooker is broken.

아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아. Nothing's cooked. I think we’re going to have to order. 

아씨—! Damn it!

그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야. That's not even the kind of music she likes.

그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야? What would you know about that?

선물 줄 거면… If you’re going to give her a gift...

적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘. At least give her something she likes.

걔 네 방에 안 가. She’s not going to your room.

그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어. Then date another woman.

왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어. Why? I asked her on a date. She said yes.

굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어? Did you really have to ask her?

다른 사람도 많잖아. There are plenty of other people, aren’t there?

왜 네가 신경 써? Why do you care?

너 걔 좋아해서? Because you like her?

알잖아, 나… You already know… I...

나 걔 좋아한다고. I like her.

그럼 영어로 말해. Then say it in English.

왜 이런 짓을 한 거야? Why did you do this?

못 해? You can’t do it?

그럼 내가 데려간다. Then I'm taking her.

그만. Stop.

손 떼. Take your hands off.

씨발… Fuck…

박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야. Park Seonghwa, I’m going to kill you.

그가 널 기분 좋게 해 줄진 몰라도… He might be making you feel good, but...

네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아. I know it's me you want.

이젠 아니야. Not anymore.

나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는. Not after the night she spent with me.

이 자식. This bastard.

그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게. Then I’ll make you realize who I am again.

오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게. Tonight… I’m going to take what I’ve always wanted.

진짜 아름다워. Truly beautiful.

이 드레스 예쁘네. This dress is pretty.

내가 좋아하는 색깔. My favorite color.

이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게. I'll make more dresses like this for you.

내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게. When I think the time is right, I’ll take it off.

그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아? Don't you want to make her feel good?

네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어… You might be able to make her feel good...

하지만 걘 나를 봐. ...but her eyes are on me.

나만 보라고 했지. I told you to only look at me, didn't I?

자기야? Baby.

예쁜 보지... Pretty pussy...

나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네… You got this wet because of me...

넌 대체 한 게 뭐야? What the hell did you do?

이거 다 나 때문이잖아. All of this is my doing.

크게 말해. Say it louder.

내밀어. Stick it out.

입술은 내 거야. Her lips are mine.

가서 입에 물려. Put it in her mouth.

우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어. Since the first time we met… this is all I've thought about.

지금… 나만 생각해. Right now… only think of me.

씨발, 존나 조여… Fuck, you're so tight...

내 거… 넌 내 거야. Mine… You’re mine.

무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아. Stay on your knees and take it right.

내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네. You're crying so prettily, filled up with my cock.

내 모범생. My star student.

진짜 미치게 완벽해. You're so fucking perfect.

네가 이겼어, 중아. You won, Joong.

이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어? Now... are you ready to say it in English?

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos

[seungminscheekies]

😝✌🏾

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER SIXTEEN

cross-posted on ao3

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter eleven. chapter twelve. chapter thirteen. chapter fourteen. chapter fifteen. chapter seventeen (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, pet play, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 10.6k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. okay so this is gonna end up being like 30+ chapters at this point which was NOT my intention, but i just can't stop writing. i love their slow burn so much... but i promise we're getting close to something big so, as always, please enjoy ;))))

"Deep breaths, ____," San murmurs from your right. He's practically swallowed by his comically oversized wool scarf, his eyes the only thing left visible as they crinkle with concern. "You're not going in there alone. Well... I guess technically, you are. But we're walking you as far as we can!"

"I don't think deep breaths are going to help her, San," Yeosang interjects from next to him, forced to walk on the grass because of the narrowness of the path. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "If it gets too weird, just text me. I'll call you with a fake emergency. Yunho's cooking suddenly burned our kitchen down."

On your left, Yunho smiles silently. When you didn't reply to any of his texts on Monday night, he knew something big had happened. He hasn't weighed in much since you confessed to the full story, but his silence isn't judgmental—it's knowing. He knows that while San can offer distractions and Yeosang can offer escape routes, only you and Hongjoong can actually fix what happened between you. 

For the past seventy-two hours, your phone has been a source of silent torture. Every five minutes, a glance; every five minutes, nothing. 

Hongjoong never replied to you.

Every time you close your eyes, you're faced with the memory of the unexpected heat of the kiss, followed instantly by the ice-cold splash of humiliation when he pulled away. Does he regret it? Or worse, is it so insignificant to him that he doesn't even think it warrants a conversation?

Now, as you head to the Language Center for your usual 5 p.m. Thursday tutoring, you guess you're about to find out.

"He one thousand percent picked that movie on purpose, by the way," San says, his voice bright as he tries to lighten the mood. 

Yunho lets out a laugh, reaching across you to nudge San's arm. "No, he just happened to choose the one Korean movie where a tutor and his student start making out."

You shake your head as you zip your coat a little higher, a laugh bubbling up in your chest despite the knots tying themselves in your stomach. "I'm telling you guys, he was just as surprised as I was," you say. "There's no way he knew."

Yeosang nods in agreement. "Plus, there are a million K-dramas with that exact trope."

San stops mid-stride, squinting at him with suspicion. "And how exactly do you know that?"

Yeosang’s pale skin immediately flushes a soft, dusty pink. He looks away, suddenly very interested in a nearby oak tree. "I've seen... a few. My sister makes me watch them."

"Oh, your sister makes you?" San pounces, his grin widening. "Or has ____'s situation inspired you? Do you see yourself as the tutor, Yeo? Or maybe you wanna be the student?"

The walk dissolves into a mess of laughter as San relentlessly teases Yeosang, whose ears are now as red as his cheeks. 

"It's not like that!" he defends himself, shoving San. "It's just a good trope!"

"Yeosang," you warn, your eyes shining with a momentary reprieve from the dread, "I can tell you from experience that it is very overrated."

But your laughter dies a sudden, synchronized death as the Language Center looms into view around the next bend. The boys slow their pace. Yunho's laughter falls flat, San's teasing grin vanishes behind his scarf, and Yeosang's face settles into concern. 

"Okay, look," Yunho says, his voice dropping. "Go in and just see what the vibe is like at first. Don't feel like you have to address the elephant in the room the second you sit down. Just... gauge him."

"He's probably just nervous," San adds. "Scared he crossed a line he can't un-cross."

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes fixed on the building ahead. "I think the line was pretty thoroughly destroyed when his tongue was down my throat, San. What else is he waiting for?"

A brief silence falls over the group. They all exchange a look that clearly says they don't have a clue. 

"Maybe he's just scared of women," San finally offers. "You know, like Yeosang."

Yeosang snaps his head toward him, taken aback. "What is with you today? Why do I keep getting attacked?"

"Because you're too much of a coward to give your own friend his jacket back," San says, his side-eye sharp.

Yunho lets out a weary sigh, his breath blooming like a cloud in the cold air. "Are you two still arguing about this?"

"I want it out of our kitchen!" San's voice rises as he nudges you for backup. "It's been draped over that chair for a week at this point. It still smells like his sleazy cologne!"

"You're his friend, too!" Yeosang shoots back, his voice rising to match San's. "If it's such a burden, drop it off yourself."

San scoffs. "I don't want to be anywhere near that piece of shit right now. You're the only one here that can still tolerate him."

"Not anymore," Yeosang mutters, a bitter edge to his words that makes you look up in surprise. He shakes his head, a look of disdain crossing his features. "Do you have any idea how many people Wooyoung has cycled through since that night? I’ll tell you something—his body count has gone up more than the number of days that have passed. He’s completely gone. ____ destroyed him."

You wince at his words. "Okay," you breathe, holding up a trembling hand to stop the conversation. "I really, really don't need that image in my head right now."

Yunho immediately steps in, making a dramatic show of reaching out and cupping his large, warm palms over your ears as you approach the foot of the stairs. "Don't listen to them," he says, his voice muffled. "Remember your actual problems. Hongjoong. The kiss. The awkwardness. Focus on him."

You look up at Yunho and give him a flat, deadpan stare. "Thanks, Yunho."

He offers a sheepish, lopsided grin—part apology, part encouragement—and lets go as you reach the entrance. They crowd around you for one last pep talk—San giving your arm a supportive squeeze, Yeosang offering a terse yet encouraging nod, and Yunho ushering you up the steps.

"We’ll see you when you get back to the dorm! I'll have dinner ready!" San calls out, the three of them hovering at the base of the stairs like your private security detail until you disappear through the doors.

Once inside, the hum of the heater swallows all the sounds of the outside world. The nerves return as your friends are left behind, the doors swinging shut behind you.

You have absolutely no idea how you're going to face Hongjoong.

Will he play the professional? Will he open his notebook, click his pen, and carry the session on as usual, pretending things between you haven't changed? You’ve spent the last three days preparing for the worst: coldness, silence, avoidance. After all, when things get messy... those are the three things you both seem to do best.

You take a final deep breath and approach the receptionist, forcing a polite smile even as you begin to feel lightheaded from the nerves. The woman recognizes you instantly, offering a similar smile back. "Hi, ____."

"Hi," you respond, your voice sounding more anxious than typical. You don't even bother with the formalities of the time or your tutor's name; by now, she knows you too well.

The receptionist’s fingers clatter against the keyboard for a moment before she looks up, her smile softening into something sympathetic. "Alright, you're all set. Oh, and do me a favor? Tell that sweet boy Hongjoong that I hope he feels better soon. That flu that's going around this season is an absolute nightmare."

You freeze, your lips parting in confusion. 

The flu?

The receptionist is already looking back at her monitor, oblivious to the way the blood is draining from your face. Clearly, she assumes your tutor's illness is old news to a dedicated student like you.

Hongjoong is sick?

Is he... not here?

You force your facial muscles into a tight, brittle smile. "I... I will do that. Thank you." 

The woman nods and motions toward the tutoring room with a distracted wave of her hand. You turn away, a wave of nausea rolling through you as you walk through the doors. If Hongjoong was sick enough to call the center, why didn't he tell you? Why let you walk all the way here, escorted by your friends, only to find out from the receptionist?

Most importantly: if he isn't here, who is?

You enter the room and immediately notice that it's unnervingly empty; there are only three people in the entire space. In the far corner, a pair of students is murmuring what sounds like Italian, their voices hushed.

Your eyes drift slowly to the man sitting at your usual table.

He's occupying the exact chair Hongjoong usually claims, but the energy is entirely wrong. There are no neatly stacked textbooks, no notes laid across the wood, no glow of an open laptop. He’s leaning back, his spine curved in a lazy slouch, his attention entirely consumed by the phone in his hand. Every few seconds, a short, dry burst of a laugh escapes him at something on his screen.

Your heart sinks. Hongjoong really isn't here. He abandoned the session—and you—to a stranger.

You grimace, the humiliation from the past three days curdling into frustration. You approach the table and stop right beside it, your shadow falling across the man's lap. He doesn't notice. He doesn't even glance up, his thumb continuing to flick upward across the screen. You stand there for a beat, scanning the nearly empty room as if Hongjoong might suddenly jump out from under a table and tell you this is all a terrible joke. When no such miracle occurs, you clear your throat. 

Finally, the man looks up. There is no apology in his gaze, no welcoming smile. He simply furrows his brow, looking slightly annoyed, as if you just rudely interrupted him.

"Hi," you say, trying your best to swallow the frown and the sting of disappointment prickling behind your eyes. "Um... is Hongjoong not here?"

The man looks you over for a beat before swiping his phone open. He taps into his messages, and despite instinctively looking away to be respectful, the sheer volume of the text catches your eye. It’s a block of texts from Hongjoong, but it’s all in Korean—a blurred, scrolling sea of characters you can’t even begin to decode.

"____, right?" he asks, his thumb still flicking over the screen.

"Yes."

He doesn’t look up; he merely jerks his chin toward the empty seat across from him, a silent, dismissive command. After a second, when you sit, he finally flips the phone face-down on the table and offers a smile that feels completely fake. 

"I'm James," he says, leaning back and shoving his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. "Hongjoong's out with the flu, apparently. I'm supposed to fill in."

You swallow hard, pulling out your phone to open your recording app out of habit. "Okay... why didn't Hongjoong contact me or anything?"

James tilts his head, giving you a look that borders on incredulous. "Do tutors usually give their students a heads-up when they're sick if another one will be there?"

You suck in a deep breath, a self-deprecating laugh bubbling up in your chest. "No," you say, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. "No, I guess they don't."

He gives you another odd look—clearly wondering why you're so visibly rattled—before grabbing his phone again. He begins scrolling through the text chain with Hongjoong, his eyebrows arching higher and higher with every passing second.

"Damn," he mutters, more to himself than you. "He’s a much better tutor than I am. He sent me a whole list of things to work on with you."

You find yourself leaning forward, trying to sneak a peek at the texts, your heart hammering. You're desperate for any scrap of Hongjoong's thoughts, any proof that he hadn't just deleted you from his mind the moment you left his apartment on Monday night. "Yeah? Like what?"

James doesn't even glance at you as he continues to scan the instructions. "This week is all about negative forms, apparently. He said you’re probably going to struggle with understanding the difference between the -지 못하다 ending versus the standard 못 form." He pauses, finally looking up at you with a judgmental squint that suddenly makes you feel very small. "You still don't know the difference between casual and polite forms?"

You flinch, completely taken aback by his condescending tone. "I—no, I mean, of course I do. I just... um..." You trail off, your brain scrambling to defend itself after practically getting slapped in the face. "Obviously, new grammar patterns are going to take me a minute to get used to."

James gives you a slow once-over before nodding. "Sure. Anyway, he also mentioned you need to work on your confidence in speaking. Said your listening has improved a lot lately?"

Your heart skips a beat. You can almost hear Hongjoong's voice saying those exact words to you in his kitchen—the way he’d looked at you when he praised your progress. "Um... a little bit, I guess."

James raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. He leans forward, encroaching on your personal space as his voice quickens. "네 튜터가 나한테 거짓말한 거야? 아니면 내가 하는 말 이해해?"

Your mouth quickly drops open, then snaps back shut. You stare at him, your mind a complete, static-filled blank. The syllables flew past you too fast to catch even a singular word.

"Right," he says, smirking in ugly triumph. "Okay. He attached your assignment, too, so we can get started on that."

He taps the screen to open an image, and you sit there in a stunned, miserable silence. The humiliation you've been carrying since Monday has evolved into a cold, hard knot of resentment. Who is this guy? And why the hell is he being so rude? Treating a tutoring session like it's an interrogation?

James squints at the screen, pinching and dragging the image with a frustrated flick of his thumb. "Do you have any money on your printing account?" he asks, looking at you flatly. "I don't know how he expects me to read this blurry-ass image from my phone."

You stare at him, genuinely stunned by the audacity of the request. He wants you to pay for his own lack of preparation?

"No," you say, your voice coming out like ice. "I don't."

He lets out a very frustrated huff, tossing his phone onto the table with a clatter that echoes through the room. "Alright. Stay here. I'll be right back." He stands abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor, and vanishes through the door, presumably to go hunt for the money he should've already secured or the printer he should've already found.

You're left alone in the quiet room, staring blankly at the empty wall behind his chair.

What the actual fuck?

The questions that have been simmering since you walked in suddenly reach a boiling point, more aggressive and painful than before. Where the hell is my actual tutor? Is he actually sick? Or does he simply not want to face me after what happened? If that's the case, why the fuck would he leave me with this? Did he willingly hand-pick this asshole, or did he not have any say in who was filling in?

Your gaze drifts to the phone lying abandoned on the table. The screen is dark, but you know what sits beneath that black glass: a literal wall of text about you. His thoughts, his instructions, his observations—everything you're currently dying to know, written in a language you still can't speak. Being avoided by Hongjoong isn't entirely unexpected, but being replaced by a stranger who treats you like a chore is a whole new level of torture.

James returns a few minutes later, the quiet of the room broken by the snap of a freshly printed sheet of paper landing in front of you. He slumps into his chair with an indifferent sigh, his hand immediately diving for his phone to resume his scrolling—likely checking for any last-minute instructions Hongjoong might have sent.

He begins humming a low, tuneless melody that grates against your already frayed nerves. His attention is entirely absorbed by the screen. You watch him, your mind grasping to piece together the fragments of the situation. If this man has Hongjoong’s number—if Hongjoong is sending him paragraph-long descriptions on your learning habits—they have to at least be friends, right? And if they’re friends, James likely knows if that flu is an actual fever or a convenient lie.

"So..." you start, trying to keep your voice casual, like you're simply killing time before you start. "Are you and Hongjoong close? Are you also from Seoul?"

James looks up, levelling you with that same look of baffled annoyance. "I'm from New Jersey."

Your lips pull into a thin line. "Oh."

"And no," he adds, finally clicking his phone off for good. "I don't even know the guy. I have no idea how he even got my number. We just work the same shift rotation sometimes."

You blink, your theory crumbling instantly. Okay. Scratch that plan.

"Let's just get started," James says, his finger tapping the paper. 

The dialogue is a disaster from the first sentence. James doesn't speak with the patient, melodic cadence that you're used to Hongjoong using. He speaks with the rapid-fire clip of a native speaker who has somewhere better to be, his accent thick and his patience thin. He's miles ahead of you, leaving you stumbling through the phonetics. You find yourself pausing before every line. You only realize it's your turn to speak when the room suddenly falls silent.

Then, you hit the new grammar pattern—the very one Hongjoong said you would struggle with.

"저... 저는 이번 주말에 숙제를 하지 못할 거예요," you read, but your tongue trips over the syllables. The -지 못할 tangles behind your teeth, coming out as a garbled mess of consonants.

Habit takes over. Honestly, it's muscle memory at this point, born from weeks of patient sessions with Hongjoong. You immediately tap the 'stop' button on the recording app, your thumb already moving to reset the track so you can get it right. That’s how it works with Hongjoong. You don't move on until you've perfected it.

James stops mid-breath, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he stares at your hands. "What are you doing?"

You look between him and the phone, blinking. "Starting over?"

"Why?"

"...Because I messed up?"

James lets out a short, incredulous laugh, leaning back in his creaky chair. "Does Hongjoong really make you start over every time you fuck up a single word?"

The question feels like a direct insult to the way you work. You feel a frown deepening on your face. "Well... no. He doesn't make me. I want to."

"You want to do more work?"

You feel a flash of heat in your cheeks—part embarrassment, part budding rage. "It's one extra minute. I want it to sound the way it's supposed to."

He chuckles again, that condescending little huff making you want to shove the paper off the table. He shrugs his shoulders, indifferent. "Alright, sure. I get paid either way. Let’s start over."

You grit your teeth and run through the dialogue again. While your pronunciation is flawless the second time around, the uneasy feeling in your stomach only grows. Every time you pause to let a conjugation click into place, you can feel James’s silent judgment. Everything that makes you a good student—your effort, your care, your dedication—seems to be nothing more than something for him to make fun of.

The second the recording finishes, you hit 'submit' with an aggressive jab of your finger, desperate to be done with the suffocating atmosphere of your substitute tutor. 

"Do you have any questions?" James asks, sounding like he's still reading off a script, checking off the final box of the session. 

You bite your inner lip, your pride warring with your genuine confusion. "Well... like Hongjoong mentioned… I don’t really get the fundamental difference between the -지 못하다 and the 못 form." 

He lets out another airy laugh, the kind of sound that makes you feel like you just asked him to explain two plus two. "Okay. Look. -지 못하다 is just more polite. 못 is casual. It's pretty simple."

You stare at him, your frown deepening. "Right. I've read the textbook definition. I understand that. But why? Can you... I don't know..."

You trail off, suddenly feeling the absence of Hongjoong’s teaching style deeply. Hongjoong doesn't just recite rules; he deconstructs them. He tells you why the language evolved that way, giving you the cultural context and nuances that eventually make the grammar stick.

James's brow furrows, his patience clearly being tested. "Can I what? It’s pretty simple. Polite versus casual. I… don’t really know what else I can explain."

He’s looking at you like you're an idiot. His gaze is heavy with a condescension you've never once encountered in this room before. You've never felt smaller, sitting in this molded chair that suddenly feels like it’s swallowing you whole, shrinking you down until you're nothing but a nuisance. 

The frustration that has been simmering since you saw his slouching frame finally reaches its tipping point. The words slip out before you can catch them:

"Have you ever actually tutored anyone before?"

He raises an eyebrow, his jaw snapping shut as he takes genuine offense. You didn't really intend to be rude—well, perhaps a little—but the look he gives you is lethal.

"Obviously," he snaps coldly. "It's just that most people understand the material without me having to dumb it down for them."

You flinch as if he's actually just struck you.

It's possibly the most demeaning thing anyone has ever said to you. Maybe you were a little rude, but James was the aggressor from the second you sat down. He was clearly irritated to be stuck here on a Thursday night, clearly annoyed by the detailed instructions Hongjoong had left behind.

Hongjoong.

Hongjoong would never in a million years say that to you. You don't think he even possesses the capacity to think it. Even when you're drowning in a sea of complex particles, he meets you with a patience that makes you feel capable. In the midst of this disastrous session, you realize that you don't just miss him—you need him here. You need the way he looks at you—not as a chore to be "dumbed down," but as a person worth the effort. 

Maybe it's just the heat of the moment, but you suddenly think that being assigned to him wasn't just a scheduling fluke. It feels like a collision of fate that you aren't yet ready to lose because of some accidental kiss.

"Okay," you say, your voice flat.

You don't wait for a response. You shove your phone into your bag, not looking at James again. The sound of your jacket zipper teeth locking together is loud. You sling your bag over your shoulder and pause for only a second, giving James one final, cold glance.

"Did Hongjoong have anything else?" you ask. "A message? Anything?"

James sighs, his thumb flicking across his screen one last time with bored indifference. "Not really. He just mentioned that you might try to leave pretty quickly. Said I should try to stop you—make sure you understand everything before you go."

Your heart skips a beat, then seems to stop entirely. Even from his room—or wherever he's hiding—he still knows you. He's trying to protect your progress, hovering over your shoulder through a text of instructions, even when he's not here to guide it in the flesh. The contradiction stings. If he cares enough to warn James that you might try to leave early, why couldn't he show up and stop you himself? 

"Oh," you whisper.

You look at James and realize that even if you had a million questions, you don't want a single answer if it doesn't come from Hongjoong's lips.

"I'm good. Thanks for... whatever this was."

You turn on your heel, your face set in a stony frown. You walk out without looking back at the table, the doors swinging shut behind you as you leave James and all of Hongjoong's instructions behind.

What the actual hell was that? 

Your mind loops in a dizzying monologue, fueled by the sting of abandonment, as you storm away from the Language Center. If he really has the flu, he’s a victim of bad timing. But the cynical part of you suspects cowardice—a convenient excuse to avoid addressing what happened on Monday. You don't particularly want to face Hongjoong, either. But at least you showed up. 

You don't think Hongjoong would've purposely picked James to be his replacement. But if you're right, that means you truly have the worst luck of anyone you know. Out of the entire tutoring staff, Professor Choi just had to hand you to the one person who treated your perfectionism like it was something to be ashamed of? Is there suddenly a problem with wanting to learn? Wanting to do things the right way?

The irritation begins to bubble over. Hongjoong left a novel's worth of instructions for James, and yet for some reason, he couldn't be bothered to send a two-word text: I'm sick.

You're halfway across the quad, the wind whipping through your hair, before you realize you're not even walking toward your dorm. Your legs are moving on autopilot, carrying you in the complete opposite direction.

You skid to a halt. The sudden stillness makes your head spin. Closing your eyes, you draw in a lung-searing breath of the evening air. It’s bracingly cold, but for a moment, it manages to quiet your thoughts.

You aren't ready to face the quiet of your room, nor the well-intentioned but inevitably inedible comfort food San promised to cook for you tonight, just in case things with Hongjoong went badly.

You need a buffer. Just one hour to yourself. 

After enduring James’ sneering condescension and the emotional whiplash of the last twenty minutes, you deserve a treat. As you look toward your favorite campus café, just a few feet off the main path, you can already taste it: a hot chocolate topped with sweet whipped cream and extra marshmallows. Maybe a chocolate muffin, too.

Exhaling a cloud of silver mist, you square your shoulders and start walking toward the café. If Hongjoong wants to hide from you, fine. You'll let him, for now. You’re going to sit in a window seat, wrap your hands around a steaming mug, and forget about the fact that your heart is currently a tangled mess of irritation and longing.

The small bell above the door chimes as you step into the warm interior. You happily take in a breath, relieved to be smelling the scent of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls instead of highlighters and textbook pages. You walk straight toward the counter, your head down as you dig around in your bag for your wallet. 

"Hi," you say to the person behind the register, pulling out your card and tapping the plastic against the counter. "I'll do a medium hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, and—"

The words die in your throat as you finally lift your gaze and make eye contact with the man taking your order. 

Standing there in the mandated black apron, his dark hair tucked neatly under a baseball cap, is the last person you ever expected to see behind a service counter.

"Seonghwa?"

Your eyes widen as you take in the sight of him with a name tag pinned to his chest and a steaming milk pitcher in his hand.

He stops pressing buttons on the touch screen and blinks at you, a slow smile spreading across his perfectly symmetrical face as he realizes that it's you.

"____?" 

"You work here?" you ask, your voice hitching in shock. "Why have I never seen you before? I'm here at least twice a week!"

Seonghwa laughs as he turns to the counter behind him, setting the pitcher down before reaching back to loosen the ties of his apron so he can talk to you casually.

You try to look away, but it's no use.  He’s dressed in the standard-issue cafe attire—a simple black polo embroidered with the emerald-green logo—but on him, it looks expensive. High-quality. His dark, tailored pants hug his frame just right, and his baseball cap is tugged over his forehead, the low brim showing off the angles of his face.

He sees you staring in the espresso machine's reflection. A smirk plays on his lips. "Well, maybe you haven't been looking."

"No, I would've noticed you," you blurt out, the words leaving your mouth before your brain can put up a filter. Heat crawls up your neck as you realize how that came out. 

Seonghwa pauses, his hand hovering over the knot of his apron. He slowly rotates his head toward you, a perfectly groomed eyebrow arching toward the brim of his cap. "Would you now?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. A charming smirk deepens his dimple. As you blush, he lets out a soft laugh, finally taking off his apron and hanging it on a drawer handle.

"I’ll take it as a compliment," he says, finally relenting. He leans his elbows on the polished counter and smiles at you. "The truth is, I technically don't start until next semester. I'm still in the training phase."

You nod, your cheeks starting to cool. "So that's why."

"That's why," he confirms, his dark eyes sparkling at you. "I was here so often that I figured I should just see if they had any openings. Free coffee, every day."

"Every day?" you repeat, dumbfounded and a little dazed by how he's looking at you. "Wow. Maybe I should apply, too."

Seonghwa tilts his head. "But you already have a job, don't you?"

You nearly gasp. The lie. The one you'd told at the bar... and then again in Hongjoong's—and Seonghwa's—apartment. "Right! Of course I do. But... in this economy, you can never have enough money. Um... diversified income, you know?"

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh that makes you think he doesn't believe you. He doesn't press you, though; you expect him to ask something along the lines of where you work, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches for a cup next to the register. The sleeve rustles as he picks it up.

"Sure," he murmurs, uncapping a nearby Sharpie. He writes your name on the side of the cup, and you're impressed by his neat handwriting. "So, hot chocolate. Was it extra whipped cream?"

"Um... I said extra marshmallows."

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he marks it down. "They're going to fire me before I even start."

"No, it's okay, I'll take the whipped cream, too. And maybe a chocolate muffin," you add, feeling a sudden wave of shyness now that you're being served by someone you know.

"Got it." He taps a few buttons on the monitor. When you move to swipe your card, he gently blocks the reader with his hand. "It's on the house."

Your eyes snap to his. "No, what? Seonghwa, you can’t—I can pay for it."

He shakes his head, his smile widening. He leans a little closer over the counter, the brim of his cap casting a shadow over his eyes and making his gaze feel incredibly private. 

"Don't worry about it. Consider it a down payment." His voice lowers as he all but whispers, "You owe me two dances now."

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You stutter, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big for your mouth. "Oh. Okay. Um. Two. Right."

You stand there, rooted to the spot, watching Seonghwa turn to prepare your drink. You're practically mesmerized by the sight of him working—steaming the milk, tapping the pitcher to pop the bubbles, mixing in the perfect amount of marshmallows. His effortlessness makes you feel clumsy just by association. As he finishes swirling a mountain of whipped cream on top, he reaches up to pull off his cap. He runs a hand through his dark, slightly mussed hair, shaking it out.

"I’m taking a fifteen!" he calls out toward the back.

"You're a trainee, Seonghwa!" a rough voice bellows back from the kitchen. "You don't have any fifteens to take!"

Seonghwa ignores it. He shrugs at the empty air and slides your hot chocolate, paired with a chocolate muffin, across the counter. He gives you a charming tilt of his head before quickly fixing another drink—a double-shot iced Americano for himself.

His eyes lock onto yours, nodding toward a small, secluded table tucked into a cozy corner near the back windows, far away from the students still studying quietly. "Let's sit."

You follow him over, holding your treats and smiling shyly as he reaches to pull a chair out for you. The gesture is so effortlessly gentlemanly that you feel your cheeks redden again.

"Thanks," you murmur, sliding into the seat.

He sinks into the chair across from you, his long legs stretching out beneath the small table. He takes a slow sip of his coffee before focusing solely on you.

"So," he begins. "What brings you here so late?"

You take a long, grateful sip of the hot chocolate, letting the rich cocoa warm your tongue. It’s perfect—the exact sugary, comforting distraction you needed. 

"You actually have a talent for this," you say, trying to steer the conversation away from your own life, specifically the reason why you came to the café. "This is the best hot chocolate I've had all semester."

He preens slightly at the compliment, but he doesn't let the distraction slide. Seonghwa is too observant; he notices your fingers tapping anxiously against the paper sleeve of your cup. He sets his drink down and fixes you with a quizzical look.

"Were you supposed to have tutoring with Joong tonight?"

You freeze. Your cup is halfway to your lips, but you pause mid-air, the steam warming your cheeks. Slowly, you lower the drink back to the table.

"How did you know?"

He chuckles, taking another sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup. 

"Every Thursday, it's the same thing," he tells you. "He takes over the entire kitchen. Papers spread out everywhere, marking down all these notes. I've seen him work on actual assignments with less focus than he puts into those Thursday sessions. He tutors on Tuesdays, too, but he doesn't put nearly as much effort in. But tonight... he didn't prepare for anything at all."

He pauses, letting that sink in. You feel a strange, fluttering sensation in your chest as the image forms in your mind of Hongjoong hunched over his notes, all for you.

"He won’t talk to me, you know," Seonghwa adds quietly.

"About what?"

"About you."

You nearly choke on a bite of your muffin, coughing as you scramble for your hot chocolate to wash it down. Seonghwa, however, doesn't look concerned; he just smiles.

"Will you?" he asks.

You stare at him, your mind racing for a deflection, an exit, anything. "I… I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Seonghwa doesn't relent. "What happened on Monday night, ____?"

You hesitate, every instinct you have screaming caution.

Why is Seonghwa asking you this?

First, he approached you at the bar with that smooth, disarming confidence, asking for a dance—a moment that still gives you butterflies when you think about it. Now, he's buying your drink, bartering for more of your time, all while asking you to talk about your feelings for a man who isn't him. 

He must see the gears grinding behind your eyes—the way your gaze flits from him to the exit—because he leans in to reassure you.

"I’m not trying to ruin things for you, angel," he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "I’m just trying to help my best friend."

You nearly choke on your muffin for the second time. Angel? 

Seonghwa’s grin widens. "Oh? You like pet names?" he teases. "Cute. I'll be sure to let Joong know he's been taking the wrong approach."

You've quite literally gone still, your brain malfunctioning. "Seonghwa… what—what are you…?"

He laughs under his breath. "This is awful," he sighs, shaking his head regretfully. "I really wish I'd gotten to you first. You're adorable."

Before you can even process the implications of that—the idea of Seonghwa getting to you first—his expression changes.

"Anyway, tell me," he continues. "Tell me what happened between you two on Monday. And don’t bother asking how I know something happened—I could feel the tension before I even walked through the front door. I promise I’m only trying to help. For both your sakes."

You weigh your options for a long second. You're completely out of your depth, trapped between your loyalty to your own stubborn pride and your desperate need for some answers. But if anyone knows the truth about Hongjoong—why he didn't show up, whether he's really sick—it’s his roommate.

"He doesn't really have the flu, does he?" you ask, your voice a little hesitant and full of suspicion.

He smiles, almost fondly, for a reason you can’t place. His fingers tap idly against the side of his drink. "Answer my question first," he says while shaking his head, "then I’ll tell you anything you want."

You let out a defeated sigh, your shoulders sagging as you glance around the café. The place has begun to thin out, the once-busy tables slowly emptying as students pack up their laptops and notebooks, drifting out into the darkening evening. You want your answers—desperately—and you know Seonghwa is the only person who might give them to you before the night ends.

"Okay," you say, finally meeting his gaze with a small nod. "Fine."

Seonghwa leans in, his chin resting on his palm. "How exactly," he begins, "did you end up in his bedroom?"

The blush on your cheeks deepens until it stings. "Well… it was my fault, honestly. We were talking about how my listening comprehension has improved through K-dramas, and he mentioned watching one together so he could help me translate the imperfect subtitles."

You pause, your fingers nervously picking at your muffin wrapper, shredding the paper into tiny confetti. "I was overwhelmed, and I thought he meant, like, right that second. Looking back, I don't think he actually intended for it to happen then... but either way, I said sure. I... I thought there was a TV in the living room. But then he said the only screen was in his room. So… we, um, went."

Seonghwa laughs, running a hand over his face as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “And neither of you thought just to watch it on his laptop at the kitchen island?"

Your tongue clicks softly against the roof of your mouth as the blunt logic hits you. "Oh."

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "God, you two are a disaster. Anyway, what happened after?"

"Um... we watched Parasite."

"I've never seen it."

"I wouldn't recommend it," you say, your voice dry. "Not unless you enjoy watching tutors and students make out. Or parents touching each other underneath their clothes on a living room couch."

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up. "Well. I imagine that was a little awkward."

"Just a little," you agree sarcastically, letting out a sigh. “We... we almost kissed once. But then he pulled away at the last second and started rambling about some grammar rule."

Seonghwa laughs again, this time burying his face in his hands. His muffled voice comes out through his fingers. "He's more helpless than I thought."

"But then," you continue, suddenly feeling very shy. You start picking at your nails, pretending to be interested in the chipping polish. "He, um. He actually did it. He kissed me."

The laughter stops. Seonghwa's hands drop to his lap instantly. His amusement vanishes from his face. He doesn't say a word; he just watches you, waiting for the rest of the story. 

"It was during the... uh, the scene with the parents," you explain quietly, your gaze dropping to your hot chocolate. "We were just... both anxious, I guess. The remote fell off the couch, and we both went to pick it up, and, um..." You trail off, the memory of how Hongjoong's eyes darkened making your heart stutter.

Seonghwa stares at you in disbelief, a smirk fighting its way onto his face. "He kissed you? During a sex scene, no less?"

You blush furiously. "Yeah. Maybe. Um. Anyway, he pulled away again almost immediately. He just said my name, then turned his back to me. He was quiet for a long time before he told me it was late and I should go."

Seonghwa nods slowly, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "And that’s when I saw you leave," he concludes softly.

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection all over again. Seonghwa goes quiet, his gaze drifting toward the darkened window of the café as he processes everything you just said. 

"I'm going to tell you something," he begins suddenly, breaking the quiet that settled between you, "that Joong would probably kill me for if he knew I was telling you."

You instantly sit up straight. The half-eaten muffin in your hand is forgotten as you lean forward. At this point, you're desperate for anything, any scrap of information that might help you make sense of the enigma that is your tutor.

Seonghwa exhales softly.

"Well, first of all," he says, "to answer your question... no. He doesn’t have the flu. He’s been locked in his room pretty much since Monday night, but he’s not sick." He lets his words hang in the air, watching you digest them.

The confirmation stings, yet it’s not a surprise. You were right. He's hiding, unwilling to face the consequences of something he started. 

Seonghwa studies your expression for a moment before continuing.

"I first met Joong last year," he says, tracing the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "We went to different high schools, but when we found out we'd both been accepted to the same international university, we decided to meet up before the semester started." His mouth curves faintly at the memory. "We became close fast. Over the summer, we talked about everything—school, family, passions… life."

He pauses to take a slow sip of his coffee.

"And, of course," he adds after he swallows, glancing up at you briefly, "girls."

You nod, following along, though you can’t quite suppress the small, irrational pang of jealousy that pricks at your chest at the thought of Hongjoong dating before you met.

"Now, I told him I’d dated a few girls in high school," Seonghwa continues. "Nothing serious enough to stay committed to once I left Korea. But Joong…" He pauses, thinking back. "When I asked him about it, he suddenly went quiet."

Your brow furrows. Suddenly, you're nervous for what he's about to say next.

"I didn't push him at first," he says. "But eventually, I asked if he'd ever had a girlfriend. He hesitated for a long time before he said no."

Your heart gives an unexpected little jump.

"I remember the way he looked when he said it. Like he was embarrassed, or like he thought I'd judge him for it." Another faint smile pulls at his lips. "Which, in hindsight, means I probably did what any terrible friend would do and pushed even more. I asked him why. Why had he never dated anyone? Had he ever even tried? And all he said was that he'd never met anyone compatible." He pauses as he glances at you. "He told me he'd never even had a real crush before."

You blink. Oh.

"For a while," he admits, chuckling, "I thought maybe he wasn’t into girls at all and was too nervous to tell me. But now, seeing him with you..."

He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish the sentence. The implication is loud enough to make your ears ring. 

You sit there, stunned, slowly processing what he just told you. Seonghwa isn't saying you're just another girl Hongjoong likes; he's saying you might be the first one he's ever liked at all.

For some reason, a warm, bright, and dangerous spark of happiness flickers in your chest. Because as much as you try to stay irritated with him for running away, for hiding from you, for being too afraid to face his own feelings, you can't stop the satisfaction spreading through you.

You like the idea of being the first. You like the idea that somehow, impossibly, you were the one who finally got to him.

"I think that might be part of what intrigues me about you," Seonghwa continues after a moment, gazing at you curiously. "What is it about you that made Joong finally fall for someone?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around your cup.

"Well... obviously, you’re beautiful," he adds easily, like it's simply an objective fact. "And you’re clearly smart. Independent. Comfortable in your skin, yet still shy. There's this quiet confidence about you. That’s what drew me in, at least." He pauses, his eyes roaming over your features, lingering in a way that feels both analytical and flattering.

"But for Joong," he continues softly, "I know there has to be more."

Suddenly, the warmth is replaced by a nervous pressure curling in your stomach.

Why you? What could possibly be so special about you? You were just a student who needed a language credit. You and Hongjoong were just two people shoved into the same room by a professor and a class schedule. If you hadn't signed up for Korean, he wouldn't even know you existed. What makes you the one he suddenly wants?

After a moment of silence, Seonghwa chuckles. "Maybe he really is into the whole teacher-student thing."

Your head snaps up.

"I teased him about that once. Before I knew you, obviously. I asked him if writing down all those notes and corrections for his students was secretly turning him on. If that's why he spent so much time preparing for those sessions." His grin widens. "He swore at me in so many different dialects that I’m starting to think I wasn’t completely wrong."

He laughs, but you feel a small frown pull at your lips. Is that all you are? A trope? A convenient fantasy born out of proximity and a power dynamic? Something temporary, replaceable by any other semi-attractive student? 

Seonghwa quickly catches the change in your expression and shakes his head, his smile softening. "Of course, that’s not the main reason. I was only kidding," he says gently. "Besides, Joong was a tutor back in Korea, too. He taught other students English, ironically. If he was going to fall for someone just because she was his student, it would have happened a long time ago."

The knots in your stomach loosen just a little, because you know that Seonghwa is right. Hongjoong is too disciplined, too structured to be that simple. You've seen him think carefully about every little decision he makes; he's not someone who falls for things easily. Which means that whatever this is... it has to be more than that.

"But, anyway. On a more serious note," Seonghwa says, pausing to lift his cup and take a slow, contemplative sip of his drink. "From what I’ve seen and from what he’s told me, I can tell he’s terrified of admitting his feelings for you. But I don’t exactly know why."

You glance down at your own drink, tracing a line through the condensation with your fingertip. "I always thought he just didn’t want to break the rules," you say. "You know, the whole tutor-dating-a-student thing."

"That’s part of it, I’m sure,” Seonghwa concedes, nodding slowly. “Joong is very careful, and he's somehow even smarter than he seems. He wouldn’t want to get either of you into any real trouble with the university, and it’s definitely a gray area. If you ever actually started dating, you’d have to keep it a secret. And Joong isn't exactly the type who enjoys pushing boundaries."

You let out a humorless laugh. "I think the boundary is pretty much demolished at this point."

"Exactly," he says, huffing out a laugh of agreement while nodding. "And I think that’s why he pulled away harder than before."

You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"

Seonghwa thinks for a moment, deciding on his words carefully. "I think before, it was all theoretical for him. A thought he could entertain, feelings he could indulge a little, but still keep neatly contained in his head. But the moment it became real, the moment it crossed from a 'thought' to an 'action'... he panicked."

You look at him, confusion knitting your eyebrows together. "But why?"

"I think he’s definitely scared to break the rules," he says slowly, "but I don’t think that’s the whole story."

"Because he’s never had a girlfriend?" you venture quietly, thinking back to what he said about Hongjoong's past.

"Yes, I believe so. I think Joong is just fundamentally afraid of being vulnerable. I told you, he’s never even had a crush before. None of this is familiar territory. And, to be completely honest… you being you might make it even harder for him."

You frown, a small pang of insecurity creeping in. "What do you mean by that?"

"It’s not about you, angel. Not in the slightest. Like I said, I wish I’d gotten to you first,” Seonghwa teases with a warm grin. "It’s about the cultural difference. The two of you were raised in very different places. You grew up with different traditions, different norms, even different ways of speaking and carrying yourselves. It's his first time outside of Korea. Every part of you is technically new to him."

He pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s not a problem, of course. It's actually something rather beautiful. But it does make things more complicated. For someone like Joong—so controlled and guarded—being faced with that kind of difference is terrifying. He'd have to let go enough to risk clashing over things he's never even had to question before. That’s a scary level of vulnerability."

"But that's the point, isn't it?" you argue. "Any good relationship will have arguments. Any good relationship uses those differences to get closer. You learn from each other, and you grow together."

Seonghwa's smile returns, but it’s bittersweet, tinged with a sad knowingness. "I know. You and I both know that. But I don't know if Joong does yet."

You sit with that for a moment, looking down at the table. Slowly, the pieces begin to align in your mind, forming a picture that’s at once illuminating and a little disheartening. It was never only about the university's rules or the tutor-student boundary. It was about Hongjoong's fear of letting someone in.

"What would he do if I just told him how I feel?" you ask suddenly, lifting your eyes to meet his.

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Would you ever actually do that?"

"Well... no," you admit. "But hypothetically."

"God, you really are adorable," he laughs softly at your words. "But in all seriousness... I honestly think he'd pull away even further."

Though you anticipated that response, your stomach still sinks. Across the table, he sighs quietly, like he wishes the answer were different.

"I’m telling you," he continues, "he's terrified of being vulnerable. I don’t know exactly where it comes from. Maybe it's the pressure he puts on himself, maybe it's how he grew up, maybe it's just the way his brain works." He pauses. "But I do know this." 

You glance up. Seonghwa leans forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. His gaze on you sharpens.

"Part of the reason you’re such a perfect match for him is that you won’t just do that."

"Because I won't... confess?"

"Exactly."

You frown, confused.

"Think about it," he explains softly. "If you walked up to Joong tomorrow and poured your heart out to him, he'd panic. Not because he doesn’t feel anything back. It's quite the opposite. It would be too much all at once. With Joong, I've noticed that everything has to happen in inches."

Your head tilts as you listen, digesting his words.

"Even without realizing it, you’ve been meeting him just slightly outside of his boundaries this entire time. Not crashing through them, and not forcing him into something he's not ready for. Just softly nudging him in the right direction."

You think back to all the quiet glances, all the accidental touches, and all the conversations that always seemed to hover right on the edge of a confession. 

"You push him," Seonghwa continues with a faint smile, "but you don't shove him. I think that's exactly what he needs. Joong needs someone like you." 

You lean back in your chair slowly, releasing a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The words swirl around in your head, mixing with the steam curling upward from your drink like fog. He needs you. The phrase sounds absurd, wonderful, and terrifying. Finally, you run an anxious hand through your hair and laugh weakly.

"So... what can I even do? I mean, we kissed, Seonghwa. What could possibly be the next step forward other than just confessing?"

Seonghwa goes silent for a long moment. Without saying anything, he suddenly reaches across the table, his long, careful fingers picking up the small plastic stirrer resting beside your cup. He dips it into your hot chocolate, gently swirling it through the drink. The cocoa began to settle at the bottom while you were talking. He watches the dark ribbons slowly dissolve back into the milk, the motion absent and thoughtful, like he’s giving himself time to think.

"Can I ask you something, angel?"

You nod. "Of course."

He keeps his eyes on the cup for another moment, the stirrer making one last slow circle before he finally lifts his gaze to you.

"Do you really like him?"

The corners of your lips quirk into a small smile. A few weeks ago, you would have hesitated, searching for the right wording, worried about revealing something you weren't ready to face yet. But now, the answer feels so crystal clear that it almost startles you.

"I do," you say, the admission leaving you as a soft, breathy exhale. You look down at the stray crumbs scattered on the table, your heart feeling so dangerously full that it aches. As you think about Hongjoong, the words begin to spill out. "I... I like who he is during our sessions, and I like who he is when he forgets he's my tutor. I like the way he treats me, like I'm worth the effort of every last note he takes. I like how he notices the tiniest mistakes. The things I would never catch on my own. And I like how he doesn't just let them slide—he stops everything until I fix them properly. Until I get it right. I like the way his brain works. The way he explains grammar rules to me like they're puzzles to solve instead of facts to memorize. I like the tone of his voice when he's correcting my pronunciation. And I like how he looks at me when I finally get something right." You pause, your voice softening as you think back to every memory you've ever shared with Hongjoong. "I like how he adjusts his glasses when he gets nervous. And I like how he gets so shy and awkward over the smallest things. When he suddenly forgets how to talk the second something even slightly personal comes up. I like that we have similar interests. The same taste in music. And I like how when we start talking about those things, it just feels easy. Conversations with him start to feel natural once we get past the awkwardness. Like we're not even thinking about what we're saying anymore."

Your eyes flicker up for a moment. Seonghwa is watching you, the look in his eyes telling you that he has absolutely no intent to interrupt. You glance down again, the words coming more easily now, spilling out before you can stop them.

"And I like how I feel around him," you say softly. "Like I'm truly being seen. Like I'm valued for who I am. I like how he doesn't treat me like someone he's trying to impress or someone he expects to change. He treats me like I'm already worth his effort. I'm worth the time he spends helping me understand things. I like how he makes me feel safe to want things. To want to succeed. To want to do my best. And I like that he genuinely cares about helping me get there." You swallow, your voice softening even more. "I... I really do like him, Seonghwa. More than I've ever liked anyone before. So much that it scared me to admit it for a very long time."

Across from you, Seonghwa hasn’t interrupted once. He's been listening intently the entire time, completely still, his expression unreadable. When you finally fall silent, he gently sets the stirrer down beside your cup and leans forward, his gaze piercingly serious. 

"I believe you."

Seonghwa says it quietly. The words leave him with such a calm certainty that you feel all the walls you've built up around your feelings for Hongjoong finally crumble for good.

He holds your gaze for a moment, studying your face, measuring the sincerity behind everything you just confessed. Then he leans back slightly in his chair, one hand still resting loosely beside your cup.

"I've known Joong for a while now," he says, "and I can tell you for a fact—no one has ever spoken about him like that. Not once." For a second, the shadow of something almost fond passes across his features. "He’s spent twenty years unknowingly waiting for someone to notice those little things about him. To see the parts of him that he's usually too scared to show anyone. I'd be a terrible friend to let him stay locked in his room and miss out on a girl who thinks of him the way you do."

But as his fingers lace together on the table as he leans forward again, the warmth in his voice fades slightly.

"There's just one thing you need to understand first," he says quietly, holding your eyes. "Joong is my best friend. He's never done this before, and if he lets you in, he's giving you something no one else has ever had. He's handing you the only map to a place no one else has ever explored." He pauses, his voice completely honest. "I don't want to see him get hurt. If you want him, you need to be fully committed."

Your breath catches in your chest as you realize what Seonghwa is implying.

"I saw what happened at the bar, ____."

All of a sudden, your heart drops. Your entire body freezes.

Seonghwa saw you rush outside. He saw through your lie about work. He saw Wooyoung chasing after you.

He knows you weren't outside that bar all alone. And now, he knows you're involved with a man who definitely isn't Hongjoong. 

"If you want him," Seonghwa continues, his voice lowering until it's almost a whisper, "you have to be sure. Because if you break him... he might not know how to put himself back together."

"I am sure," you say, your voice finding a sudden solid ground. You look him right in the eye, your expression clearing until there’s nothing left but the plain, open truth. "What you saw... that was me finally ending something that someone else didn't want to finish. I walked away from that because I finally know how I feel. I know who I really want."

Seonghwa studies your face for a long moment. His gaze moves slowly over your features, like he’s searching for any trace of hesitation you might have missed yourself, any flicker of doubt that would give him a reason to stop this before it begins.

Apparently, he doesn’t find one. The tension in his shoulders finally bleeds away, and he gives a small, thoughtful nod.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts. At first, it's subtle, barely there. But it grows quickly, spreading across his features until it becomes unmistakably mischievous, like he knows exactly what to do next.

"Then let me help you."

You blink, caught so off guard that the words barely register. "What do you mean?"

This time, the smile sharpens into a full-blown smirk. "I know Joong. Better than he knows himself most days, actually. And I know exactly how much he likes you. But," he continues, lifting one finger, "I also know that he's catastrophically bad at actually doing anything about those feelings."

A quiet laugh escapes you. "That, I've noticed."

His smirk deepens. "Which is exactly why he might need a little... encouragement."

You stare at him. "Encouragement?" 

"I can help you push him over the edge," he promises. "Get him to finally act on those feelings for good. No more half-measures, no more kisses followed by him immediately running away from you."

Your eyes narrow. Your fingers tighten around your warm cup as you study him across the table, considering what he's saying. You turn his offer over in your mind. It sounds perfect—a little too perfect.

"Why do you want to help me?" you ask slowly, suspicion coloring your tone. "What’s in it for you, Seonghwa?"

He doesn't look offended in the slightest. If anything, your skepticism seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth lifts like he wanted you to ask exactly that. He leans back, the fabric of his polo straining against his shoulders as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

"You don't trust me," he sighs, shaking his head faintly. "I'm wounded, angel."

"That's not an answer to my question."

His eyes crinkle, glinting with humor.

"Like I said," he says, his voice smooth and charming. "I really do wish I'd gotten to you first. But since I'm a loyal friend, I'll settle for playing matchmaker." He pauses, his voice dropping to a velvety whisper as he leans in closer. "Just let me have that dance you owe me before I officially surrender you to my best friend."

You stare at him for a long beat, silence overcoming you as you try to read his expression to figure out how much of that was teasing, how much was genuine, and how much of this entire situation is a trap you’re willingly stepping into. Because the offer is tempting. But can you truly trust a man who just admitted he’s doing this, at least in part, for himself? Is he really helping you finally win Hongjoong, or is he just playing a game of his own?

But as you think of Hongjoong’s back turned to you in the silence of his bedroom, you realize this might be your last resort. This might be the final chance you have to force Hongjoong to stop running and admit what he feels—to you, and to himself. 

You turn back to Seonghwa. He's watching you patiently, like he already knows exactly what decision you’re about to make. A small, slow smile begins to tug at the corners of your lips.

"Okay," you say, locking your gaze with his. "What's your plan?"

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen, @yunhospinkyring, @icarusfallingdown, @oddin4ry, @stumbling-through-once-more, @glowingsoup, @mialinguini, @jooholicx, @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER THIRTEEN

cross-posted on ao3.

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter eleven. chapter twelve. chapter fourteen (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, pet play, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 12.8k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. midterms are finally over and i was blessed with barely any work over spring break, which means i had a chance to get this chapter to you much sooner than expected! this has been one of my favorites to write so far, so i hope you all enjoy <3

chapter-specific warnings: swearing, heavy alcohol use, verbal/sexual harassment, crude/derogatory language.

No new notifications.

You've read the same three words so many times today that the phrase is burned into your retinas by the glow of your phone screen. For the past hour, you haven’t moved a muscle from your hollowed-out spot on the couch. In fact, you haven't even left your dorm all day, other than to grab a quick dinner at the dining hall. You glance at the time at the corner of the screen: 9:07 p.m. You've wasted the day away, alternating every few hours between the rumpled sheets of your bed and the cozy cushions of the sofa until your eyes have begun to ache and blur from the relentless exposure to the blue light.

You curl tighter into the corner of the cushions, knees tucked to your chest, and swipe down again to refresh. You watch the little silver wheel spin, and...

No new notifications.

You sigh. Your thumb hovers, already twitching to repeat the process. It’s reached a level of pathetic that you don’t even want to acknowledge. A self-imposed loop of agony where you dissect every syllable of that walk home with Hongjoong. Having no classes on Fridays or Saturdays has proven to be a curse; without the structure of a schedule, you’ve simply let yourself rot in what-ifs. You have a mountain of assignments due, an endless list of vocabulary to memorize, but your motivation is gone: you're stuck wondering if his promise of "sometime this week" was really just a polite way of saying "never again."

You swipe down again.

1 new notification.

You bolt upright, your spine snapping straight as your heart picks up speed. You scramble to unlock the phone, but your Face ID fails—once, then twice—and you're not sure if it's because the lights are turned off or because your expression is too desperate for the sensors to even recognize. You tap the screen with trembling, nervous fingers, punching in your passcode until it finally unlocks.

Your eyes fly to the banner:

Amazon Shopping: Still interested? Korean Grammar in Use: Beginner is an item you recently viewed. Take another look now!

A groan leaves your throat as you hurl the phone onto the cushion beside you. You bury your face in your hands, the heat of your palms pressing against your tired eyes. You know it's humiliating and pathetic to let the lack of a text message dictate your mood, but you want things to move forward. You don't want to take the same two steps back into the safety of the student-tutor routine. 

Just as you reach out to retrieve your phone—the masochistic urge to refresh it just one more time already winning—the click of a key in the lock breaks the silence of the room. You whip your head around, frowning as you wait to see which of the two people who possess your spare keys has decided to interrupt you.

As the door swings wide, it turns out you don't have to choose. It’s both.

Yunho bursts through the entrance first, looking effortlessly handsome in a dark button-down and slightly wrinkled pants that suggest he's been ready for at least an hour. Yeosang follows closely behind, his face fixed in a mildly annoyed expression as he checks the watch on his wrist. They both smell like a mixture of the crisp night air and expensive cologne, a scent that makes your current state of wallowing in self-pity feel significantly more dismal. 

"San, we're here!" Yunho announces loudly through the small common area. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you, his eyes sweeping over your oversized hoodie and the nest of blankets you’ve built around yourself.

Yeosang doesn’t even wait to greet you. He looks toward the hallway, his voice echoing. "Is he seriously sleeping? San! If we aren't at that entrance in thirty minutes, we probably aren't getting inside at all!"

You blink, squinting painfully as Yunho flips the overhead light switch, practically blinding you. "He's been asleep since I got back," you mutter, shielding your eyes. "That was two hours ago."

"Are you kidding?" Yeosang groans. He marches straight over to San's door and knocks on it with enough force to rattle the hinges. "San! Get up!"

A muffled, panicked shout erupts from behind the wood, followed by a loud thump that sounds suspiciously like a human body rolling directly onto the floor. A moment later, the door creaks open, and San peeks his head out. His hair is messy, sticking up in all sorts of directions, and his eyes look dazed. 

"I'm up!" he insists, though he looks like he's still half-dreaming. "I just needed a quick nap. I need energy if we're going to be out all night."

"Yeah, well, that strategy is gonna land us a night full of begging people to let us leave our stuff at their table," Yeosang retorts, crossing his arms. "Hurry up. Ten minutes, San. Or we leave you here."

San scrambles back into his room, the sound of dresser drawers slamming following close behind.

Yunho, however, hasn't moved. His full attention is fixed on you. He leans against the back of the sofa, eyes narrowing as he catches the subtle movement of your foot trying to discreetly kick a pillow over the phone you just tossed aside.

"Absolutely not," he says, his voice flat and final.

"I didn't say anything," you mutter, trying to sink deeper into the couch cushions.

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face. You're still waiting for him to text?" 

You frown, rolling your eyes and choosing to turn away from him. You told Yunho about everything that happened during yesterday's study session in the café, but now? You're sincerely regretting doing so. 

"____, I say this with love. This is pathetic." You look up at him with a glare as he steps around the couch, nudging your knee with his. "Get up. You're coming with us. There's a new bar opening tonight, it's Saturday, and the anxiety vibrating off you is making me nervous. You need a drink. Or ten."

"I really don't," you resist, sinking back further. "I'm tired. I don't even like bars. It’s going to be loud and sweaty and everyone is going to be on top of each other—"

"And it's going to stop you from staring at a blank screen for the forty-eighth hour in a row," Yeosang chimes in, walking back from San's door and leaning against the living room wall. You shoot Yunho an accusing look, but he just shrugs.

"After everything that's happened in the past week, I'm going to be sharing the details of your love life with Yeosang and San more often. Just in case," Yunho defends. You roll your eyes again, but you can feel yourself starting to cave.

Yeosang nods in agreement. "Even if Hongjoong texts right now, do you really want to be the girl who was just sitting in the dark, rotting, while she waited for it?"

The words sting, and you shoot a second glare toward Yeosang, but his gaze is unimpressed.

"If he wants to text you, he'll text you," Yunho adds, his tone softening but remaining firm. "Staying here won't make it happen faster. It’ll just make you more miserable. Now, are you going to get up on your own, or do I have to drag you off this couch myself?"

You look from Yeosang’s blunt honesty to Yunho’s stubborn insistence, then back down at the pillow where your phone is hidden. They're right. You are being pretty pathetic. 

"Fine," you huff, finally swinging your legs over the side of the couch and standing up, grabbing it. Your muscles feel stiffer than you thought they were. "But it's gonna take me way more than ten minutes to look okay again."

Yunho’s face lights up with a triumphant grin that makes you immediately think you should regret your surrender. Yeosang actually chuckles, telling you, "Don't worry about it. You can take as much as thirty, probably. I only said ten so that San would hurry up and put on some pants."

You let out a genuine laugh as you head toward your room. You motion for Yunho to follow so he can act as a second pair of eyes for your closet while you scramble to work on your face. He follows you in, leaning against the doorframe as you plop down at your desk, reaching for your makeup. 

The small room is silent for a few minutes, save for the click of your blush palette and the hum of the heater. Yunho begins rummaging through your closet, the hangers clinking together as he slides them along the rail. He’s taking the job seriously, pulling out fabrics and holding them up to the light, but your focus is still elsewhere. Your phone is sitting face-up on the vanity, and every few seconds, your hand instinctively reaches for it.

You tap the screen.

No new notifications.

You apply a quick coat of mascara, then tap the screen again.

No new notifications.

"Okay, two options," Yunho says, turning around. In his left hand, he holds a beaded, asymmetric black top; in his right, a sequined taupe camisole. "It's pretty cold, though, so you'll need a jacket."

You barely glance at him through the mirror, your eyes glued to the reflection of your phone screen. "The black one should be good."

Yunho frowns slightly, tossing the top onto your bed and pulling out two pairs of jeans—one black, one light denim. "And pants? If you do the black ones, you should probably—"

You grab your phone, swiping up to check your notifications for the hundredth time. "Sure, yeah. Black sounds good." 

The hangers go still. You hear a heavy sigh, and before you can check your empty lock screen again, a large hand reaches over your shoulder and gently flips the phone face down.

"____, stop."

You look up through the mirror, meeting Yunho’s reflection. He isn't smiling anymore.

"I know a lot has happened this week," he says softly, his hand lingering near the phone as if to guard you from it. "And I know how badly you want that text. But please, for just one night, try to forget about it. You're stressing yourself out for no reason. Please?"

You realize how much energy you're wasting on waiting for a text from someone who might not even be looking at his phone right now. You let out a long breath and finally set the phone at the very edge of the desk, away from your reach.

"Okay," you say, giving him a small, tired nod. "I'll try." 

"Good." Yunho's grin returns. He holds up the black jeans again. "Now, look at these jeans and tell me if they'll look right with the top. I'm really just pulling stuff at random."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I'm sure they'll look fine, Yunho. You have better taste than I do."

You take the clothes from him, retreating to the corner of the room to swap your oversized hoodie for the beaded top and the black denim. After sliding into a pair of kitten heels that give you just enough height to be visible to your friends in a crowd, you return to the vanity, nodding with satisfaction when you see the girl in the mirror starting to look decent again.

As you start sectioning off your hair to get all the knots out of it, Yunho hovers nearby, leaning against the dresser. He’s quiet for a second, watching you work, before he clears his throat. "Oh, by the way. I invited Mingi, too. He should be meeting us there later."

Your hands pause mid-air. A wave of guilt suddenly washes over you. Between the spiral of waiting for Hongjoong and the dark cloud named Wooyoung you’ve been living under all week, you realize you haven’t checked in on Yunho once. You hadn't even asked how his talk with Mingi went.

You drop your arms, looking at him through the mirror with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'm a terrible friend. I never even asked—how did it go? Did you give him the snacks? Did you talk to him?"

Yunho lets out a chuckle, waving off your apology with a flick of his wrist. "You’re not a terrible friend. Honestly, with everything you’ve had going on this week, I would’ve been concerned if you did find a second to ask about it."

He moves closer, leaning against your desk now, his expression warming as he thinks back. "But yeah. I did what you suggested. I gave him the snacks and just told him that I wanted to take things more seriously." 

You turn in your chair, completely abandoning your hair for a moment, your eyes searching his. "And?"

A slow, boyish grin spreads across Yunho's face, and for a second, he actually looks a little shy. "And... yeah. It was good. It wasn't too much. I didn't overwhelm him, at least." He pauses, his gaze dropping to his shoes before snapping back to yours. "He agreed. He said he wanted us to be serious, too."

You break into a grin, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Yunho! I told you it would work! So, does that mean you're, like, official now?"

He ducks his head, a faint dusting of pink creeping up his neck, but the pride in his smile is unmistakable. "Yeah... yeah, we are."

You giggle at his embarrassment. "I'm happy for you," you say, and you truly mean it. Your heart swells for your best friend; he deserves that kind of certainty with the man he likes. But as you turn back to the mirror to finish your hair, a quiet, bittersweet ache settles in your chest.

Will it ever be that simple for me?

For Yunho, the path was pretty much a straight line: you have feelings, you buy the snacks, you say the words, and you get your answer. But as you think about Hongjoong, about the cryptic silences, the unanswered texts, and the confusing tension, you start to realize things will never be that easy for the two of you. 

You finish your hair and start shoving all your makeup back inside your drawers, slamming them shut. You look over at your phone, still face-down on the edge of the desk, but quickly avert your eyes before the urge to check it can win.

"Okay," you say, standing up and smoothing out your jeans, forcing a bright smile for him. "Let's go make me a third wheel."

Yunho laughs, looping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you toward the door with a playful squeeze. "Trust me. Official or not, Mingi’s still the one who’s going to be third-wheeling us."

Yeosang's car is technically a five-seater, but it feels half that size with the four of you packed inside. The scent of three distinct colognes and your own perfume swirling together in the confined space is enough to cause a headache, and to make things worse, you're shoved into the cramped backseat next to San—practically a broad-shouldered wall of muscle that takes up more than his fair share of the bench. 

"I said ten minutes, San," Yeosang says from behind the wheel. His eyes are fixed on the road, but his voice is dripping with dry judgment. "You took thirty-four. I watched the clock."

"I had to find the right socks!" San defends himself, shifting so much next to you that the leather seats creak. He’s a complete 180 from the sleepy mess who rolled onto the floor earlier; now, he’s practically vibrating with newfound energy. "The ones I'm wearing match the buttons on this shirt. I needed them."

You can't help but laugh, pressing yourself closer to the window to get another inch of space. "Thirty-four minutes just for socks? I literally did a full face of makeup, and I still beat you to the door."

"It's a longer process than you think!" he protests, looking genuinely offended. "There's my skincare, getting my hair right, picking my outfit, everything."

"San, I'm gonna be honest with you. Tonight's outfit really just looks like you were running thirty-four minutes late," Yunho chimes in from the shotgun seat, glancing back with a teasing grin.

"Agreed. Not your best work," Yeosang mutters. He takes a sharp turn that sends you sliding hard into a frowning San’s shoulder. "An outfit that probably made us miss the first round of drinks and a table."

The banter bounces around the car, and for a few minutes, the easy laughter is enough to fill the gaps in your thoughts. But as Yeosang shushes everyone to navigate a particularly busy intersection, the car settles into a brief lull. Your hand, acting on a muscle memory you haven't quite broken, slips into your purse.

You slide your phone out, keeping it low against your thigh. The screen stays dark, but you just want to check. Just one tap.

Just as your thumb reaches for the glass, a passing streetlamp catches the screen, reflecting the light. In the rearview mirror, you see Yunho shift. He twists around in his seat, not saying a word, but simply raising one eyebrow, his expression screaming: I'm disappointed, but not surprised.

Your heart does a guilty little hop. "Oops," you mutter, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Habit."

You pointedly drop the phone back into your bag, closing it.

"Habit's just a better word for addiction, you know," Yeosang remarks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror for a split second. "We’re less than a minute away. If that phone comes out again before you have a drink in your hand, it's going in the glove box. And I’ll lock it."

"He'll do it, too," San confirms, leaning closer to the middle of the car. "He did it to me once when I kept playing Clash Royale on the way to get pizza. I didn't get it back until we were on the way home."

You let out a breathy laugh, finally leaning your head back against the seat. "Okay, Mom. I get it. No more phone."

"Good," Yunho says, reaching back to give your knee a supportive pat. "Just relax and forget about him tonight. Now, look. We're here." 

Yeosang kills the engine as he maneuvers the car onto a patch of dry, uneven grass at the far edge of the lot. The designated spaces have long since been filled by a sea of metal and haphazardly parked SUVs. It's opening night, and while you expected a crowd, this is an introvert's nightmare. 

"Is the entire city here?" Yunho asks, leaning forward to peer through the windshield at the number of people pushing to get inside. "How are this many people supposed to fit into that tiny building? It’s gonna be standing room only. And barely that."

"Great," Yeosang sighs, though there's a spark of challenge in his eyes as he pockets his keys. "Maybe if we'd left thirty-four minutes earlier, we'd at least have an actual spot to park in."

San opens his mouth to fire back a retort, but the sound is cut short by the synchronized thud of Yeosang and Yunho laughing and slamming their doors shut. You look at your roommate, shaking your head in mock pity before grinning and following them out into the cold, pulling your jacket over your arms. 

The moment your feet hit the ground, the muffled thump of the bass vibrates through the soles of your shoes. The air outside is cold, but it’s charged with the energy of the massive crowd funneling toward the entrance. The horde of strangers and the roar of a thousand overlapping voices is overwhelming, and you suddenly feel like shrinking back into the quiet safety of the backseat.

San must have sensed your hesitation, because before you can even take a full step ahead, he's there, draping an arm over your shoulders. He pulls you closer to his side, acting as a barrier against the growing mob.

"Stay close to us tonight," he says, his voice losing the playful edge it had in the car. He leans closer to be heard over the rising music. "Don’t let any weird guys come up to you. We’re not doing a repeat of last time. Tonight is about having fun and leaving all of Wooyoung's bullshit behind."

Just outside the front door, he comes to a halt. His dark eyes scan the perimeter before softening as they land back on you. "If any guy won't take a hint, tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’ll handle it, okay?"

You let out a soft laugh, the knot of tension in your chest loosening. "I think I’m more than capable of handling myself, San."

You try to play it off as a joke, but as you look up at him, the sincerity in his expression makes you feel much safer than you did two minutes ago. 

"I mean it," he adds, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before finally letting go.

The moment the four of you push through the entrance, you realize just how packed the building really is. The music is so loud it rattles your ribcage, making it impossible to hear anything but the relentless beat. There's barely any standing room, let alone a clear path to the bar.

Tables are scattered across what used to be a dance floor, but they aren't being used for drinks; people are standing on top of them, cheering and dancing recklessly. The actual bar is buried under a three-person-deep swarm of bodies, so crowded you can’t even catch a quick glimpse of the bartenders. It feels more like a frat party than an opening night, which is exactly the kind of environment you usually avoid. The space is already small enough to begin with, and with the sheer volume of drunk, sweaty people crammed into every available square inch, you start to feel claustrophobic. 

Fortunately for you, Yeosang seems to be on a mission. He immediately begins to carve a path through the crowd, ignoring the indignant shoves of guys and the drunken protests of girls whose personal space he's invaded. You quickly fall into step behind him, followed closely by San, with Yunho at the rear. 

You spot it first: a small, semi-circular booth tucked near the far perimeter, right where the sticky floor of the dance area meets the dark wood buffer of the bar. It’s a miracle it’s still empty, though it's likely because the previous occupants were just swallowed by the growing mosh pit. You instantly hook your fingers around Yeosang’s elbow, steering him in its direction before anyone else can claim it. 

The booth is still very much in the middle of the chaos, but it offers a few inches of breathing room. More importantly, it offers a somewhat safe place to leave your belongings. 

"I'll take it," Yeosang says with a nod of satisfaction. He slides into the far corner of the curve, with Yunho and San on either side. You take your spot on the very edge next to San, preferring the end—more air, less sweat, and a clear view of the neon exit sign just in case your claustrophobia ends up becoming too overwhelming. 

Yunho, however, stands right back up, tossing his wallet carelessly on the table after pulling out a few twenties. You can tell he's in his element. The heat and the noise that usually drain your battery only seem to fuel his. He grins down at the three of you, already scanning the three-person-deep barricade at the bar like it's nothing. 

"Stay here! I'll be right back!" he shouts over a sudden beat drop. "First round is on me. The next five are on San!"

"Hell no they're not!" San objects instantly as you reach forward, catching the edge of Yunho's sleeve before he can get away.

"Yunho, wait." Your heart does a little anxious flutter as you look up at your best friend. "Actually come back this time. Don't get distracted."

Your mind is racing back through the countless nights out where Yunho had promised to "be right back" with a tray of shots, only to end up disappearing completely. You'd usually find him in the dead center of the floor three hours later, hair soaked with sweat and shirt half-unbuttoned, surrounded by total strangers and completely oblivious to the fact that you were thirsty and worried. Tonight, with how crowded the place is, the thought of him going missing feels less like a funny memory and more like actual danger.

But Yunho is Yunho. He flashes you an over-the-shoulder wink that he knows you can't stay mad at. "No promises!"

Then he's gone, his tall frame swallowed by the sea of college students in an instant. You sigh and turn to the two men you're left alone in the booth with. In this environment, San and Yeosang are complete polar opposites: San is sitting with perfect posture, his chest puffed out as he watches the crowd with a restless energy, his fingers drumming excitedly against the sticky tabletop. Meanwhile, next to him, Yeosang has his head leaned back against the leather seat, looking around with a frown. 

"This is really more crowded than I thought it'd be," Yeosang says flatly, his voice surprisingly clear over the roar of the speakers. 

San shifts his weight as he leans forward, grinning. "It's perfect," he counters, an eager glint in his eyes. "The more people there are, the easier it is to get lost in the music and have a good time. Right, ____?"

You level a sharp side-eye at him, a look that says you absolutely do not agree.

His smile only broadens, his eyes crinkling with infuriating amusement. "Come on, look at everyone having fun!" he laughs, pointing toward the churning crowd of bodies ahead of you. "Stop being so serious. Both of you. After the first drink, you won't even notice the crowd."

Yeosang offers a slow, skeptical blink, his head still tilted against the back of the booth. "If you say so," he murmurs. 

Suddenly, a passing stranger's elbow clips your shoulder, causing you to jump and quickly recoil, looking around with an irritated frown. San pretends not to notice, leaning over to jab an insistent finger into Yeosang’s arm.

"I do say so," he insists, undeterred. 

While San is busy trying to poke Yeosang into having fun, you take advantage of the momentary distraction. Slipping your hand into your bag, your fingers find the cold glass of your phone. You slowly slide it out, keeping it hidden well below the line of the tabletop, the screen lighting up in your lap. You frantically swipe the brightness down as you squint your eyes, reading:

No new notifications.

Impatience begins to spike in your chest. It's only Saturday, you internally reason. He said he'd text me sometime next week. Not this early.

But your doubt persists over reason. Forty-eight hours is plenty of time for a man to overthink. Plenty of time for him to realize that starting to officially cross the line between a professional relationship and this—whatever this unspoken thing is—is a mistake. The thought of retreating to square one prickles genuine irritation in your gut. You're getting tired of all the pretending.

"You're not as slick as you think you are, you know." 

You jump, nearly dropping your phone to the floor before clumsily pinning it face down against your thigh. You look up to find Yeosang's knowing gaze fixed directly on you. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, feigning a look of innocence.

"Right. Because the lock screen-colored light coming from your lap is just completely normal," he counters, his tone bone-dry.

San tries to hold in his laughter as he ducks his head, peeking under the table at your white-knuckled grip on your phone. "You're seriously checking it again? We haven't even been here for ten minutes!"

"I was just responding to a friend!" you say, slightly proud of how easily the lie slipped out.

Yeosang doesn't blink. "____, your entire social circle is currently sitting in this booth."

"Hey! That's both offensive and not true!" you shoot back, narrowing your eyes.

San's grin turns mischievous, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Yeah, Yeosang, give her some credit. Yunho's technically over at the bar."

The two of them devolve into a fit of giggles as you press your lips into a thin, hard line, fighting the traitorous urge to join in.

"I have a life outside of you three!" you insist, though your voice is shaky with threatening laughter.

"Name one," Yeosang challenges, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. "Name one person, excluding the three of us, who would be texting you at eleven on a Saturday night."

Your mouth opens, a protest ready to fly. "I—"

Graciously, you're saved from having to invent an imaginary friend by Yunho suddenly plopping down into the booth. He's breathing hard, a few strands of hair already damp and clinging to his temples. Despite the havoc he just navigated through, he's miraculously balancing four full condensation-slicked glasses in his large hands.

"No shots?" San asks, his bottom lip jutting out in a little pout as Yunho begins sliding a different, colorful concoction in front of each person.

"You're not allowed to complain. I nearly had to throw hands with some guy when I asked for them," Yunho explains, shaking his head. "Complete asshole. Claimed he was there before me while literally standing a foot behind my shoulder. The bartender told me they were out of clean shot glasses anyway, so I had to guess what you'd like. Funnily enough, the guy started swearing at me in Korean—probably assumed I didn't understand a word." 

Yunho’s lips quirk into a little smirk, proving he's more entertained than upset. You look suspiciously at the glass he sets in front of you. It's a murky, iridescent violet, the ice cubes clicking softly against the rim as you lift it to your nose. It smells like a blend of gin and something more tangy.

"What did he say?" Yeosang probes, already halfway through his own drink in one impressive gulp. 

Yunho grins, taking a sip of his own. "Called me a 씨발 새끼."

A laugh jumps out of your throat as you set your glass back down without taking a sip, the only other person at the table who doesn't need a translation.

"The hell does that mean?" San asks, his head whipping between you and Yunho.

"It means Yunho's a fucking son of a bitch," you say too happily for the meaning, still giggling.

All three of them break into laughter as Yunho continues his play-by-play. "Then he went on this whole rant about how he just wanted to get his roommate shots for finally leaving their apartment, and how I was ruining his night. There was more, too, but I couldn't translate it all on the fly." He pauses to take another sip. "I just let him have the last tray of shots. Wasn't worth the drama."

Yeosang nods, wiping condensation from his thumb. "We'll get some later. No point in catching a charge over it."

"Right. He did have nice hair, though," Yunho adds, looking back towards the bar like he'll catch sight of the man again. "Long, silky, dark..."

"You sure you didn't wanna ask for his number instead of fighting him?" San grins. 

"He's a taken man now, San," you interject lightly. "No more hookups for Yunho." 

"Not that he was exactly racking up the numbers anyway," Yeosang comments dryly, dodging the playful punch Yunho throws at his arm. 

The table dissolves into bickering, and you finally take a hesitant sip of your drink. It hits your tongue with a burst of blackberry and a surprising spicy finish of ginger. It's absolutely delicious.

But the taste triggers a memory you don't necessarily want to relive: the blur of a different bar, where your third drink of the night just appeared in front of you. You stared at it, then at him, feeling the heat of the room rise.

The image flickers behind your eyes. Wooyoung’s hand slides drink after drink toward you, each one more tailored to your palate than the last, while his eyes watch for your reaction with that smug, satisfied grin—

No.

You take a much longer, more desperate gulp of the drink Yunho brought, letting the icy liquid numb your throat and douse the memory. Tonight wasn’t about Wooyoung nor Hongjoong. You wash the memory away, turning back to the conversation your friends are having.

"What's in this drink, Yunho?" Yeosang questions, his nose wrinkling as he squints his eyes at it. "There's so much sugar."

"For you, I just asked for something with a lot of grenadine," Yunho laughs, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. "I went easy on you and ____. San, on the other hand, is pretty much drinking jet fuel. He'll be dancing on a table in no time."

As his name is mentioned, San suddenly stands up, nudging your shoulder to usher you out of the booth so he can squeeze past. "I gotta warm up first," he retorts, smoothing down his shirt. "Now, who am I gonna have to fight over there to get a second round?"

The air of the dance floor is filled with the overwhelming haze of cologne, sweat, and spilled beer. Usually, the proximity of so many bodies would have you running for the exit, but the two drinks you’ve managed to down have softened the edges of your anxiety, turning the crushing crowd into background noise.

Yunho lasted exactly two and a half songs before his height gave him a clear view of Mingi across the room. With a celebratory shout that was swallowed by the bass, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stuck between San's energy and Yeosang's surprisingly fluid movements. 

While San jumps around, shouting out half-remembered lyrics and pulling startled strangers in to sing along, you and Yeosang are content to stay in your own bubble. You're both swaying loosely, a rare, relaxed smile playing on your lips as you sip your third drink of the night. He stays glued to your side, his shoulder bumping yours every couple of beats to keep you from being swept away by passing groups of rowdy students. 

But even with the music thumping in your chest, you can't stop feeling a phantom vibration in your pocket every now and then.

Taking a quick sip of your drink, you use your free hand to slip your phone out. You keep it low, squinting through the darkness to read.

No new notifications.

You sigh softly, not surprised in the slightest. Before you can lock the screen, Yeosang's slender hand reaches out and gently plucks the device from your fingers. Without a word, he slides the phone back into your jeans pocket and taps it twice, as if sealing it shut.

Through his jumping, San somehow notices. He lets out a loud, "Hey!" and lunges forward, grabbing your free wrist and spinning you into the center of their little circle. He whirls you around with a dimpled grin so infectious that you can't help the bubble of laughter that finally breaks through your chest.

For a while, you truly do forget about everything. The three of you dance like idiots, a mess of tangled limbs and spilled ice, shouting over the music and laughing together.

But the mayhem of the bar eventually does what it does best. A group of girls in birthday sashes suddenly swarm San, shrieking when they recognize him from class. At the same time, some guy even taller than Yunho stumbles between you and Yeosang, splitting your little circle apart. In the shuffle of the shifting crowd, you find yourself pushed closer to the bar area—not secluded enough to be alone, but suddenly more off to the side, where the laughter of your friends is lost to the bodies now standing between you.

You take a tentative half-step back to dodge a more reckless group of dancers, but your heel suddenly snags on someone's shoe. You stumble, the liquid in your glass sloshing over the rim and landing squarely on a dark sleeve.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" you gasp, the alcohol in your system making your voice a pitch higher than usual. You reach out instinctively, hovering your hand over the damp fabric of the stranger's jacket. "I can make it up to you—let me find some napkins, or—"

The man turns, and the words instantly die in your throat. He's striking, with sharp, elegant features and a pair of soft, deep eyes that quite honestly make your legs feel weak. He’s dressed in a dark, textured denim jacket over a black shirt, looking polished among the disheveled crowd. But it’s his hair that truly catches your attention: long, dark, and silky, just slightly brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks like he could be a model.

You freeze. The hair... It's so distinctive. And it's exactly how Yunho described the man he fought with earlier. Could this possibly be him? 

But the man doesn't look angry in the slightest. Instead, he pauses, his gaze unabashedly sweeping over you, making a flush creep up your neck. When his eyes finally settle back on yours, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"It's all right. Don't worry about the napkins," he says, his voice surprisingly soft and velvety over the roar of the music. He pauses, watching you with curiosity. "But you could make it up to me by joining me for a dance?"

You blink, your tipsy brain struggling to keep pace. You left San and Yeosang for all of ten seconds and have already been intercepted by—not to mention flirted with—a stranger who looks like he just came straight from the runway. He's confident, yet there’s a gentleness in his posture that feels strangely calming. 

"I—" you start, but the words blur together in your head. You let out a small, airy laugh, the alcohol stripping away your usual filters. "What's your name?"

"Seonghwa," he replies, his smile deepening until it reaches his eyes. 

"Seonghwa," you repeat, letting the syllables roll off your tongue. It feels elegant. You glance around, noticing the empty space surrounding him. "Why are you here all alone, Seonghwa?"

"I brought a friend," he says softly, his shoulder shifting in a slight shrug. "But he doesn't like to dance much."

You raise an eyebrow, his situation sounding eerily similar to your own. "If he’s not a dancer, why drag him to a place like this on a Saturday night?"

"He never leaves our apartment," Seonghwa explains, looking genuinely entertained by your questions. "I have to force him out into the world sometimes."

Ha, you think, the realization dawning with full clarity. This is definitely the guy from Yunho's story.

A part of you wants to laugh—to run back to the booth and tell Yunho that his "complete asshole" at the bar is actually a soft-spoken charmer. But you stay. You’re allowed to talk to a handsome stranger, aren't you? You're not here to stress about your love life. You’re just a girl in a bar, enjoying a conversation with a man who seems genuinely interested in what you have to say.

"Trust me, I know the type," you say, leaning in closer so he doesn't have to raise his voice. The scent of him—sandalwood and something smoky—fills your senses. "My friends had to drag me out of my room tonight, too." 

"Is that right? Well, at least you're actually out here," Seonghwa says, his dark eyes sparkling. "My friend is tucked away at a table in the back, probably still staring at his screen. He’s a bit of a perfectionist. He doesn't know how to shut his brain off, even in a place like this."

You smile, the description hitting a little too close to home. "Is he working?"

"Working?" Seonghwa chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a small step closer. "That's the million-dollar question. He's spent the past two days staring at his phone. He’ll type something out, delete it, sigh, and start all over again. I assumed it was an assignment, but I really have no clue. I finally told him that if he didn't put the phone down and come get a drink, I was going to throw the thing off our balcony."

A sudden heat, one that has nothing to do with the alcohol, rises to your cheeks. You think of your own phone, silently hidden in your pocket. Maybe Seonghwa would think you're just as pathetic as his friend if he knew what you'd been stressing about all night. "Wow," you murmur. "He sounds very dedicated." 

"That's one way to put it," he agrees, nodding. He makes a show of looking around before he drops his voice to a conspiratorial murmur as if he’s sharing a secret he's scared of his friend overhearing. "I’ve never seen him quite like this. If you ask me, something threw him off balance this week. He’s been a restless mess since Friday morning." 

He offers you his hand. His fingers are long and elegant, and the way he looks at you—with such undivided, soft attention—makes you blush again.

"But enough about my roommate. I didn't come over here to talk about him," he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "I came over because I saw a pretty girl who looked like she needed some help having a good time."

You look down at his hand, your heart racing. Seonghwa is captivating—charming, funny, and handsome enough that you want to say yes just to see where the night goes. But is it fair? Is it right to dance with him when you've spent the whole night stressing about Hongjoong? Would this just be another mistake, another distraction, the same thing that happened with—

Buzz.

The magnetic thread pulling you toward Seonghwa violently snaps. 

You freeze, your breath hitching as your free hand flies to your pocket. A dangerous hope flares in your chest. Is it him? Is it finally Hongjoong?

Your movements are frantic and uncoordinated as you pull your phone out. In this moment, you don't really notice or really even care that you're being rude to the man waiting for your answer; your entire world has narrowed to the notification you just received. Your wide eyes lock onto the screen:

Wooyoung: I need to talk to you. 

Your heart skips a beat. A cold, sickening sense of dread fills your lungs. You stare at the name, the letters blurring as your mind reels. The high of Seonghwa's company evaporates instantly, replaced by a visceral, pulsing anxiety. You feel paralyzed, caught in a situation you thought you’d left in the past. 

"Is everything okay?" Seonghwa's soft voice pulls you out of your thoughts, his brow furrowing as he watches the color drain from your face. He’s still waiting there, hand half-extended, his elegant features now clouded with concern. 

Before you can even force a lie past your lips, your phone jolts again. 

Wooyoung: Where are you right now?

You suddenly feel a frantic urge to hide, to disappear into the crowd, the bathroom, the floorboards, anywhere but here. Your fingers tremble as you shove the phone back into your jeans. Ignore it, you command yourself. This is a night for forgetting. San, Yeosang, and Yunho are all here with you. You're completely fine.

You look back at Seonghwa, forcing an apologetic smile. "Yeah," you breathe, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. "It's fine. Just work. I'm sorry." You look down at his outstretched hand again, wanting to attempt to reclaim the moment, to let him pull you away from Wooyoung, but the atmosphere is now gone. 

Buzz.

The third vibration sends a genuine shock of panic through your nervous system. Why now? Why tonight? Why is this suddenly happening? Why is he texting you out of nowhere, after almost a week? How is it possible that he waited for the exact moment you let your guard down to remind you of what you left behind with him?

You draw a shaky breath, all but forgetting about Seonghwa yet again as you pull your phone out one last time, your vision barely able to focus. 

Wooyoung: Ignoring me? Wooyoung: Look to your left. 

If there was ever a moment in your life where your heart fully stopped, it's this one. A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, and your neck feels stiff as you slowly begin the agonizing pivot of your head. You scan the bar, your eyes cutting through the mass of swaying, oblivious bodies, until your eyes lock onto exactly what they're terrified of.

There, dressed in all black, perched at the edge of the bar, leaning back with a drink in his hand, is Wooyoung.

A girl you've never seen before is leaning into him, her mouth moving with an animated desperation to be heard, but he is utterly focused on you. Even across the distance, you can read his expression easily: a blend of wounded pride and bitter jealousy. He isn’t only watching you, he’s watching the man you're standing next to.

Panic hits you. The guilt you’ve been suppressing for days surges up, mixing with a sudden, overwhelming sense of nausea. The walls of the building feel like they're closing in, your claustrophobia and anxiety twisting together until it's hard to breathe. It's all too overwhelming. You break eye contact, immediately looking around for the nearest exit. You need to get out of here. Now.

"I—I’m so sorry," you stammer, turning back to a bewildered Seonghwa. You practically shove your drink into his hands, the liquid sloshing over his fingers. "I have to—could you hold this for me? I’m so sorry about your jacket."

"Wait—" Seonghwa catches the glass with a startled reflex, his eyes wide as he reaches out to steady you. "Is everything—wait, I didn’t even get your name!"

"I'm sorry!" you call out, the words probably inaudible to him as you spin away on your heel. 

His voice is lost to the blaring speakers as you hurry into the crowd, your ears ringing. You don’t look back at the bar to see if Wooyoung has stood up. You don't stop to look around for San or Yeosang or Yunho. You don’t look to see if Seonghwa is still watching you. 

You aim for the front of the building, but the instinct to hide in the bathroom dies as quickly as it was born—Wooyoung would expect you to run there. Instead, you make the split-second decision of rushing through the exit doors, the frigid night air shocking your sweat-slicked skin. 

You scramble toward the side of the building, ignoring how you're jacketless and shivering because it's absolutely nothing in comparison to the hammering of your heart.  

After you round the corner, the bar's thumping music finally dissolves into a muffled thud against the alley's damp brick. You practically collapse back against the wall, your eyes snapping shut as you struggle to breathe in the frigid air. 

Of course he's here. It's the newest spot in the city; it was arrogant, borderline delusional, to be so utterly unprepared to run into him. 

But as your shock finally begins to recede, a million uneasy questions take its place. What does he want? There wasn't a trace of warmth in those texts, and the look he gave you from across the bar was even colder. Is he here to apologize? Or is he looking for a way to settle the score after you'd so thoroughly bruised his ego? To your anxious mind, the latter feels almost certain.

You fumble for your phone and attempt to call all three of your friends, but the effort is futile. No responses. Last time you saw San and Yeosang, they were completely lost in the music and their drinks, and there's no chance Yunho even knows where his phone is at this stage of the night, especially if he's with Mingi. But going back inside means risking a collision with Wooyoung—or worse, dragging Seonghwa's kindness into the middle of it. You're trapped outside, pinned by your own indecision.

"Running away? Am I really that scary?"

The sudden voice does in fact scare you, making you jump so violently that your shoulder blades hit against the brick. Your eyes fly open. Wooyoung is standing just a few feet away at the corner of the building, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

He looks identical to the night you met—the same leather jacket and hairstyle—but the energy rolling off him has changed. His playful, seductive magnetism is gone, replaced by what feels dangerously like anger. 

Wooyoung takes a slow step towards you. Your heels scrape against the pavement as you recoil, pressing your spine harder against the wall until there’s nowhere left to go.

He stops, his lips twisting into a scoff as he rolls his eyes at you. "Relax," he says dryly. "I just wanna talk."

"Talk about what?" you manage to ask, your voice thin. You shift, a cautious attempt to put more space between your bodies. "I don't think there's anything left to say, Wooyoung."

"You don’t?" Another scoff breaks from his throat. He shakes his head as he looks away from you, off into the distance of the dark alley. "I don’t know about you, but I’m personally not the biggest fan of where we left things."

You both go silent, the air thick with the words he isn't saying out loud. You search his face, wondering: Is this the prelude to his apology? Or is he baiting you, waiting for you to fill the hush with an apology of your own?

His eyes snap back to yours. He looks over your body, tracking your shoulders' involuntary trembling from the cold. With a small huff that puffs white into the air, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in nothing but a thin black t-shirt. He holds it out to you.

"Here," he says flatly, looking at you expectantly. 

You stare at the jacket, then at him, confused.

He rolls his eyes again and motions the jacket forward again. "You're shivering. Just put it on." 

You gulp before reluctantly reaching out and taking it from him. His body heat is still radiating off the leather as you slide your arms into the sleeves. He sighs, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets and leaning against the wall next to you, turning his profile to you as he stares at the rusted chain-link fence across the way.

"I'm sorry I left you there," he says quietly. Your head whips toward him, eyebrows arching in genuine shock, but he refuses to meet your eyes. "I’ve been trying to think of what to say to you for days. All I could come up with is that I was an asshole. I just thought you wanted everything. I thought you felt the same way I did."

When he finally turns, he pins you with a stare so intense it makes your throat ache. But he doesn't continue. He's said all he wanted to.

You aren't naive; you can tell what he wants. He's waiting for a "me too." He's waiting for you to tell him you made a mistake, that your "boring" life isn't for you, and that you truly do belong in his world.

You aren't falling for it this time.

"We already had this conversation, Wooyoung," you say, taking a shaky breath. He stares at you, his expression blank, a completely unreadable mask. "I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I made my feelings seem... different than they were."

You pause, choosing your words carefully, knowing you're walking a thin line between honesty and unnecessary cruelty.

"I like you," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "I like how confident you are. I like that you're fun, and I like how you're so bold with everything you do. And somehow..." A faint laugh catches in your throat. "I even like that your ego is ten times the size of anyone else's. You really do make me feel free. And it does feel good to just... let go sometimes."

Wooyoung's eyes flicker, a spark of hope—or perhaps just pride—igniting.

"But," you whisper.

The spark immediately dies, extinguished by a single syllable.

"Every time I let go, I end up feeling worse about myself afterward. I’m not like you, Wooyoung. I like having control. I find peace in the safety of a plan. I’m not a project for you to fix, or a girl you can mold into a version of yourself just because that's what you're used to. I never want to change who I am just to fit into someone's life."

You search his face for a sign of emotion, but there's nothing there. He's standing there like a shell of the Wooyoung you know: the same body, but a new, terrifying stillness.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," you continue softly. You drop your gaze to your feet, unable to bear staring into his eyes any longer. "But I stand by what I said."

Silence crashes over you again. Wooyoung goes quiet, looking back ahead towards the fence absently. You stood rooted to the spot, holding your breath, waiting nervously for his reaction. Had you been too harsh? Not harsh enough?

After what feels like an eternity, he pushes off the wall, slowly turning to face you. He looks down at his shoes for a heartbeat before snapping his gaze up to yours, terrifyingly calm. 

"I don't usually do this," he says, his voice dropping to that same low register he used the night he kicked you out of his car. "I don't chase people. But I genuinely tried with you. I gave you my best, ____. And I was under the impression that I was doing a pretty good fucking job of it."

He takes a step closer, his shadow stretching and swallowing yours. You feel your heart sink into the pit of your stomach as he looks down at you. "So tell me one thing. Honestly."

You can only nod, your heart racing.

"Did you want him the whole time?"

Wooyoung doesn't even need to say his name.  

Of course he still thinks it's all about Hongjoong. You're beginning to think he's blind to the possibility that a woman could simply not want him. Yet... he isn't entirely wrong. You did want Hongjoong. The only difference is that in the beginning, it was more of a quiet longing for something you thought was surely impossible; by the end, you realized that even if Hongjoong didn't exist, it wouldn't make you and Wooyoung any more compatible.

You blink at him, feeling small under his perceptive gaze. He had always been able to read you with a terrifying accuracy, and the fear that a lie would only ignite his temper further keeps the words trapped in your throat. You need to tell him the truth, but a version of it that won't hurt his pride. 

"I don't have a good answer for that," you whisper honestly. "He... he was always on my mind, yes. But you knew that. San told you about him the very night we met."

Wooyoung lets out a raw, ugly laugh. "He wasn't fucking competition. Never in my life—" He chokes off the sentence with a scoff of disbelief, his head shaking bitterly. "Never in my life did I think I'd have to worry about some fucking tutor. What is it? Does the 'nice guy' act actually work on you? I gave you too much credit. I thought you were too smart to fall for that shit."

You freeze. The volume of his voice is rising with each word; you clearly miscalculated your answer. Wooyoung is too angry to talk things out rationally, whether you tell him the truth or not. This conversation isn't going anywhere. "Wooyoung, I don't think this is—"

"And what about that guy inside?" he interrupts, motioning toward the bar's entrance as his voice gains a new crazed edge. "Things didn't work out with the tutor, huh? You move on that fast?" 

You flinch, stuttering. "H—He had nothing to do with—"

"Answer my fucking question, ____!" His shout cracks the silence of the alley, and you go still. He doesn't move any closer to you, but the force of his voice feels like a shove nonetheless. "Did you want him the whole time? Yes or no?"

"It's not that simple!" you argue back, your hand swiftly slipping into your pocket. Your fingers curl around your phone. Even though he stays rooted to his spot, you take another nervous step back. You silently hope that if you end up needing to call for help, at least one of your friends will pick up.

"I didn't think anything was possible with him," you admit, your voice trembling. "But I knew... Well, you made it clear that you wanted me. Yeosang warned me that you didn't do relationships. I didn't think you'd ever... become serious about me."

"So because of what Yeosang said about me, you just fucking used me?" Wooyoung's eyes go wild, a mix of rage and a bleeding wound he can't hide. "I was what? A distraction? You used me to have some fun while you waited for him because you didn't think I'd actually like you?"

You flinch as if he's just slapped you.

He's right.

You admitted the same truth to Yunho just days earlier. You did use him. You tried to drown your feelings for Hongjoong in Wooyoung, and it became the core of your guilt for days.

"Wooyoung... I..." The words die in your throat. You reach for a defense, a justification, something, but all you can think of is the hard reality of your own selfishness. "I didn't mean to—"

"What the hell? What are you doing out here?" 

You look past Wooyoung's shoulder as he whips around, and you see them—San and Yeosang, side-by-side near the corner of the building. San is storming down the alley, looking nearly twice his usual size. Beside him, Yeosang walks with a slower deliberation, his eyes locked on Wooyoung with suspicion. 

San doesn't slow down. He marches straight up to Wooyoung, planting himself so close their chests nearly collide. Without a word of greeting, he brings a hand up, shoving Wooyoung’s shoulder with enough force to send the smaller man stumbling back a half-step.

"You've got some nerve cornering her out here after what you did," San sneers with a protective fury you've never heard from him before. 

Wooyoung doesn't back down. If anything, the physical contact only riles him up more. He squares his shoulders, his own expression twisting. "After what I did?" he repeats, his voice cracking with indignation. "What about what she did?" 

A vein pulses in San's temple, and for a second, you genuinely think he's going to hit him. San is obviously wasted, and the alcohol has stripped away all of his patience. 

"What she did?" he practically growls, his eyes flashing. "Are you fucking kidding me? You left her in the middle of nowhere, Woo! Alone, in the dark, in the middle of a goddamn parking lot!" 

"I texted you to come get her!" Wooyoung retorts, throwing his hands up defensively. "You had her location! She was fine! I knew you'd come!"

"And if I didn't?" San reaches forward, his fingers curling into the collar of Wooyoung's shirt. He bunches the fabric in his fist, hoisting it upward until Wooyoung is forced onto the balls of his feet. "If I hadn’t looked at my phone? If some creep had pulled over before I got there? What if she’d been hurt, or kidnapped, or worse?" 

Despite the slight slur in his words, San's conviction is sharp; he towers over Wooyoung. "Are you a fucking idiot?"

"Fuck, dude!" Wooyoung snaps back, his hands coming up to grab at San’s wrists, struggling against the grip despite not taking a swing. As you take a step back to put distance between yourself and the confrontation, you can see desperation move through Wooyoung's eyes—the look of a man who knows he’s lost the moral high ground but is too proud to surrender it. "I know I messed up! I fucking know! I already apologized!"

"You think an apology covers that?" San’s face is inches from Wooyoung’s now, staring at him with pure disgust. "It doesn’t matter what she did to you or how mad you were. You put her in danger."

"She used me, San! She just told me she wanted someone else the whole time I was fucking her!" 

Wooyoung spits the words out with a venom that makes you feel sick. Suddenly, some realization seems to spark behind his eyes, and he snaps his head toward you. "Is that what it was? Were you picturing him while you were with me?" 

He wrenches himself free from San with a violent jerk and crowds into your space. As he looms over you, the scent of whiskey fills your nose; he's way drunker than you realized. Maybe even more than San. "Didn't seem to be thinking about him when you were moaning my name, baby," he sneers, the nickname landing like an insult. 

You stumble back, holding out a desperate hand to put space between you. "Wooyoung, what the fuck? Of course I never—"

"You think he can fuck you like I can?" His voice drops lower, his eyes wide with rage yet laced with a raw hurt he can’t hide. He stumbles slightly, his balance betrayed by the alcohol, but his gaze remains pinned on you. "You think some fucking nerd can make you feel the way I did? You think his dick can compare to mine?" 

A hot wave of shame floods your face, your skin burning with the humiliation of having what happened between you dissected so crudely in front of your friends. You take another shaky step back, your mouth opening to defend yourself, but San beats you to it. 

His hand hooks into the back of Wooyoung's shirt, jerking him back. "Shut the fuck up, dude!" San all but yells as Wooyoung, looking one second away from throwing a punch with his fists clenched as tightly as they are. "What makes you think you can talk to her like that?"

Seeing the situation get closer to its breaking point, Yeosang finally moves. He steps between the two men, his hands locking around San's bicep to pull him back from Wooyoung. "San, calm down," he commands steadily, forcing a gap between them. "You're both wasted. You aren't fist-fighting in the middle of some alley. Get a grip. Both of you."

"Why are you telling me to calm down?" San looks at him incredulously. "He's the one who's stalking her or some shit!"

"I'm not fucking stalking her!" Wooyoung snaps, his composure cracking more with every passing second. "I just noticed her at the bar. I got distracted for one second and saw her basically spreading her legs for some asshole when I looked back!" 

Your eyes narrow as the words leave his mouth. You know he’s drunk, but he’s going too far. The humiliation is already burning through you. He's projecting his rejection onto you like a weapon; he won't stop until he feels he's gotten revenge. 

San shoves Yeosang’s hands off his chest, but he doesn't lunge again. He stands his ground, glaring at Wooyoung, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. "Really, Woo? You’re so pathetic that just because a girl doesn't want you, you're gonna act like a dick?" 

"Well, it's not like it isn't the truth, right?" Wooyoung’s lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes. He ignores San, fixing his attention entirely on you. "Then again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Probably would've let that guy take you right there on the bar if I hadn't interrupted."

He pauses. For a moment, something flashes across his face. Uncertainty, maybe even a hint of regret, as if he knows he's taking it too far. But then his jaw tightens. 

"You really have a thing for doing it in public, huh? I mean..." His mean smirk snaps right back into place. "I would certainly know." 

You freeze on the spot. He’s bringing up the restaurant—right here, in front of them. If he goes any further... if he mentions the things he said about the two of them joining in... You feel the color drain from your face.

Wooyoung watches the blood leave your cheeks and grins as if he can read your mind. You see his game clearly now: he’s trying to weaponize the one thing he thinks he still has over Hongjoong—your body—and he's using it to humiliate you in front of your friends to salvage his own bruised ego.

"Wooyoung, no," you finally find your voice, glaring back at him and refusing to give him that satisfaction. "I was just talking to him. That's it."

Yeosang shakes his head, his expression shifting from suspicion to disappointment. "Woo, you need to stop. I know you're drunk and lashing out because you're hurt, but come on. You're crossing a line. You can't say stuff like that."

Wooyoung just lets out a sharp laugh, looking away and shaking his head as if he’s the only one in the alley who knows the truth. "You guys have no idea. You’d be surprised if you heard about the shit she’s actually into, Yeo. She's—"

"We don't fucking care what she's into!" San growls, his entire body tensing. Yeosang immediately moves back in front of him, bracing for another lunge. "You're the only one who gives a shit about any of this! I know sex is all you think about, but for the rest of us, not everything is about who's fucking who!"

Wooyoung flinches. His drunken boldness flickers out, revealing his true, pained self. 

"You really think that's all I wanted her for?" he asks, voice cracking as he turns to you, searching your face desperately. "Did she tell you any of it? Did you tell them what I said? That I actually really fucking liked you? That I wanted you to be my first goddamn girlfriend?"

Your mouth drops open, but you quickly clamp it shut, stunned. His first girlfriend. 

The guilt you've been trying to forget about all night suddenly amplifies. You really hurt him. There's no denying that he's crossing vicious, unforgivable lines right now, and the alcohol is clearly fueling his worst, most toxic impulses... but the foundation of his rage is what you did. 

"She told us, Woo. She told us everything." Yeosang breaks the silence quietly. 

Wooyoung turns to him, his shoulders slumping as the last of his fight ebbs away, replaced by a crushing defeat. Yeosang doesn't look away. He steps past San, moving with the weary calmness of a man who knows Wooyoung better than everyone else. After years upon years of friendship, Yeosang knows exactly what's going through his mind. 

"Maybe what she did was wrong," he continues, his voice devoid of judgment, but firm with the truth. "Maybe she shouldn't have gone out with you. You have every right to be hurt and upset." He pauses, reaching out to place a non-threatening hand on Wooyoung's shoulder. "But you don't have any right to follow her into a dark alley, wasted out of your mind, and spit this insane shit at her just because you're getting rejected for the first time in your life. Everyone goes through this at least once, Woo. It just happens to be happening to you at twenty instead of ten." 

Wooyoung remains motionless, staring at Yeosang blankly, with no expression for you to dissect. You watch his throat move as he swallows hard, his gaze finally drifting back to yours. He gently brushes Yeosang’s hand aside and begins to walk toward you—slowly this time, his predatory stare replaced by plain vulnerability. Behind him, San jumps to move forward, but Yeosang's arm shoots out, stopping him.

Wooyoung stops just inches away. He looks down at you, his face a blur of confusion, hurt, and lingering anger.

"Fuck, ____," he whispers, dragging a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the last few minutes. "I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry. I've never..." He glances back at Yeosang, then back to you, the words catching in his throat. "I’ve never felt like this before. I’m really... fuck."

He can’t even finish the thought. You watch him carefully, keeping your own expression neutral. He’s clearly never been told no, and you can't help but feel bad for being the one to do it first. But even as your heart aches, you can see the truth he’s still blind to. He doesn't like the girl you really are. He just likes that you're a new and interesting type of challenge. You’re at fault for leading him on, but you're also the only one who sees these "feelings" for what they really are. 

"Can we try this again?" he finally asks, his voice solemn and hopeful. "When I’m... more sober?"

You take in a sharp breath, not knowing what to say. Is there even anything left to talk about at this point? Could a sober conversation fix feelings that were always toxic to begin with?

But San and Yeosang cut in before you even open your mouth. "No," they say in unison, with a finality that leaves no room for negotiation. 

Wooyoung immediately turns toward them, a defiant eyebrow arching even as he sways on his feet. "I think that’s her decision to make—"

"You’re done seeing her, Woo," San cuts him off coldly.

Yeosang looks sadly at his friend, but gives him a slow nod. "You’ve both said what you needed to say. You’re hurt, and you blame her. She was figuring out her feelings, and though she’s sorry for how she handled it, she doesn't want you. There’s nothing else to talk about. You both need to deal with this on your own."

Wooyoung’s lips tighten into a thin line. He pointedly ignores them, turning his full attention back to you. He offers a casual, nonchalant shrug, though his eyes remain searching behind the facade. "So?" he asks again. "Can we try this again or not?"

You stare up at him, trying to peel back the layers of alcohol and ego to find the man underneath. Even through the haze of his intoxication, his emotions aren't being faked. You know his pain is real, but you also understand that Yeosang is spot on with his words. 

"Wooyoung, I'm sorry," you say quietly. "Yeosang's right."

His expression falls instantly, rejection crossing his face. For a moment, you feel a strong urge to take it back, to promise him one last talk, one more night to smooth things over. But you know that’s a trap. It would always end exactly here: Wooyoung feeling hurt by what you did while refusing to let go, and you drowning in guilt while knowing you're better off apart. There is no clean ending to this conversation. And there never will be.

"I’m sorry," you repeat, and this time, the finality in your voice is unmistakable. You mean it.

He watches you for one final second before nodding slowly. "Alright," he says, his posture shifting as he pulls his head up. He shoves his hands into his pockets with a forced nonchalance, his usual persona sliding back into place. "All good."

He turns to head back toward the bar’s entrance, but he stops when he reaches San and Yeosang. He looks at them calmly, his lips twisting into a clearly artificial smile. "I wasn't here for either of you, by the way. I don't know why you two think you're her fucking bodyguards, but this was between me and her."

"Fuck you, Woo," San says lowly, his feet planted, refusing to step back an inch. "You wanted her alone so you could talk her into giving you what you want. That shit might work on your hookups, but I’m not about to let it work on her."

Wooyoung stares at San for several silent seconds. You wait, holding your breath, watching the two men face off. But eventually, Wooyoung chooses not to respond; his pride won't allow a shouting match he's already lost. He turns his head—not looking at you, but directing his final words squarely at you.

"I'll see you around," he says, his voice distant and devoid of all emotion. "Hope it all works out with him."

He walks away without another glance, disappearing back into the bar. You’re left standing in the ringing silence of the alley, cold and shivering even with his leather jacket still draped around your shoulders. 

The quiet is broken by the pop of Yeosang's jaw. You look over and realize he's finally let his calm composure slip. A cold, simmering anger has taken over his features. 

"I'm gonna go get him and take him home," he says lowly. "I don't like how that ended. At all."

You simply nod, unable to find your voice as you look between him and San. Yeosang’s eyes soften when they land on you, though his brows remain pulled together in a grimace.

"____, I hate to ask this, but are you good to drive? I know San isn’t."

"I'm fine," you murmur, nodding again. You’re sobered up now, the adrenaline having burned through the buzz you had earlier.

Yeosang reaches into his pocket and tosses you his keys. Along with the metal jingling in your palm, he hands you your own jacket and bag. You realize then that he must have grabbed them from the booth when they realized you had disappeared.

"Take my car and go home. Don't wait for Yunho. I’ll come get it in the morning," he says, his voice tinged with regret. "I... I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. And I’m sorry we dragged you out tonight. We should’ve known he’d be here."

Without waiting for a response, he turns and heads back toward the entrance, going after Wooyoung.

The alley feels even smaller now that it’s just you and San. He hasn't moved an inch. He’s still standing with his feet planted, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and his face twisted into a frown. 

"Fucking asshole," he mutters. He zips up his jacket to his chin, his shoulders hunched as he stares off toward the bar. "I can’t believe he's supposed to be one of my best friends."

You stay quiet. You really don't have anything left to say. Instead of answering, you take a steadying breath, your fingers curling tightly around Yeosang’s keys as you turn toward the parking lot.

"Come on, San," you say, not waiting to see if he’s following.

He trails after you anyway, but the brief silence doesn't last. He continues to ramble as he stalks along the pavement. 

"I don’t like how he was talking to you," he says, the alcohol making his thoughts loop. "So fucking manipulative. He knows your head is a mess—acting like he doesn't know that. 'It’s her decision,' my ass. Does he talk to everyone he hooks up with like that? No fucking wonder he’s never had a real relationship. And 'bodyguard'? Like it's wrong for me to give a shit about my friends? I can't believe—"

"San." Your voice stops him as you reach the car and yank open the driver’s side door. "Sit in the passenger seat, San."

He blinks, pausing mid-sentence as he realizes he was about to follow you right into the driver’s side. He nods sheepishly, the fire in his eyes dimming as he realizes his rambling is only piling more weight onto your shoulders. He rounds the car and climbs in quietly.

You slide in and slam the door shut, finally sealing out the muffled music and the cold chill of the night. You peel Wooyoung’s jacket off and toss it carelessly into the backseat, wanting its weight off you. For a moment, you just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, basking in the silence of the car.

Just for the hell of it—out of a habit that is really just a self-inflicted wound at this point—you pull your phone from your pocket one last time. San notices but averts his eyes, saying nothing. You hold your breath, hoping the universe might have spared one small kindness for you tonight.

No new notifications.

Still nothing from Hongjoong.

The screen goes dark, reflecting your own tired expression back at you. You shove the phone into the center console, turn the key in the ignition, and, without another word, you start the car.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen, @yunhospinkyring, @icarusfallingdown, @oddin4ry, @stumbling-through-once-more, @glowingsoup, @mialinguini, @jooholicx, @shuggylaw

[bunny-hwa]

Stream Of Sin...

25: Free.

Pairing: "Church" boys Ateez xFem!Reader

Genre: +18, Smut, Dark academia, Pschological Angst, Slow-burn Mystery, Love triangles, Tangled emotions, Obsession-heavy connections.

wc: 7,1k

Synopsis: After days of emotional distress, you can finally breathe. 

Warnings: Smut (MDNI!!) semi-public sex, penetrative sex, mirror use, after care (?), mentions of past sexual assault and coercion, blackmail, graphic physical assault, confrontation, restraint, psychological manipulation, jealousy, possessive dynamics, stalking, predatory behavior, betrayal, fractured friendships, emotional distress, voyeurism, strong language, consensual power dynamics.

a/n: Hello! I'm back with a new chapter, isnt as long as the previous chapters but I did my best haha. Hope you enjoy it, love ya'll ❤️

Series masterlist

Masterlist

Ann was doing what her mother hated the most, biting her nails like a gross kid. But she couldn't avoid it, her mind was a whole mess. Its been just a couple of hours since she saw that video at Jongho’s house, and she is lossing her fucking mind. 

She had you in the worst concept ever, she wouldn't hesitate to tell the world what you had done… but this was past her own limits. This was pornography. A topic that if it wasn't taken with care could harm a lot of people… but  what if she misunderstood it? What if she saw wrong? 

She had heard about many couples recording stuff lika that just for fun, just for them. But Seonghwa was editing it, and that was weird.

God. This was consuming her sleep. 

In a way to free her chest, she decided to ask the only person that she trusts a bit more than the others, she took her phone from her night table and opened the chat. 

Ann: Have you noticed a weird behavior from Eunji and Seonghwa?  Ann: Or is it just me?

She bit her finger in anticipation, nerves running down her spine when a notification popped on her screen.

Yeosang: What do you mean?

Ann thought what to answer next, she needed to be careful with this topic, and even more if she wasn't sure of what she saw. 

Ann: I saw something today, before I went home.

She hissed as she typed the next text quickly before Yeosang could answer.

Ann: But I'm not sure if I saw right or my mind made it. Yeosang: What did you see?

The scene replayed in her brain, vivid and clear, even if she just saw some seconds of it. She could still remember the angle, the lighting, how you looked—how Seonghwa touched you. 

Ann: After finishing with Jongho I went to the living room to say goodbye, but I saw Seonghwa showing San a video when all of you were playing.  Yeosang: A video?  Yeosang: What kind of video?

She hesitated again, she gulped nervously, her fingers trembling as she typed her next text. 

Ann: It was an intimate video of him and Eunji. 

It was done, she dropped her phone on the bed like it burned. Her eyes were tight shut, her heart beating so fast that she could feel it in her throat. Ann’s breath stopped the moment her phone buzzed several times. 

Fuck, maybe she shouldn't have say anything. What if Yeosang thought that she was making up that story or worse, lying? With a deep breath she took her phone, not ready to read what he answered. 

Yeosang: What? Are you sure? Yeosang: Ann, that's crazy. Yeosang: How do you know it was them and not a random video?

How did she know? She practically saw your faces, that's how she knows. But the doubt of seeing wrong didn't let her sleep. 

Ann: I saw their faces. Ann: Eunji was wearing angel wings or something similar. Ann: I swear on God's name, I saw Seonghwa editing the video to post it. Ann: What motive could they have to edit that kind of video?

Just a couple of streets away, Yeosang bit his fist, muffing a light laugh of amusement. 

At the beginning he thought Ann was making up this whole thing, he had noticed the way she’s been acting around you since she started dating his friend. He didn't miss the way she looked at you, the way she talked to you, and how she talked about you behind your back. But this was a troublesome topic if she was inventing it.

But she wasn't. 

Because he knew you had recorded something with angel wings, the photos you posted a week ago was all the proof he needed. That didn't surprise him, what surprised him was knowing that Seonghwa—his good holy friend—knew about your secret identity. Fuck, he even recorded a video with you? That's another thing he would have never thought about. 

Really? His hyung was okay with that side of you? It was almost imaginable, but him being obsessed with you and dating you, was enough to know that he was more than okay with it. . 

Suddenly, another important question came to his mind. Who else knows about your page? 

This time he laughed—really laughed. Maybe if he pushed Ann a little she could find the answers without him being involved. This whole situation could be so fun, but don't misunderstand it, he wouldn't have fun exposing you or making you feel threatened, he would have fun with Ann, playing with her mind and using what she just told him against her. 

Yeosang: Ann, if what you say is true. Shouldn't you warn the others? Yeosang: They should be punished for what they are doing.  Yeosang: Don't you think so?

He waited for her answer, a devilish smile forming on his lips. Already imagining what she would say.

And he was right. 

Ann: Maybe I should tell San, Jongho and Mingi first. Ann: Before telling Yunho. 

Yeosang’s smile widened into something genuinely pleased. Perfect. Let Ann be the bearer of scandal. Let her be the one to start chaos and watch the boys splinter. 

He would be in the shadows, watching it all unfold, studying the fallout, and learning new, intimate details about you in the process. It was going to be so much fun.

·:*¨♱✮♱¨*:·

The air in Hongjoong’s living room was thick enough to choke on. You sat between Seonghwa and Hongjoong on the couch, a human shield of protection and tension. Across from you, Wooyoung and San were statues of barely-contained fury.

“You can do this, angel,” Seonghwa murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His voice was calm, but the arm around your waist was rigid steel. “You’re not alone. Not for a second.”

You nodded, the motion stiff. Your phone felt like a block of ice in your hand. With a shuddering breath, you opened the chat with the contact that terrified you.

You: We need to talk. Properly. You: The café on Main Street. 6 PM today.

You hit send and immediately thrust the phone at Hongjoong, as if physically distancing yourself from the act. You curled into Seonghwa’s chest, seeking the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and he enveloped you, his embrace a silent vow.

Hongjoong held your phone like it was evidence, his sharp eyes fixed on the screen, jaw working. The silence stretched, taut and painful. When the phone finally buzzed, you flinched.

Hongjoong’s breath left in a sharp, disgusted huff “This motherfucker…”

“What?” San demanded, leaning forward.

Wordlessly, Hongjoong handed him the phone. San’s face darkened as he read the reply aloud, his voice dripping with venom.

“‘Knew you’d come around. As you should.’” San looked up, eyes blazing. “What kind of sick, possessive fuck says that?”

“The kind we’re ending tonight,” Wooyoung said, his voice uncharacteristically flat and cold.

For the next hour, they reviewed the plan with the grim precision of a military operation. Hongjoong and San would be inside the café already, at separate tables, pretending to study. Seonghwa and Wooyoung would be in Seonghwa’s car parked half a block down, engine running, eyes glued to the entrance. You would wear a small, discreet pendant—a gift from Wooyoung—that was actually a high-quality microphone. They would hear everything.

“The moment he suggests leaving, you agree,” Hongjoong instructed, his gaze locking with yours. “But try to hesitate. Make him convince you. Give us time to move. The second you step outside with him, we’re converging. Hwa and Woo from the car, we’ll follow you, we’re not leaving you alone. Understood?”

You nodded, the plan etching itself into your mind alongside the chilling images he’d sent. It was a trap. You were the bait. And for the first time, the fear was edged with a sliver of razor-sharp anger.

—

At 5:55 PM, you stood across the street from the softly lit café, feeling like you might vomit. The pendant felt heavy against your sternum. You adjusted your jacket, took a final, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm you, and crossed the street.

Pushing the door open, the warm, aromatic air and gentle jazz music felt like an assault. Your eyes scanned the room, bypassing Hongjoong, who was hidden behind a laptop in a corner, and San, who was frowning at a textbook near the window.

And then you saw him. Daehyun sat at a small table in the back, a half-finished espresso in front of him. He looked relaxed, affluent, and utterly in control. He’d seen you the moment you walked in. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face—the smile of a man who’d won a bet he’d made with himself.

He didn’t stand up. He merely gestured to the empty chair opposite him, as if summoning you to his table. The power play was deliberate, humiliating. Every instinct screamed you to run. But you felt the imaginary presence of the four boys surrounding you, their silent strength a scaffold holding you upright. You walked toward him, your steps measured, and slid into the chair.

“Eunji.” He greeted, his voice a warm, intimate purr that made your skin crawl. “You look beautiful. Tense, but beautiful. I’m glad you decided to talk.”

You met his gaze, forcing your face into a mask of weary resignation. The game was on.

“You didn’t leave me much choice.” You said, your voice barely above a whisper, perfectly playing the scared, cornered girl he expected.

He leaned forward, his smile never fading. “Now, let’s talk about what happens next.”

"What happens next?" You repeated, lifting the menu like a shield between you and his predatory gaze. The laminated card trembled slightly in your grip. "What do you mean by that?"

Daehyun hummed, low and satisfied, a cynical smile curving his lips. The expression made your stomach lurch. 

"I thought you already knew what I wanted when you sent that message, darling." The endearment dripped from his tongue like poison honey.

A nervous laugh escaped you, edged with a scoff you couldn't quite suppress "Of course I know. But I was hoping we could… talk first. Before that."

"Talk about what?" He leaned back, amused, playing along like a cat with a mouse.

You set the menu down, meeting his eyes with a carefully constructed mix of fear and curiosity. 

"About the video, Daehyun. Why do you still have it? It's been years."

He looked at you, letting the silence stretch until the tension was unbearable. You felt a bead of sweat trace a slow path down your spine.

"Because you looked beautiful." He finally said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "And I've always had a thing for you. So I kept it for myself."

"You missed me that much?" The mockery in your voice was deliberate, a small rebellion.

"Always, darling."

Darling. That word coming from him felt like fingers crawling over your skin. You pushed through the revulsion.

"I'm more curious about why you shared it back then. Especially with Yunho. What was the point?"

His smile widened, pleased by the question "I wanted to show him your true self."

You frowned, genuinely confused "My true self?"

“Yeah.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I knew you weren't that sweet innocent girl. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were different. You are different. Or am I wrong, Eunji?” His eyes glittered with cruel amusement. “I’ve heard things about you, I've heard what people from school murmur about you. And you know every single word is true.” 

The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples through your carefully constructed identity. Was he wrong, or was he playing with the narrative? Because if he put it in that way—You were innocent, a good girl who loved to serve God, who loved being around her older brother and just be the daughter your parents were proud of… but if you compared your past self with what you were now…

You were different, so different that it made you feel like a stranger now. 

Had you changed completely? Or had that girl always been a performance, and this terrified, fierce, complicated woman was the real you?

"Cat got your tongue, darling?" Daehyun laughed, the sound rich with satisfaction at your silence.

You forced a smile, tight and controlled "Just thinking about how right you are."

He leaned back, basking in his perceived victory "So, shall we continue this somewhere more private, or do you have more questions?"

"Just one more." You tilted your head, injecting false sweetness into your voice. "Where are you taking me?" You let your eyes widen with theatrical excitement. "I hope it's not some five-dollar motel."

Daehyun laughed again, louder this time, genuinely amused "Of course not, darling. You deserve only the best. We're going to my apartment."

Apartment?

Your gaze flicked involuntarily to Hongjoong, who was already watching you with sharp, assessing eyes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He understood. An apartment meant a closed door, multiple floors, limited exits. 

This complicated everything.

You swallowed and looked back at Daehyun, your smile firmly in place "Okay. Shall we?"

He tossed money on the table and stood, reaching for your hand before you could move. His fingers wrapped around yours, clammy and possessive. You forced yourself not to flinch, not to pull away. 

Let him think he's winning.

As he led you toward the exit, your eyes swept the café. San was already on his feet, phone pressed to his ear—probably updating the others. Hongjoong was packing his laptop with deliberate calm, eyes were wildfire.

Outside, the evening air hit your face like a blessing. You immediately saw Seonghwa's car, parked half a block down. Through the windshield, you could see his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and Wooyoung beside him, chewing frantically on his thumbnail.

Daehyun guided you to a sleek black sedan parked directly in front of Seonghwa's car. The positioning was almost mocking—close enough to touch, yet separated by glass and circumstance.

"Ladies first." He opened the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish.

You smiled and slid inside. The moment the door closed, a cold shiver ran down your spine the moment you realized that you were going to be alone with him for god-knows how long. 

Fuck, you really hated this. 

You just wanted to cuddle in Seonghwa’s arms while San patted your back, and listened to how Hongjoong scolded Wooyoung for some shit he did. The thoughts numb your mind that you didn't register what was happening.

His hand landed on your thigh—heavy, casual, claiming.

Your entire body went rigid. You stared at his hand, then slowly raised your eyes to the window, refusing to look at him. The drive would be short. You could endure this. 

You could endure this.

The car pulled away from the curb, and you watched in the side mirror as Seonghwa's car immediately fell into line behind you. Hongjoong's car followed a moment later. They were there. You weren't alone.

The ten-minute drive was an eternity compressed into moments. His hand never moved from your thigh, a brand of ownership you couldn't escape. You stared fixedly out the window, counting streetlights, memorizing turns, praying.

When he finally parked in front of a modern high-rise, you nearly sobbed with relief. But you knew—this was only the beginning.

He exited without a word, leaving you alone in the car for a long, breathless moment. Then the door opened, and he extended his hand with mock gallantry. 

"Come. Let's do things the right way this time."

You took his hand, the gesture hollow. The moment you were on the pavement, his grip tightened, and he pulled you toward the building entrance. You glanced back twice, heart hammering, and both times you saw them—Hongjoong's car pulling into a visitor spot, Seonghwa's sliding to the curb. Hongjoong gave you a sharp nod. We're here. We're coming.

"Which floor is your apartment?" You asked, your voice remarkably steady.

"Fifth floor, honey. 507" He pulled you into the elevator, and the doors slid shut, cutting you off from the sight of your protectors.

—

The moment the elevator doors closed, Hongjoong was moving.

"Go, go, go." He sprinted toward the building entrance, San on his heels. 

Seonghwa's car screeched to a halt, and he and Wooyoung spilled out, doors left hanging open.

"Stairs or elevator?" Wooyoung panted, eyes wild.

"Stairs. Elevator's a trap—he could get off on any floor." Hongjoong yanked open the stairwell door, the crash echoing in the concrete chamber. "Fifth floor. Move."

They took the stairs two, three at a time, their footsteps a thunderous drumbeat of desperation. San's lungs burned. Wooyoung's legs screamed. Seonghwa, usually the calmest, pushed past them all, a man possessed by a single, terrifying thought: Get to her. Get to her now.

"He's going to hurt her," Seonghwa gasped between floors. "He's going to—"

"Then we make him regret being born." Hongjoong growled, his voice echoing off the walls.

They burst through the fifth-floor stairwell door into a long, carpeted corridor. Hongjoong's eyes swept the numbers—501, 503, 505. There. 507, at the end.

"Let's go." He commanded, and they moved like shadows, rage barely leashed.

—

The apartment was modern, cold, and impeccably clean. A display case for a man with something to prove. Daehyun guided you to a sleek leather couch, his hand never releasing yours.

"Drink?" He offered, already moving toward a polished bar cart.

"Sure." You needed to buy time. Every second was a gift.

He poured two glasses of amber liquid and returned, settling far too close, his thigh pressing against yours. He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours with deliberate slowness.

"To second chances." He toasted, his eyes never leaving your face.

You took a tiny sip, the alcohol burning your throat. Where are they? How long does it take to climb five floors?

He set his glass down and turned to you, his hand lifting to trace the line of your jaw. You fought every instinct to recoil.

"You know." He murmured, "I've thought about this moment a lot. Having you here. Awake."

You forced a coy smile, shifting slightly, your hand coming up to rest on his shoulder.

"Is that so?" You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And what exactly did you imagine, Dae?"

He shivered—a visceral reaction that made you want to vomit. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer. 

"Everything," He breathed. "Every filthy, beautiful thing."

You trailed your fingers up the back of his neck, into his hair, playing the part of the seduced. Your heart was screaming, but your voice was silk. 

"Tell me more."

He was leaning in, his lips centimeters from yours, his eyes half-closed with anticipation—but the doorbell shattered the moment like glass.

Daehyun's eyes snapped open, irritation flashing across his features "Ignore it." He muttered, leaning in again.

The doorbell rang again. Insistent. Demanding.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still on his shoulder "Maybe you should see who it is." Your voice was sweet, reasonable. "Could be important."

He cursed under his breath, pushing off the couch with clear frustration "Don't move, sweetheart." He commanded, pointing at you.

You smiled, sinking back into the cushions as he strode to the door. The moment his hand touched the handle, you were on your feet, heart pounding.

He opened the door, and the world collapsed.

Four bodies surged through the doorway like a tide of vengeance. Hongjoong hit him first—a brutal shove that sent Daehyun stumbling backward into his own living room. San was next, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. Seonghwa and Wooyoung flowed around them, creating a barrier between you and the chaos.

"What the—" Daehyun's shock was almost comical.

"Surprise, motherfucker." San's voice was lethally calm, his forearm pressed against Daehyun's throat.

Hongjoong stepped forward, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury "You thought you could threaten her? Touch her? Blackmail her with that video?" He laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "You made three mistakes. The first was hurting her. The second was coming back. And the third?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the room "You thought we wouldn't find you."

Daehyun's eyes darted wildly between them, finally landing on you. You stood behind Seonghwa's protective form, no longer the scared girl from the café. Your chin was lifted, your eyes clear.

"Surprise." You echoed softly.

Seonghwa turned, pulling you into his arms, his body a wall between you and the monster "Are you okay, angel?" His voice shook. "Did he—"

"I'm fine, Hwa." You whispered against his chest. "You’re here."

"Always." He breathed into your hair. "Every time."

Behind you, the sound of Daehyun struggling was cut short by a sharp thud and a pained groan. You didn't need to look. For the first time in days, the cold fear in your chest began to thaw, replaced by something warmer—the fierce, terrible, beautiful love of the men who had just torn down heaven to reach you.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Daehyun barked, confusion and panic all over his features. “Eunji, explain!”

“Dont talk to her, you fucker.” Wooyoung barked back behind Hongjoong, arms crossed.

“Dont even look at her.” Hongjoong commanded as he grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who the fuck are you to even be near her, huh?” 

“None of your business.” He spat. “Let go. Now.”

“Its our fucking business if you're messing with our girl.” San said, his arm pressing even harder on his throat. 

“Let go of me!” 

“What do you want from her? Why did you bother her again?” Hongjoong asked, his dark gaze never leaving Daehyun’s face. 

“Its not—”

“Said that again and I’ll beat the shit out of you. Answer.” San muttered, so low that made Daehyun's held his breath.

He hesitated for a second, he was scared. Hell, four fucking men were in his house, angry and ready to kill him if he move. But he couldn't show it, he wouldn't. He tried to look at you again, but the grip of the man in front of him didn't let him, he could feel his skin already bruising in red marks.

So he did what he does best. Lie. 

“I like her.” He muttered. 

“Cant hear you, bitch. What?” Wooyoung stepped closer, brows frowning in disbelief. 

“I like her.” He said louder, closing his eyes shut. 

There was a moment of silence, then your laugh cut through the tension of the living room. You pulled back from Seonghwa's chest just enough to look at the man pinned against his own wall, and the smile on your lips was nothing short of wicked.

Wooyoung’s particular laugh made you laugh even more, San chuckled like a manic as he changed his grip on Daehyung’s throat for a full grab with his hand, Seonghwa was smiling incredulously while he tightened his grip on your waist.

But Hongjoong wasn't laughing, not even smiling. His features were in a cold expression, his eyes, a deep pool of darkness, made Daehyun shiver. Then, that creepy smile of his slowly formed on his lips.

"Wait, wait." Wooyoung held up a hand, his face the picture of mock confusion. "Let me get this straight. You drugged her. You recorded yourself doing unspeakable things to her unconscious body. You terrorized her for years with that video. You came back and immediately started blackmailing her, threatening to ruin her life again."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper "But you like her? That's your grand confession? That's the best you've got?"

Daehyun's face cycled through shades of fury and humiliation. He tried to jerk forward, but San's grip was iron "You don't understand—"

“We do.” Hongjoong's voice was soft, almost contemplative. 

He hadn't moved from his position, but that devilish smile was still carved onto his lips. He looked at you, and for a moment, the darkness in his eyes softened into something like pride. 

“Did you hear that, pretty? Why don't you give him an answer, let him know how you feel after his confession.” 

You detached yourself fully from Seonghwa, though he kept one hand loosely on your wrist, a tether. You took a step closer, emboldened by the wall of fury surrounding you. Daehyun's eyes locked onto you, a desperate, manic light in them.

"How I feel?" You tilted your head, your smile widening. "I feel nothing." You let the words land, watching them sink in. "Why should I feel something for you? You're just a pathetic and sick man who gets off on power he can't earn. You couldn't handle a real woman, so you had to drug a girl to feel like one."

Wooyoung let out a low whistle "Damn, baby. And I thought I was ruthless."

Daehyun's face contorted "You little b—"

"Ah, ah, ah." San tightened his grip, cutting off the insult before it could fully form. "Watch your damn mouth when you talk to her."

"She's a whore!" Daehyun spat, the word tearing from his throat. "You're all fucking her, aren't you? Sharing her like the slut she—"

San's fist connected with Daehyun's stomach before the sentence could finish. The sound was sickening—a wet, heavy thud that folded Daehyun in half despite San's grip on his throat. A choked gasp escaped him, all the air driven from his lungs.

"Wrong answer." San's voice was calm, almost bored. He pulled Daehyun upright by his collar, watching him gasp for air with detached interest. "Try again."

Hongjoong stepped forward, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with deliberate slowness. He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling before finally addressing Daehyun directly.

"Here's how this ends, boy." His voice was conversational, reasonable. "You're going to give me your phone. All your devices. Every cloud account, every backup, every hidden folder. You're going to delete every trace of that video, every photo, every copy you've ever made or stored. And then..." He paused, taking another drag. "You're going to apologize to her. Properly. On your knees."

Daehyun's eyes widened "You're insane. I'm not—"

San's fist connected again, this time with his ribs. The crack was audible. Daehyun cried out, a high, desperate sound.

"Do what I say," Hongjoong agreed pleasantly. "Or you can keep refusing, and San will keep... persuading you. Your choice."

Daehyun fumbled for his phone, hands shaking, and thrust it toward Hongjoong. Hongjoong took it, his movements unhurried. He scrolled, deleted, searched, deleted. Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by Daehyun's ragged breathing and the occasional whimper.

"Cloud accounts and passwords." Hongjoong prompted.

Daehyun gave them up, one by one, his voice breaking. Hongjoong worked methodically, wiping years of violation from existence with a few taps. When he was satisfied, he pocketed the phone.

"Now." He gestured to Wooyoung. "The apology."

Wooyoung's grin was pure malice. He grabbed a fistful of Daehyun's hair and forced him down, dragging him until his knees hit the hardwood floor with a painful thud. Daehyun cried out, tears now streaming down his face, but Wooyoung held him there, his grip unrelenting.

"Go on," Wooyoung cooed, leaning down to speak directly into Daehyun's ear. " Don't be a crybaby and say it. Do it right."

Daehyun looked up at you, broken and humiliated. You stood before him, flanked by Seonghwa's steady presence, and for the first time in years, you felt no fear. Only a cold, clean satisfaction.

"I'm... I'm sorry." The words were choked, barely audible.

"Sorry for what?" Wooyoung prompted, yanking his hair harder.

"For... for what I did. For the video. For threatening you." Each word was a nail in his own coffin. 

You fake pouted as you tilted your head “What? I didn't hear you.”

"Sorry!” He repeated, loudly this time. “I'm sorry. Please. Please, just tell them to let me go."

You looked at him for a long moment, this man who had haunted your nightmares for years. Reduced to this—weeping, begging, broken on his knees. You felt nothing for him. Absolutely nothing.

You scoffed "Get him out of my sight." 

Hongjoong nodded, taking one last long drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the pristine coffee table, leaving a burn mark.

"Last warning, Joo Daehyun. You come near her again. You contact her. You even look in her direction. And we won't be this gentle." He smiled, that chilling, empty smile. "Understood?"

Daehyun nodded frantically, tears and snot running down his face.

"Sannie." Hongjoong's voice was casual. "Make sure he understands."

San didn't need to be told twice. His fist connected with Daehyun's face, then his stomach, then his ribs again—a flurry of precise, brutal strikes. Daehyun's screams filled the apartment.

Wooyoung stepped back, watching with open appreciation "That's it, Sannie! Show him what happens to people who mess with our girl!"

Seonghwa's arms came around you, pulling you against his chest and turning around, his tall frame covering the scene "Don't watch, angel."

But you did. You looked over his shoulder, watching Choi San. Your San, your fiery, impulsive, beautiful San, beat the monster of your past into a bloody, whimpering heap on the floor. 

And God help you, you smiled. The violence should have horrified you. Instead, it felt like justice. Like every nightmare he'd given you was being punched out of existence.

Why is Choi San so fucking attractive? The thought floated through your mind, unbidden and warm. Maybe it was time. Time to let go of the last of your anger. Time to forgive him for what he did with Ann. Time to let him all the way in again.

Hongjoong watched for a long moment, then finally held up a hand "Enough."

San stepped back, breathing hard, his knuckles bloody. Daehyun lay crumpled on the floor, barely conscious, a mess of bruises and blood. Hongjoong crouched beside him, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the room.

"Remember this night. Remember what happens when you try to take something that doesn't belong to you. She's not yours. She never was and never will. She's ours. And we protect what's ours." He stood, straightening his jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

He turned and walked toward the door without looking back. Seonghwa took your hand, guiding you after him. Wooyoung and San fell into step behind you, a wall of protective fury at your back.

You walked out of that apartment with your head high, the men you loved surrounding you, and the ghost of Joo Daehyun finally—finally laid to rest.

When you stepped out of that place, the night air hit your face like freedom, and your eyes closed enjoying it. 

You were finally free. 

Or that’s what you thought. 

·:*¨♱✮♱¨*:·

It was time for lunch break, but you weren't in the cafeteria, you were in the chapel. The almost empty chapel greeted you the moment you stepped inside, the big windows casted soft light and the subtle aroma of candles made you feel at peace. 

For the first time in years, you were doing something you didn't expect, something you haven't done for too long. You were praying, really praying. You were on your knees for more than suck dick and you were surprised.

Clasped hands, closed eyes, and a pleased smile on your lips. You were there, looking like your past self, thanking God for finally breaking the chains that attached you to your past and the version that was always scared. You were finally free. 

Thank you for getting me out. Thank you for giving me people who fight for me. Thank you for letting me finally, finally be free.

You smiled, a soft peaceful curve on your lips.You weren't a hundred percent believer, and you most of the time made fun of religion and its rules, but you knew there was something out there. And you must thank it. 

“Am I imagining it? Is Jeong Eunji praying?” 

Your eyes opened, slowly turning to your left at the sudden deep voice. Mingi was kneeling next to you, in the same position you were. Clasped hands, closed eyes, but he had a mocking smirk on his lips. He was making fun of you. 

You narrowed your eyes, pushing him slightly “Stop mocking me, this is serious.” 

He let out a soft chuckle but didn't break his pose “Of course, I’m praying too.” 

“Yeah?” You shifted to sit properly on the wooden pew, raising an eyebrow. “Then what are you praying for?” 

He opened one eye, peeking at you with sinful mischief “I’m asking God to put you in my bed tonight.” 

You laughed, a rich sound resonating on the chapel walls, you slapped his back “Funny. You should start a fucking circus, Song Mingi. You'll make a fortune.” 

Mingi laughed as he sat at your side, his shoulder brushing yours. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You gazed up at the altar, at the suffering figure of Christ, at the flickering candles. Mingi gazed at you. 

You looked different, not in the physical way that screamed you-changed-something, but there was something different in your factions, same beauty but way more calmer than before. You looked like someone who just won a battle. 

“What did you pray for?” He asked softly, genuinely curious. “It's been ages since the last time I saw you doing it.” 

You smiled, still looking forward “I was just saying thank you. For a miracle.” 

“A miracle?” He frowned.

“Yes, a miracle.” You turned to face him, a beautiful smile on your lips. “Im finally free, Mingi.” 

Mingi stayed in silence. You’re finally free? What do you mean by that?

“Free?” He repeated to himself. 

You laughed, your joy very evident “Yes, Min. Free of my demons.” 

Free of your demons. Felt so good to say that. 

Mingi stayed in silence, processing it. The only demons you could probably have was either Yunho or the person responsible for the video. After a moment, he understood. The pieces clicked into place behind his eyes. The video. The man who made it. The fear that had haunted you for years. 

“You mean… that?” 

You nodded “Yes, that is finally done.” 

Mingi didn't ask how. He didn't need the details. He just saw the peace in your eyes, the lightness in your shoulders, and it made his heart swell with a fierce, tender pride. He reached out, his hand large and warm, and patted your hair with a gentleness that belied his size.

“I’m really happy for you, Eun. Really.”

You leaned into the touch for just a second, a silent acceptance of his care “Thank you.” 

There was another moment of silence, but it wasn't awkward or tense, it was a peaceful silence. Then Mingi spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, teasing register that made your stomach flip.

"Want to celebrate?"

You turned to him, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across your face "Celebrate? Here?"

His eyes glittered with mischief, darting briefly toward the small hallway that led to the restrooms. 

"The chapel's empty. Everyone's at lunch. And I've been wanting to do something properly unholy in this place for years."

You laughed, the sound half-shocked, half-intrigued "You're insane."

"You love it." He stood, offering you his hand with an exaggerated gentleman's bow. "Come on. Quick celebration. No one will know."

You looked at his hand, then at his face, the playful challenge in his eyes, the genuine warmth beneath the mischief. The peace in your chest hummed, not with fear, but with a wild, reckless joy. 

You were free. Why shouldn't you celebrate?

You took his hand and he was happy to lead you.

The bathroom was small, tiled in cool white, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, stark and unforgiving. Mingi locked the door behind you, the click obscenely loud in the silence.

Then his hands were on you, warm and sure, spinning you gently to face the mirror over the sink. You met your own eyes in the glass—bright, alive, unafraid. Behind you, Mingi's reflection was all sharp angles and heated gaze.

"Look at you, Eun." He murmured against your ear, his hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. "So beautiful. So free."

You shivered, leaning back against him "Show me how free I am."

He didn't need more encouragement. His lips found your neck, hot and insistent, while his fingers made quick work of your uniform. The skirt pooled at your feet. Your underwear followed. He turned you back to face the mirror, pressing you forward until your palms flattened against the cold porcelain of the sink.

"Watch." He commanded, his voice a low rasp. "I want you to see yourself when I make you feel good."

And you did it. His reflection was a study in controlled hunger. He positioned himself behind you, one hand splayed on your hip, the other tangling in your hair, gently tugging your head back. Your eyes met in the glass—his dark with desire, yours wide with anticipation.

When he entered you, it was slow, deliberate, a claiming rather than a conquest. A soft gasp escaped your lips, and you saw the flash of satisfaction in his mirrored gaze. Then he began to move, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of his body against yours, the slap of skin, the ragged harmony of your breathing.

Every thrust pushed you harder against the sink, the edge biting into your hips, but you didn't care. You couldn't look away from the mirror—from the way your lips parted, your eyes fluttered, your cheeks flushed with each powerful stroke. Behind you, Mingi watched too, his gaze a brand on your reflection, drinking in every expression, every tremor, every sign of your pleasure.

"That's it, baby." He breathed, his pace quickening. "Look at yourself. Look how good you take it. How beautiful you are like this."

A moan escaped you, loud in the tiled space. His hand left your hip, sliding around to find you, to press and circle until your legs trembled and your vision blurred. The pleasure built, sharp and sweet, a counterpoint to the deep, driving rhythm of his hips.

"Come for me." He demanded, his voice breaking. "Come looking at yourself, free, beautiful and mine for this moment."

The words, the sight, and the feeling, all crashed over you. Your climax tore through you, a silent scream on your lips, your reflection shattering into a thousand pieces of pure sensation. Behind you, Mingi followed with a guttural groan, his grip bruising on your hip as he buried himself deep.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the distant hum of the lights. Then, slowly, Mingi pulled away, his hands gentle now as he helped you steady yourself. He grabbed paper towels, dampened them, and cleaned you with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

When you finally met his eyes in the mirror again, both of you flushed and rumpled, a slow, shared smile spread across your faces.

"Best celebration ever." You murmured.

He laughed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder "Happy you're free, baby."

And in the quiet, holy-adjacent space, with the scent of lemon cleaner and sex in the air, you felt something you hadn't felt in years: truly, utterly, completely free.

—

“Where is Mingi?” Ann asked the moment she sat down beside Yunho. The rest of the guys were already there, but Mingi was nowhere to be seen. 

Yunho squirmed a little to the other side. Lately her presence made him uncomfortable… but he didn't know why. 

“He said he forgot something in the classroom.” Yeosang said, his hands already busy with chopsticks digging in his food tray. “But it's been almost ten minutes.” 

Jongho decided to stay in silence—not because he felt the tension Yunho and him had since days ago, he was sure Ann told him everything—but because he saw when Mingi stood up the moment he saw you walk by yourself to the cafeteria exit.

By now he knew that Mingi was involved in the same way he was with you, that made his blood boil in jealousy, but he would be a hypocrite if he said something about it. He was in the same boat. 

He knew his hyung didn't forget shit in the classroom, he followed you, and he knew why. 

“He is clumsy and a little dumb.” Jongho added softly, defending his friend that was probably fucking you in an empty classroom. “He is probably turning upside down the classroom just to find his missing thing on his desk at the end.” 

Yeosang and Ann laughed, because that sounded so Mingi core. then the cafeteria door opened and Mingi stepped inside, but not alone. You were by his side, smiling at him the same way he was. 

Ann saw it, Yeosang saw it, Jongho saw it… And Yunho too. 

Yeosang and Jongho with a knowing thought, one more analytical than the other. Ann with a light frown and a big interrogative sign over her head.

But Yunho saw more than he should. He saw the way Mingi held the door for you, saw the way he smiled at you, the way he looked at you. And then his mind spined with thousand thoughts, anxiety ran through his veins, because he was seeing the way his best friend acted around you. 

His best friend. 

Yunho’s eyes unconsciously drifted to San and Seonghwa on the table near the corner. Both men were laughing like nothing was happening between them, like they didn't notice that something changed in their friendship of years. 

His best friend.

Then his eyes snapped on Jongho, a bitter taste on his tongue made him gulp in discomfort. He noticed the way Jongho avoided his eyes, the way he didn't speak to him directly. Confirming Ann’s words. 

His.Best.Friend. 

He looked at Mingi again, he was still talking with you while walking to your table, something that should look natural after being near you for such a long time, after being his best friend since kids, that should look normal. His best friend and his sister getting along. 

But it didn't look normal, and that made him squirm in his seat. 

Mingi is his best friend, he isn't like San, he isn't like Seonghwa, he isn't like Jongho. He is his best friend, right?

… Right?

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All rights reserved to ♡bunny-hwa. Do not copy or translate my work. 

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER ELEVEN

cross-posted on ao3.

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine. chapter ten. chapter twelve (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, pet play, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 6.6k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. it's currently midterms week so i am STRUGGLING fr, but i really wanted to get this chapter out because it's such a big emotional shift for reader🥹🥹 i'm sorry it's a little shorter than what's typical but i hope you all enjoy <33

The morning light is certainly what you'd call an unwelcome intruder. It slices through the narrow gaps in your curtains with a blinding brightness, waking you with a heavy feeling in your chest. For a moment, you feel wonder if you came down with a fever overnight—but you know better. The heat radiating through your body is nothing more than the lingering burn of shame. 

Your eyes feel gritty, swollen from the silent tears of last night. You roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow, when the soft sound of someone snoring from your floor pulls you back.

Frowning, you push yourself up, rubbing at your eyes—which are still smudged with the same mascara from last night—and leaning over the edge of the mattress, stretching further until you can see him. San.

Your mind drifts back to the last time you found him sleeping on your carpet: the night after Yunho's party, when he'd woken facing one of his worst hangovers yet. That night had also been the first time you ever met Wooyoung. And now, after what feels like a lifetime compressed into a handful of days, your roommate is curled up in the same spot.

Only this time is different. A spare blanket is tucked around his shoulders, a couch cushion cradling his head. He's positioned closer to the door than before, his body angled as though he meant to put himself between you and anything that might try to reach you. He was guarding the door, yes, but more importantly, he was guarding you.

You turn your head to your left, your throat dry like it's been scraped clean with sandpaper. On your nightstand sits a row of three iced chai lattes, the plastic cups sweating beads of condensation onto the wood, alongside three chocolate muffins still wrapped in crinkled paper. Scrawled across the sides of the cups are the names: San, Yeosang, and Yunho.

The sight of them makes a fresh wave of nausea flip in your stomach. You avert your eyes and reach for your phone instead, fingers trembling as you unlock it. Your notifications are empty. No texts from Wooyoung. No "Are you okay?", no apology, nothing. You let out a breath and close your eyes for a moment, relief rushing through you. Good. You don't want him to reach out. You don't want an apology, excuses, or concern. You want to pretend like the last twelve hours never happened at all. 

But the more the fog of sleep fully lifts, the harder it is to outrun the memories: the smell of the leather seats, his fingers teasingly tracing your leg, the waiter's knowing look, the way his expression changed when you told him to stop, how his mind immediately went to Hongjoong when you told him you didn't want him, and the way he left you in some parking lot all alone, like you were something inconvenient he didn't want to deal with anymore.

Desperate to drown it all out, you lunge for the nearest chai. You don't care whose name is scrawled on the side. You gulp it down, the freezing, spicy sweetness soothing the back of your throat as it slides down. You drink until your lungs burn for air, trying to use the sugar and the cold to wash the taste of Wooyoung out of your system, to swallow the memories down until they're buried deep enough to never again resurface. 

But underneath the chill of the tea is the suffocating heat of embarrassment. Of course, Wooyoung just had to text San. So now, San knows. And if San knows, Yeosang knows, too. And if they both know, Yunho definitely knows. The "we told you so" is already ringing in your ears; they'd warned you about the truth of Wooyoung, and they'd seen this coming long before you had.

You want to crawl back under the covers and stay there until you dissolve into nothing. You're too humiliated to face your friends, too exhausted to defend your choices, and far too drained to endure the lecture you're convinced you deserve. As you exhale a shaky sigh, you go to set the cup back down, but your questionable coordination fails you. Your hand brushes against your phone, sending it skittering off the nightstand and clattering to the floor with a heavy thud. 

San jolts awake instantly, his eyes snapping open and his body tensing like he's ready to fight someone off. It takes a second for the haze of sleep to clear: he blinks rapidly, disoriented by the morning light, before his gaze travels up the side of the bed and lands right on you.

"Oh—hey," he rasps, voice thick with sleep. “You’re up.” He pushes himself onto an elbow, then stills, something dawning on him all at once. "Oh. You're up." His expression drops as he pauses. "...Right. Sorry. I—uh."

The silence that follows his stuttering is heavy. You're too embarrassed to look at him, let alone find the words to explain why you were even with Wooyoung last night. Instead, you stare at the half-empty cup in your hand, watching the ice swirl and collide as you sit up straighter in your bed, as if posture alone gives you some control back.

San shifts, the sound of the blanket rustling against the floor loud in the quiet room. He gets up and slowly walks over to the edge of your bed, sitting atop the blankets but keeping an arm's length of distance between you. He watches your face with perceptive eyes, waiting for a cue, a sign, a signal that you're ready to talk.

You don't give him one.

Finally, after a few more moments of silence, he reaches out anyway. He moves hesitantly, his arms opening as he tries to pull you into a hug—but as he leans in close, you don't move. You don't lean into his warmth, and yet you don't recoil in disgust. You go still, your body refusing to acknowledge the affection, not because it repulses you, but because you don't know how to receive it without collapsing out of pure mortification. 

San pulls back immediately. There’s a brief flicker of hurt in his expression, gone almost as soon as it appears, smoothed over by understanding. He doesn’t crowd you. He doesn’t ask questions. He gives you space even though every instinct in him is clearly screaming not to.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I'm just glad you're home."

You can't sit here like this. San is, as always, being so kind, but the gentleness in his voice only makes you feel worse—it feels undeserved. You're not shaking, you're not crying, and you're not broken. Being treated like you're delicate and fragile only makes the reality of last night feel more foolish. You were foolish. You don't deserve his affection, but you also don't think you deserve a lecture, either. You just want to be left alone. Deal with your mistakes yourself. 

The chai tastes cloyingly sweet now, sticking to the roof of your mouth as San's care only makes the memories of last night stick. You decide that water is the only thing that might actually wash the grit from your throat and the ghost of last night from your system. 

Without a word, you slide out of bed. Your legs feel like lead as you navigate around San's makeshift nest, which he built for himself. You step over the blanket and the cushion, carefully avoiding any physical contact that might invite another look of pity.

"Wait—" San says, scrambling to his feet. He reaches out, his hand twitching forward as if to catch your sleeve, but stops himself just in time. "I wanted to talk to you first—"

You don’t stop. You keep your eyes fixed on the door, pushing past the heavy wood of your bedroom and stepping into the main room.

You head straight for the kitchen, desperate for the sink, but your pace falters when you see him. Yeosang is lying across the couch, his long frame draped over the cushions in a way that suggests he hasn't moved since he arrived. He’s only half-awake, his hair a chaotic mess against the fabric, his eyes tracking your movement the moment you emerge from the hallway.

"Oh," you murmur, your voice cracking as the air leaves your lungs. You'd thought he and Yunho had just dropped off the drinks and left. "You're here?"

Yeosang blinks slowly, sitting up with a tired groan. He looks at you with an unreadable gaze, one hand reaching up to push a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. 

"Finally," he mutters, voice raspy. "I figured San would've talked your ear off by now, but since you're already making a run for the kitchen, I guess—"

You catch a movement out of the corner of your eye. San is hovering in the hall behind you, his face full of pure, unadulterated panic. He’s frantically waving his hands, making a sharp, desperate "cut it" motion across his throat while shaking his head so hard you're surprised he doesn't get whiplash.

Yeosang stops mid-sentence, his jaw snapping shut as he processes San’s silent warning. The gears in your head slowly turn, and you realize they probably had formed a plan: San was supposed to be the buffer—the one to wake you up gently and let all your emotions loose—before you walked out and realized Yeosang was even here. They probably knew he would take a logical approach, and they clearly didn't think you were ready for that yet.

Yeosang clears his throat, shifting his posture until he’s sitting upright, his usual sharp eyes softened by a night spent on a cramped sofa. "I guess... you woke up earlier than expected," he finishes lamely, the lie hanging awkwardly in the air.

A knock on the door suddenly echoes through the dorm. San moves past you to answer it, his footsteps hurried and slightly anxious. When the door swings open, Yunho is standing there, looking like he hasn't slept a single wink. In his hand, he’s gripping yet another iced chai, the plastic cup rattling slightly against the cardboard carrier. He catches your eye and smiles tentatively, a small, apologetic thing that says he didn't know what else to do to help.

The sight of the fourth cup—the fourth reminder that your friends have spent the morning mourning your dignity—is the final straw.

"I don’t want to talk about it," you snap, the words coming out sharper and more defensive than you intended. You don’t even look at the drink Yunho is trying to offer. "I already know it was stupid, I know I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, and I know exactly what you’re all thinking. So just... save the lecture."

You brace yourself for the pushback. You expect Yeosang to start a logical review of your bad choices or for San to start coddling you again. But no one corrects you. No one jumps in with a biting remark or a "we told you so." The words just uncomfortably simmer in the heat of the room.

San is the first to break. He steps toward you, but stops well outside your personal space, his shoulders slumped. "I shouldn’t have tried to hug you," he says, his eyes searching yours for forgiveness. "I’m sorry. And I probably shouldn’t have slept in your room, either. I just didn’t want you to be alone."

The ice in your chest starts to melt, just a fraction. You look at his tired eyes and realize he isn't trying to patronize you; he’s just the same San who's usually your safety net. You realize he had probably dropped everything the second Wooyoung's text came through, racing to a dark parking lot in the middle of nowhere because the mere thought of you being stranded and cold was painful for him to imagine.

Yeosang leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "From what we know—which isn't a lot, mind you—you didn't do anything stupid. No one with an ounce of decency leaves a girl alone in the cold like that."

Your heart falters. From what we know.

They don't know any of the details. They don't know about the car, the mint, or the way you let things escalate before the panic set in. They just know you were left behind like an afterthought.

Except for Yunho.

He’s still standing by the door, the extra chai forgotten in his hand. He’s the only one who knows the messy, complicated context—the sex in Wooyoung's apartment, the blurred lines, the way Wooyoung got under your skin and stayed there. He meets your eyes, and there’s no judgment there, only concern.

"Are you hurt?" Yunho asks simply.

"Physically?" you clarify, your voice small.

"Anything," he responds.

You ponder this for a heartbeat, searching your body and your mind for any fresh wounds. You think of the way you shouted back at Wooyoung, the way you stood your ground, and the way you ultimately walked away from a man who thought he could "fix" you into a version of yourself you didn't even recognize.

If anyone is hurt this morning, it’s probably Wooyoung. His ego is likely in tatters because you were the first one to ever break his spell. You got what you wanted. You ended it, even if it didn't go according to plan. The way it happened left you feeling like a wreck, but the outcome was exactly what you had set out to achieve.

"No," you say, and as you look at your best friend, you truly mean it. "I’m not."

Yunho nods, a small, relieved exhale escaping him. "Okay. Then let’s just take this slow."

He leads the way back to the living room, and as the four of you settle onto the couch, the atmosphere finally shifts. You look at the three of them—San’s restless, protective energy; Yeosang’s watchful silence; and Yunho’s steady presence. You realize they aren’t angry. They aren't smug, and they aren't waiting for the chance to say they told you so. They’re just scared. They’re terrified of what happened in that car, terrified of what Wooyoung did, and most of all, terrified of why you didn't tell them about any of it.

You can almost hear the gears turning in their heads as they try to reconcile the image of the Wooyoung they know with the version of him that abandoned you in a parking lot because his ego couldn't handle the truth.

"I'm okay, guys," you say steadily, letting out a long sigh. "Really."

San doesn't look convinced. He stares down at his lap, his fingers interlaced so tightly that his knuckles are stark white against his skin. "When he texted me..." he starts, his voice trailing off. When he finally looks up, there's an anger in his eyes that isn't directed at you but makes you flinch all the same. "It was just your name and some abandoned mall's address. That was it. No context, nothing even like a 'come get her.' I... I'm just worried. What the hell happened there? If he hadn't felt guilty enough about leaving you where you could've easily been—"

He cuts himself off abruptly, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he forces back the rest of that sentence. He looks back at his hands, taking a jagged breath before meeting your gaze again. "If he hadn't texted me, would you have even called us? Or would you have just stayed there, stranded in the dark, because you didn't want us to know what you were doing with him?"

He asks the question, but the heavy silence in the room suggests everyone already knows the answer. You’ve spent the morning judging Wooyoung for his ego... but what about your own?

If you're being honest with yourself, you’re scared of your reputation cracking, even in front of the people who love you most. You realize with a sharp pang of guilt that you likely wouldn't have called. You would have called an Uber instead, sat in the backseat while praying the driver wasn't a creep, and snuck back into your dorm and went straight to bed. You would have practiced your lie as soon as you woke up—something about another late night at the library—just so you could hide the evidence of your own humiliation.

San nods slowly, confirming that he doesn't need to hear the words out loud; he already knows the answer. He leans forward, his desperation to bridge the distance between you growing more palpable. "You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. I know you hid all of this for a reason, but we’re just... worried."

You remain quiet for a heartbeat, weighing the weight of his concern against your own pride, before Yeosang’s voice cuts through the tension. "Yunho told us a little bit," he adds quietly, his sharp gaze finally fixing on yours. "Just what you already told him."

The air leaves your lungs as your heart drops into your stomach. Your head snaps toward Yunho, eyes wide with a mix of betrayal and disbelief. "Yunho! You promised you wouldn't say anything!"

Yunho winces, looking like he’d rather shrink into the sofa cushions than face you. "I’m sorry," he says, his voice soft but firm in his choice. "We were all just scared. We all know how Wooyoung can be, and we just... I knew you were trying to end it. I was scared he didn't react well."

"Well, obviously, no, he didn't," you mutter, a dry, humorless laugh bubbling up in your chest. 

You lean back, staring at the ceiling as the suffocating weight of the confession begins to pull at you. "He didn’t force me into anything, first of all. He was... manipulative, yes, but I kind of knew that, and I was still the one who let things go too far when I knew they should stop. I’m not a victim in that part." Your voice hitches, thick with a cocktail of regret and residual heat. "But still... it wasn't right. He got so mad when I tried to tell him the truth about my feelings." You pause. "Actually, I never even really had to say it. He figured it out himself."

"How?" San asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How did he figure anything out if you didn't tell him?"

"Well..." You look down at your feet, your voice dropping an octave. "I told him a little bit. That I didn't really think he even liked me. I told him he just liked the idea that he could 'fix' me. Like he could mold me into the type of girl he wanted, like he was my savior or something. And he’s smarter than you guys give him credit for—he knew exactly what that meant. It meant I never saw him as a long-term thing. I didn't see him the way he thought a girl like me would."

You pause, the memory of the car’s interior—the suffocating smell of his cologne and the sudden shift in his demeanor—washing over you until you feel like you're shivering again.

"And then he asked about Hongjoong," you continue, quieter. "I denied it all. But I know he saw it in my eyes. And I think that was the moment he decided he was done with me."

The room goes dead quiet.

San’s expression shifts, the soft worry in his eyes hardening into something darker. You see a flicker of recognition pass through him as he finally realizes just how deep the cracks really went. Beside him, Yeosang remains perfectly still, his mind likely replaying every interaction he’d witnessed or heard about between you and the two men over the last few weeks. 

Yunho is the only one who doesn't look surprised. If anything, he just looks sad. He’s the only one who has actually had time to process your feelings about the situation, and you can see in the slump of his shoulders that he knew a confrontation like this was inevitable. He knew you were eventually going to be the one to dismantle the pedestal Wooyoung had built for himself, but as he looks at your face, it’s clear he didn't realize quite how much of the debris of shattered ego was going to fall on you.

"And?" San's angered voice cuts through the room, breaking the silence. "Because you didn't want the same things he did, he just kicked you out? In some random-ass parking lot in the middle of the night? Where anything could've happened to you?"

You shift uncomfortably, offering a small, helpless shrug. "I mean... well, yeah. Kind of."

San stands up abruptly, the movement so sudden it makes the cushions hiss. He begins to pace, though the small living room barely gives him enough space to turn around. He isn't yelling—he’s vibrating, a silent fury radiating off of him. He shakes his head. "I'm going to kill him. What the fuck is wrong in his head? To leave you there alone? To leave any girl there alone? Does he ever think about anyone but himself? Did he even think about what could've happened?"

"San... relax," Yunho says, his voice a cool contrast to San’s heat. "We'll deal with Wooyoung later. Right now isn't the time."

San lets out a breath that sounds close to a growl, but he sinks back onto the cushion, his leg bouncing with restless energy. "Right. Okay. Fine," he bites out.

Yeosang takes a slow, measured breath before speaking. "There’s no excuse for Wooyoung's actions," he says, his tone shifting. "We all know him. He's impulsive, and he thinks with his heart—or his dick—ninety-nine percent of the time. But I’ve been sitting here thinking... I think there was a lot of truth to what he felt for you. People don't typically spiral like that over someone they don't care about."

"Yeosang, really?" San scoffs, head snapping toward him. 

"I'm saying," Yeosang continues, unbothered, "that's he's never been the one getting rejected. I don't think he's ever even said the words 'I like you' to anyone before you. He doesn't know how to handle someone looking him in the eye and telling him he's not what she wants." 

"But that’s not an excuse!" San snaps, his voice rising again. "Getting rejected isn't a valid reason to dump a girl in the middle of fucking nowhere and drive away! His ego doesn't trump her safety. It doesn't matter if his heart was 'broken' or whatever the hell you're trying to say!"

"Obviously, I’m not trying to justify it!" Yeosang snaps back, his own frustration bubbling up. "I’m just trying to think through it! I’m saying he panicked. I’ve known him for years and never once seen him act like this."

"Then he should've been the one to get out of the car!" San fires back, standing up again. "He was the one with the power in this situation, and he used it to punish her for hurting his feelings!"

You watch them go back and forth, their voices bouncing off the walls of the small living room, and for a second, it feels like you're not even in the room. You're simply a topic—a case study for Yeosang to dissect and a wounded bird for San to avenge. They're fighting over the 'why' and the 'how' of your night, building a version that suits their own perspectives. The more they argue over why Wooyoung did what he did, the more you feel yourself disappearing from the conversation entirely. The urge to scream that you're right here, that you don't need them fighting about you, rises in your throat, but you force it back down, not wanting to make things worse. 

"Okay, okay," Yunho interrupts, his hand coming down firmly on San's shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. "Whatever his reasons were, they aren't the point right now. He’s not the priority." He turns his full attention to you, his eyes searching yours with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. "Are you okay? Truly? You aren't... upset?"

"I'm not," you say, and you're surprised by how much you mean it. "This is what I wanted, really. I wanted it to be over."

But as the words leave your mouth, Yeosang’s start to take root in your mind. A parasitic seed of guilt begins to itch under your skin. You think back to the moments before the parking lot—the way you’d laughed together, the effortless chemistry, the way his touch had felt so right. When it was good, it was easy. It was fun.

You'd walked into this thinking you were just ending a fling, a brief lapse in judgment. But now you realize you’d done something much more permanent. Really, you had ruined the very confidence that had made you attracted to him in the first place. You’d taken his 'savior' complex and thrown it back in his face as the flaw it actually was.

You realize now that you had played a part in the escalation. You had let him touch you. You had let the lines blur until they were invisible, playing along with a game you knew was temporary. You had let him believe he was winning, all while knowing you had one foot out the door and your heart tucked away in a drawer labeled Hongjoong. Neither of you was the victim nor the villain. You were simply a person trying to figure out your own heart, and unfortunately for Wooyoung, he happened to be the casualty of your search for clarity.

"I just..." you start, looking at the three of them. You feel a strange sense of lucidity, a total lack of the "brokenness" they probably expected. You aren't shattered. You’re just tired. "I just wish it was as easy to tell him it was over as it was to tell him I wanted it in the first place."

You fall back into the cushions, letting the silence wrap around you. You look at San, whose protective rage is slowly simmering into a quiet, watchful hurt on your behalf. You look at Yeosang, who is still dissecting the logic of a broken heart, and finally at Yunho, who knows exactly how much of this was a self-inflicted wound.

It doesn’t feel good. There is no triumph in knowing you’ve bruised someone’s ego, even if they deserved it for leaving you in the cold. But as you lean back into the sofa, surrounded by the people who actually showed up, you realize something: your hands aren't shaking. For the first time since you started this thing with Wooyoung, the tremor in your bones has finally stilled.

You aren't the "fixed" version of yourself that Wooyoung tried to mold, and you aren't the fragile glass doll that San is trying to guard. You're exhausted, you're drained, and you're carrying a heavy weight of guilt—but that weight is yours alone to carry. You’ve stopped being a project to be solved or a secret to be kept.

Finally, you're the one in control of what you want.

The blue flicker of the television is the only thing keeping the room from falling into total darkness.

Your entire day has dissolved into a long, numbing loop of skipping class and sitting on this couch, wedged tightly between your three friends. You'd spent hours mindlessly forcing them through a Gossip Girl marathon—a show they usually pretended to hate, though you’d caught San secretly googling ‘who is Gossip Girl’ more than a few times. But after watching Serena make one too many self-destructive choices for the sake of some guy, the plot eventually started to hit a nerve. The parallels to your own mess—the hidden secrets, the good reputation slipping, the humiliation of being the topic of conversation—began crawling under your skin. Yunho had noticed your jaw tightening, and without a word, he'd quietly stolen the remote and swapped the drama for some muted nature documentary before you could protest. 

Now, the silent footage of a dark ocean is the only movement in a room that has finally gone still. After hours of the boys treating you like you were made of glass—a suffocating cycle of fresh blankets and snacks pushed at you every five minutes—the late hour has finally caught up to them. 

Yunho is out cold in the corner of the couch, his head tilted back at a sharp, uncomfortable-looking angle. San is slumped on the other end, buried under a mess of throw blankets and pillows, his quiet snoring the only real sound left in the room. 

Only Yeosang is still awake, albeit by a thread. He’s hunched over a Psychology textbook on the coffee table, his back against the base of the couch right next to your knees. He’s trying to claw back the hours he lost skipping class to sit with you, but his eyes are fluttering shut, and his hand lingers on the corner of the same page for minutes at a time. He isn't paying any attention to you anymore.

For the first time all day, the spotlight is off. You aren't being watched. 

In the midnight quiet of the dorm, you finally tear your eyes from the repetitive schools of fish swimming around on the TV and reach for your phone. You tell yourself it's just boredom—a restless itch to fill the silence—but your thumb moves with such a magnetic, practiced pull that you know you're lying to yourself. 

Hongjoong is still at the top of your recent searches on Instagram.

You click his design account first, the safe choice. You scroll through the grid of shades of denim and leather, studying the jagged lines of his sketches and the close-ups of silver hardware as if you haven't already memorized the entire feed. There’s nothing new, but you linger anyway, scrolling until you reach the very bottom. 

After a few minutes, you pivot, tapping over to his music account—the place you haven't dared to look at since that night he helped you with your test corrections in the library. Since the moment he'd caught you listening to the song of his last cover and fled immediately. 

The screen loads, and your pulse immediately kicks against your ribs. There’s a new little square in the top left corner. You quickly click on it, reading how long it's been since it was posted. 

2 days ago.

Monday night, you realize—the night after the library. 

The thumbnail is grainy, bathed in the same warm, dim light of his room you’ve seen a dozen times through your screen. He’s sitting on the floor, hunched over his guitar, wearing the exact same black nylon jacket he’d had on during your extra tutoring session. You fumble for whoever's stray pair of AirPods is wedged between the cushions next to you, your fingers trembling slightly as you jam them in. You don't care whose they are; you're simply desperate to hear what you missed.

The caption is a single, lowercase word: almost.

You turn the volume up, your finger clicking on the side of your phone until the rest of the room—the snoring, the blue flicker of the TV, the sound of Yeosang’s slow breathing—is completely drowned out. You hit play, and the first melancholic strum of his guitar vibrates directly into your ears.

You realize immediately that this isn't another cover. A worn spiral notebook is splayed open on the floor in front of him, filled with lines of messy, aggressive ink that he’s crossed out and rewritten until the paper is nearly torn. He looks raw, his eyes never leaving the notebook as he begins to sing. You realize that this is, in fact, a Kim Hongjoong original. 

"I press record, you check the time

The library's closing, we crossed a line

Back at my house now, I know I'm a mess

But somewhere in my head, I take off your dress."

Your breath hitches, a sharp, audible sound that feels loud enough to wake the entire dorm. You freeze, praying your friends didn't hear, but your skin is already beginning to burn anyway. A frantic, prickly heat climbs up your neck, settling in your cheeks. 

It's about you again. It's a literal frame-by-frame replay of your sessions.

You check the time. You do that every single time. The moment the recording stops, your eyes dart to that digital above his head, calculating exactly how many seconds are left in the session so you can escape before you do something embarrassing. He must've noticed. He must've known the whole time.

We crossed a line. The words loop in your brain, making your head spin. When? Monday night? When you listened to his cover? Or was it the moment he volunteered to meet you outside the requirements at all? You'd spent weeks agonizing over the tension, but now, you realize for a fact that he's always felt it, too. He was counting the inches between you just as hungrily as you were.

But that last line... that's the one that makes your stomach flip. But somewhere in my head, I take off your dress. You feel a blush warming your cheeks. The line is so jarring, so untutor-like, that it leaves you completely breathless. For the first time, you realize that while you were sitting there, staring at your notes and tripping over verbs, Hongjoong wasn't only thinking about grammar. Behind that polite, controlled persona was a man vividly imagining the very same things you were. 

Hongjoong isn't just aware of the attraction between you. He's been living in it, just like you.

"We get close, starting to feel

Only to leave as soon as it's real."

That's exactly it, you realize, sucking in a breath. That's the loop you've been drowning in for weeks. 

It's the agonizing rhythm of your life: the two of you edge toward something more intimate—a new interest in common, a look that lingers too long, a touch that wasn't supposed to happen—only for one of you to cut the wire at the very last second. 

It's in the way a conversation about grammar suddenly turns into a lasting, knowing glance, until he clears his throat and retreats behind your textbook. It’s the way your hand accidentally brushes his, and instead of closing the gap, you bolt for the door, heart hammering against your ribs. 

You're both cowards. That's the ugly truth of it. You're both playing a high-stakes game of chicken, waiting for the other to break, but the moment things get "real," you both back off. You flee to the safety of your separate lives, and he hides behind his professional armor.

"We've got so much in common, including the issues

I'll pull away 'cause I know I could lose you

That's when it hits me, so suddenly

You are almost the best thing that happened to me

I could say what I'm thinking, got nowhere to be

You could show me you want me, tell me what you mean

That's when it hits me, so suddenly

You are almost the best thing that happened to me." 

You let your head thud back against the sofa, eyes squeezed shut as the words ache in your chest. 

I know I could lose you. Your pulse stutters as you pause the video to think about what his lyrics mean. When he pulls back, he isn't being cold; he's scared. He knows the math of it all: if he crosses the line and somehow fails, he loses you entirely. He’s choosing the safety of the "tutor" dynamic because he can't face the alternative.

You could show me you want me, tell me what you mean. 

The lyrics sting. It's an accusation.

Hongjoong is calling you out. You’ve spent weeks playing the victim of his professionalism, but you’re a perpetrator, too. Every time you looked at him and then ripped your gaze away, every time you swallowed the truth because you were too scared of the "almost," you were building this wall brick by brick.

He’s telling you—through a recording, in the dark—that part of what's keeping you in the "almost" category is your own silence, not just his. 

"I'm miles away, yeah

Repeat every mistake, yeah

넌 틀렸던 문법, 네 말투들 모두

내 마음속에 남아 날 울리고 있어, yeah

너를 사랑하는 게 너무 쉬운 일이는데

거짓말 뒤에 숨어

Over하는 걸까 겁낸 겁쟁이

교정실에 홀로 갇힌 죄인

너도 같은 형량이길

We're static and plastic, trapped in parts we play."

Hongjoong's transition to Korean is seamless, but for you, it’s a sudden, violent door slamming right in your face. 

You’ve spent months hunched over desks with him, dissecting sentences and memorizing verb endings, but now—when the stakes are a matter of your own heart—you can't understand a thing. You recognize bits and pieces: 거짓말 (lie)... 죄인 (sinner). But without the lyrics written in front of you, the full meaning slips right from your grasp.  

The frustration manifests as heat behind your eyes. You lean in closer to the speaker, as if physical proximity could somehow bridge the linguistic gap, but the more you strain, the more the translation fades further away. Hongjoong is speaking to you directly through the screen, confessing through the melody, and you're still standing on the outside, peering in through a frosted window.

You don't need a translator to hear the shift in his voice, though. The measured tone of the man who corrects your pronunciation is gone. He sounds frustrated—no, he sounds indicted.

We're static and plastic, trapped in parts we play. That line, at least, is a knife you can understand. Hongjoong is mocking the costumes you both wear: the professional, kind tutor and the appreciative, hardworking student. He’s calling your dynamic a mannequin’s play—stiff, fake, and lifeless.

"If you'd step out of character and leave all the noise

I'd forget every script, just the sound of your voice

I wonder if we really tried, you'd never be

Almost the best thing that happened to me."

The song tapers off into a whisper, the final notes vibrating into your bones. Step out of character. It's your cue. He’s telling you that if you stop pretending to be a simple student who feels nothing for him, he’ll stop pretending he’s only there to fix your grammar.

You look around the darkened room, and for a second, everything feels sickeningly mundane. Yeosang is focused, his face half-drifting into sleep. Yunho and San are tucked away, the protectors who think you’re a girl who needs blankets and nature documentaries to feel safe. They see you as something to be shielded from the "risk" of a guy like Wooyoung.

But Hongjoong—Hongjoong is different, but he isn't necessarily offering you safety. Just like always, he’s challenging you. But this time, it's to be the girl who chooses the risk over the "almost."

Your thumb hovers over the screen as the video starts over, and the same beginning melody repeats in your ears. On screen, your tutor draws a breath to begin again, and you’re caught in the pull of a voice you were never really even supposed to hear this way.

You think back to your "plan" in the library. You’d thought about how you could be the one to bridge the gap, how you could push him until he had no choice but to break and confess. But as the song settles over you, you realize that Hongjoong has already shattered long ago. This post is his white flag. He’s admitted everything, draped in the safety of a song, leaving the final move entirely in your trembling hands.

The "Like" button currently sits as a tiny, empty heart. In any other context, it really is just a mindless gesture. But between you and Hongjoong, trapped in your static and plastic parts, it's you admitting through the phone: I know this is about me. And I want it just as bad as you do. 

With a shaking breath, you double-tap the screen.

The heart turns red.

Liked.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen, @yunhospinkyring, @icarusfallingdown, @oddin4ry, @stumbling-through-once-more, @glowingsoup

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER NINE

cross-posted on ao3.

masterlist. chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter ten (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!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, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, pet play, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language/names, possessive behavior, lmk if i missed any!

word count: 12.3k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. yall its getting serious... please enjoy <3

There's a specific kind of freedom that only occurs at 10:45 a.m. on Tuesdays.

Not the explosive, frantic energy of a Friday night, nor the sluggish, coffee-fueled resignation of a Monday morning. Rather, it’s the kind that, as the final second ticks off the clock in the corner of your Korean classroom, lets the tension finally melt from your shoulders—the tension built from ninety minutes of forcing your tongue into the unfamiliar shapes of Hangul.

Your Korean skills aren't improving by that much—class is still hard, no matter how diligently you preview the lesson the night before—but it’s the only class you and Yunho share on Tuesdays. That means the moment everyone starts packing up their bags, even as Professor Choi calls out for two more minutes, the rest of the day is completely yours.

You and your best friend spill out of the building's heavy double doors, strides drifting naturally into sync. Your shoulders brush gently as you descend the wide stone stairs, stepping back into the real world for the first time since 8:30 this morning, back when you’d woken up earlier than usual to grab breakfast sandwiches from the mini café in the lobby before class. The cold air bites at your skin, stealing your breath and turning your laughter into pale clouds that float between you and the man next to you as you both fumble for the zippers of your jackets. 

Late fall has claimed the campus with a vengeance. Sharp gusts of wind send desiccated leaves skittering across the pavement, chasing after one another in little bursts of copper and gold. Around you, the university moves in a muffled blur: students scurry past, bundled in oversized wool and scarves pulled high against their chins, boots crunching against the colorful carpet beneath their feet.

At your side, Yunho is locked in a losing battle with his gloves, tugging one free only for it to slip from his already stiffening grasp and flop uselessly onto the concrete.

"Seriously," he mutters, crouching to snatch it up. "Why is it always the left one?"

You huff a dry, short laugh. "Maybe it's trying to tell you to just keep your hands in your pockets. It's not even that cold yet, Yunho." But as you say it, a rogue gust of wind sneaks down the back of your collar, and you instinctively retract your chin into the folds of your jacket, jerking the zipper up until the metal teeth press against your lips.

Yunho catches it and snorts. "Sure it's not," he says, finally shoving his hand into the glove and rubbing his palms together to preserve the warmth. "I give it five minutes. You'll be shivering before we even get to the store."

You don't offer a verbal retort. Instead, you lean into him, bumping your shoulder against his with enough force to make him stumble half a step. "I will not."

He grins, that familiar, lopsided look that suggests he already knows he's right.

Tuesdays double as your unofficial grocery days.

Neither of you is particularly what anyone would call a responsible adult. Left to your own devices, your diet would likely consist entirely of instant ramen, leftover dining hall food, and the occasional stolen snack from someone else’s dorm. But Yunho swears it’s cheaper—and "way healthier"—to actually buy real food once a week. San and Yeosang, the gymrats they are, naturally agree, insisting they need the protein and nutrients that only a proper grocery store can provide.

So every Tuesday, right after class, you set off like clockwork, walking a few quiet blocks to the tiny local store that’s been there longer than either of you has been alive.

It's certainly far from glamorous. The carts squeak in protest no matter how gently you push them, the fluorescent lights leave you with a dull headache behind your eyes if you stare at them for too long, and the bakery section always vaguely smells like something is burning in the back kitchen. The checkout scanners beep in erratic bursts while half the shelves are slightly crooked, worn down after generations of shoppers passing through.

By now, you know the layout by heart. There’s the cereal aisle, where Yunho once spent nearly forty-five minutes squinting at nutrition labels after Yeosang got it in his head that he needed to find the box with the highest protein-to-calorie ratio. There's the freezer section, where your fingers nearly froze as you dug through the flavors of mochi until they finally landed on your favorite, strawberry. And then there's the produce area, where Yunho constantly slips into a terrible imitation of San, lecturing you about the importance of eating your vegetables in the most serious tone he can manage.

It's become your routine. You absolutely love how ordinary it feels.

No matter how hectic everything else in your life gets, Tuesdays are always the same: the short walk to the store, the slow wandering through the aisles, the whole trip filled with dumb conversations, inside jokes, and debates over what you actually need versus what you just happen to be craving that day.

You find comfort in knowing that at least once a week, things stay simple. 

You push through the automatic doors, the chill from outside immediately giving way to the artificial warmth of the store. Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and you tug your jacket tighter around yourself to hide the fact that you are indeed shivering, just like Yunho had said. He's already a few steps ahead, absorbed in his phone with a level of focus that probably should be reserved for things far more serious than grocery shopping.

"Yeosang sent me his list," he says without looking up, and his tone makes you want to laugh before you even know what's coming. "Why the hell does he need five different flavors of Spam?"

You laugh as you pull a cart from the stack near the entrance, the metal handle still cool beneath your palms despite the store’s warmth. "Five?"

"Original, Bacon, Teriyaki, Korean BBQ, and—" He pauses, squinting at the screen. "Pumpkin Spice."

"Pumpkin Spice Spam?" you repeat, wrinkling your nose. "You think that counts as food?"

"I'd say it's legally questionable." He takes the cart from your hands before you can protest. Yunho has a habit of doing that—quietly taking over the little responsibilities you tend to automatically shoulder, freeing you up for what actually matters most to you. In this case, that means keeping track of four separate lists combined into one, meticulously checking off each item, and keeping the chaos of the grocery run somewhat contained.

You reach into the bag slung over your shoulder and pull out your phone, opening your messages with Yunho and scrolling until you find the list he just sent. With a few swift taps, you copy it over into your Notes app, already starting to reorganize it.

"At least you got a list this week," you mutter, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeves as you follow him toward the front aisles. "San will probably call me any second with what he wants."

As if summoned by the mere mention of him, your phone buzzes in your hand. The screen lights up, illuminating your fingers with the soft glow of none other than your roommate's name.

“Creepy,” Yunho mutters, shaking his head without even looking over at you. He's already pushing the cart forward, weaving into the aisle and grumbling under his breath about where exactly he's supposed to find five different flavors of Spam in a store this huge. 

You pause for a moment, bracing yourself before swiping to answer San's FaceTime call. His shopping lists are never just milk and eggs. They constantly end up sending you on scavenger hunts around the store for the most obscure items one could come up with—like last week, when he begged for a brand of electrolyte water that apparently only exists in two stores citywide.

As the connection clicks through, his face fills the screen, a close-up of flushed skin, damp hair plastered to his forehead, and heavy, exhausted breaths. 

"Tell me..." he pants, the camera shaking as he wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. "Tell me you're still at the store."

A small laugh escapes you. There's something endearing about the way his jaw hangs slack as he gulps down air, caught immediately post-workout. As he drags a towel across his forehead, a few glistening drops of sweat smudge directly over the camera lens, turning his face into a blurred, watery smear.

"Ew, San," you groan, physically recoiling and tilting the phone away until he finally wipes the lens clean. "Could you maybe wait five more minutes before calling me? Maybe after you shower?"

San just flashes a grin as he tosses the towel over his shoulder. "Can't. If I call any later, you'll already be checking out."

You shrug, unable to argue. He’s right. You usually have one foot out the door the second things are bagged.

Ahead of you, Yunho’s phone screen lights up with another familiar face—Yeosang, huddled in the back of a lecture hall. He has both earbuds jammed in, panic on his face as he whisper-yells at his roommate. You lean in, giggling at the sight.

"I can hear San from ten feet away through two different phones," Yesoang hisses, eyes darting nervously toward the front of the room to ensure his professor isn't watching. "Can you please tell him to shut up?"

San scoffs, echoing loudly through your phone's speakers. "Why are you whispering like you're in the library?"

"I am in the library! In the middle of my Philosophy seminar!" Yeosang's voice spikes an octave, and he instantly slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes he practically shouted that.

"Oh." San grins, not sounding sorry at all as he heads off toward the gym's locker room. "My bad."

Your hand automatically rises to shield your eyes, a reflex born from past trauma. "Keep the camera on your face, San. Please. I do not want to see any more... um... you know."

You shudder as the memory flashes back: a few weeks ago, he’d propped his phone on a locker room bench to change his shirt, unknowingly broadcasting three oblivious, stark-naked guys to the entire grocery aisle.

He smirks mischievously, towel now tucked under his arm as he leans closer to the lens. "Yeah, unless it's Hongjoong's, right?"

Your eyes widen. You frantically jab at the screen to mute the call. "San!" you hiss, unintentionally mirroring Yeosang's whispered panic. "Shut up! What if someone from our school is here and hears that?"

"Then they'll also know how bad you want your tutor to—"

"Okay! Okay. Roommates, focus," Yunho interrupts sharply, shooting San a warning glance through the phone that says don't you dare finish that sentence. "Focus on the list. What are we here for?"

"I need protein shakes," San blurts out immediately, like the thought has been burning a hole in his brain for the last ten minutes.

"Absolutely not," you shoot back. "I bought a thirty-pack last time and drank... what, four? Maybe less?"

"That's because you drank the rest of them," San accuses, pointing a sweaty finger at the camera.

"I literally did not touch them."

"You definitely did. I kept seeing empty bottles in the recycling."

"San, I don't even like the chocolate ones. They taste like chalk."

"That is exactly what someone who drank them would say!"

From Yunho’s phone, Yeosang lets out a long, weary sigh that crackles through the speaker. "Can you two please save this for later? Yunho, we're out of eggs. And detergent," he whispers, eyes flicking back and forth between his phone and his professor, afraid to linger on either for too long.

"Why are we always out of everything?" Yunho mutters as you swiftly tap them into your Notes app, adding them to the list.

"Probably because we burn through our very limited budget buying San cake mix instead of the stuff we actually need," you point out, flashing a deceptively sweet smile at the man on your phone.

San's eyes light up instantly. "Right! Thank you! We need more cake mix!"

"We do not."

"Please? With the rainbow sprinkles?"

"Absolutely not."

"You used the last one for Yunho's birthday!" he objects, nearly dropping his phone as he stops to argue in the middle of the locker room.

"Because it had been sitting in the pantry for three months. You clearly weren't going to use it!" you retort, your free hand flailing in the air as if gesturing could somehow force logic into your roommate's head. "San, we are both unemployed. This stuff isn't cheap."

"So now you're attacking my financial situation."

"I wouldn't have to if you would get a job."

"You just said we both don't have one!"

Yunho is doubled over, shoulders shaking with laughter as he wobbles dangerously close to a pyramid of cereal boxes. He barely manages to steady himself against a row of Cheerios.

"Okay, okay," he says between breaths, waving his hands. "Let's go over the list. Protein shakes, eggs, detergent, cake mix—"

"No!" you object, just as San yells a triumphant "Yes!" into his phone.

The dual outburst earns you a side-eye from a woman browsing the Frosted Flakes, but it’s nothing compared to the sound coming from Yunho’s other hand.

"I am in class!" Yeosang's voice is a desperate hiss. On screen, he looks like he's physically shrinking into his hoodie. "I swear, if I get kicked out because of your—"

Suddenly, the signal glitches and fractures violently. Yeosang freezes mid-complaint, mouth hanging open, while San's audio cuts in and out, overlapping in a stuttering loop.

"—new roommate for the two of you—"

"—used my cake mix without permission—"

"—will personally pack Yunho's bags for him—"

"—only left me one cupcake—"

"—finally get to live alone—"

"—maybe vanilla this time instead of—"

The voices pile up until they're a wall of static. You glance at Yunho, and in a silent, perfectly timed moment, the two of you exchange the kind of look that only months of grocery runs can teach. Without a word, you both break off, speedwalking in opposite directions down the aisle, dodging slow-moving carts and wobbling stacks of cereal. 

"San, I can't hear a single word you're saying." You duck the end of the aisle, tapping your screen repeatedly like that will help fix the connection. San's voice crackles through chaos on both ends of the call—on his side, running water and doors slamming; on yours, overlapping shouts and Yunho's voice carrying from a few aisles over. 

"Yeosang, you need to be louder! Repeat that!" You hear Yunho yell from somewhere near the cleaning supplies. 

A few elderly shoppers freeze mid-step, clutching their coupons and staring at you like you’ve sprouted a second head, probably assuming you're shouting at yourselves instead of the men on your screens.

Finally, San's face unfreezes, blinking rapidly as it catches up to the present. "Okay! Important question!"

You brace yourself, coming to a halt. "What?"

"Are you getting cake mix?"

The silence that follows stretches. You tighten your grip around your phone. "I'm actually going to hang up on you."

"Please?"

"You're not even going to use it!"

"I will this time! I swear!" he insists over the muffled roar of the shower running in the background.

"You said that last time! And the time before that," you add as you roll your eyes so hard you're surprised you don't get a crick in your neck.

"This time is different!"

"It's always 'different', San!"

Yunho suddenly reappears, one hand raised like a peace offering, holding up two bulky containers of detergent to his own camera. "Did you say the blue or the green one?"

"Blue!" Yeosang whispers immediately.

San leans in close, filling the screen with a wide, hopeful grin. "And vanilla for me!"

"No cake mix!" you and Yunho say at the exact same time, the unison a little startling. 

San huffs, peeling off his damp shirt with exaggerated defeat as he checks to see if the shower is hot yet. "Fine. Whatever. Just get me my protein shakes, oatmeal, Greek yogurt, and some fruit. Blueberries, if they have them."

You nod, thumbs flying as you add each item to your Notes app. "Yeosang?"

"Yunho has my list," he mumbles. "I just wanted to make sure you get my Spam."

Yunho stops mid-step, holding his phone at eye level. "What do you need all this Spam for, anyway?"

Yeosang shrugs, smiling sheepishly. "It's the only thing I can really cook."

You laugh aloud as Yunho shakes his head. Without another word, he reaches over and taps a button, hanging up on his roommate.

"San, I'm hanging up on you," you say firmly, though your smile gives you away.

"So no cake m—?"

Your phone beeps, the call cutting off before he can even finish the word. Tucking your phone back into your bag, you exhale a long sigh of relief.

The hard part of the trip is over. 

"Peace at last," Yunho jokes, lazily grinning at you as he nudges the cart forward, the wheels squeaking softly against the linoleum.

The chaos seems to drain from the store in its wake. The harsh fluorescent lights above no longer feel oppressive, and the chatter of the other shoppers melts into a muted hum. The aisle opens up quieter, like the world has become more serene. All that's left is the rhythm of wheels rolling across the floor, the faint scrape of your shoes against the floor, and the comfort of your own easy conversations. 

You wander around the store for the next twenty minutes, drifting from aisle to aisle with no real rush. The refrigerated aisle sends a cold rush of air against your skin as you reach for Greek yogurt, the plastic slick with condensation, then grab a bundle of protein shakes stacked neatly beside it. A little farther down, rows of cardboard oatmeal boxes follow, and you slide a couple into the cart before moving on to the produce section.

The colors there are brighter—glossy apples piled high, bananas hanging in thick bunches, berries tucked into clear containers still beaded with moisture from the misting system overhead. You pick through carefully, choosing the ripest ones.

With each stop, the cart fills up. Its wheels start protesting softly as the weight increases. Once the essentials are finally gathered and most of the list—excluding the Pumpkin Spice Spam, which was unsurprisingly nowhere to be found—is crossed off, you steer the cart back toward the center of the store, toward the registers. You're just about to start complaining about how long the lines look when Yunho's pace slowly slows to a stop beside you.

You glance over to see him staring at the floral section, bright bundles of flowers breaking up the monotony of the endless aisles of shelves. His eyes flick between a few bouquets, hands tucked into pockets like he's trying to stop himself from touching any.

"You wanna get some?" you ask casually, resting your hands on the cart handle as he lets go.

He hesitates. "Maybe."

That alone is enough to make you raise a brow. "Since when does Jeong Yunho ever say maybe?"

He shifts his weight, eyes still fixed on the display. "I was just thinking."

"About?" you prompt more softly, sensing there's more behind it.

He exhales a quiet laugh, then rubs the back of his neck—not nervous, just thoughtful. "What if someone isn't really romantic?"

You glance at the flowers again, then back at him as it clicks. You nod. "Mingi."

A beat passes. "Yeah," he says simply, voice steady. "I want to ask him on an actual date. Not just hanging out in each other's dorms like we usually do." He gestures toward the bouquets. "I just don't know if he's the kind of guy who'd like... this." His fingers tighten slightly in his pockets. "I don't want to make him uncomfortable. Or do too much. You know, we have something good, and I don't want to make it awkward."

He’s been staring at a bouquet of purple hibiscus this whole time, and the care in his expression makes you smile. "You think he'd be turned off by you trying?"

Yunho shrugs, shoulders lifting and falling. "I think he's bad at romance," he says with a small huff of amusement. "We see each other almost every day, so I know there's something there. But I just wanna do what's right for him. I don't wanna scare him off."

The checkout scanners beep in the distance as you nod, considering his thoughts.

"I'm not really a romantic person either," you say after a moment. Yunho turns to look at you then, waiting. "I don't really need grand gestures. I've never even liked flowers much," you admit. "But if someone actually thought about me, planned something, asked me out on an actual date, that would mean a lot." You lift a shoulder in a small shrug, watching as his expression softens. "I don't need anything super romantic. I just need effort. For someone to see what I want, not just a performative gesture."

You glance back toward the bouquets, then at your best friend again. "I think Mingi's probably the same way. He might not know what to do with flowers or big declarations, but he'll love it if you're trying to meet him where he is."

Yunho hums under his breath, thoughtful. "So... not like this?" He points towards the display once more.

"Not like this," you agree gently. "At least not as the main thing."

A small smile curves his mouth. "Okay. Then what is the main thing?"

You glance past him, your eyes drifting down the stretch of aisles toward the far end of the store, where one row stands out immediately. 

You nod in its direction. "What snacks does Mingi like?"

Yunho follows your gaze, then exhales a quiet breath that's almost a laugh. "He's obsessed with shrimp chips," he says with a smile. "He's always begging his parents to send money so he can buy more."

"There you go," you say lightly, already nudging the cart forward. "The fact that you noticed that is going to mean more to him than flowers. I promise."

As you start walking away from the registers, the plan begins coming together easily. No big build-up or pressure, just pure intention. You move slowly, reading labels, reaching for things with familiarity. A few bags of shrimp chips go into the cart first, their packaging crinkling softly, followed by cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the flavors Yunho knows Mingi always gravitates toward. He adds a handful of smaller treats, too. All the ones Mingi reaches for without thinking, the ones Yunho only knows he likes because he's watched him do it a hundred times.

"And then you just ask him," you say, sliding a small bag of peanut M&M's into the growing pile.

Yunho nods, certainty settling into his posture. "I'll tell him I want to take him out," he nods. "Call it a date. Just... not make too big a deal out of it."

"Exactly," you reply. "You're not trying to impress him, just letting him know you're serious about this."

By the time you stop, the cart is overflowing: bright colors, crinkled packaging, frozen boxes stacked at an angle. Yunho looks down at it, then back at you, lips pressed together as he tries—and fails—to hold back a laugh. "____," he says finally. "How exactly am I supposed to give him all of this?"

Somewhere along the way, you must’ve both gotten distracted, grabbing anything that seemed even remotely essential, because the pile has grown absurd. At least fifteen different snacks crowd the cart. "Oh." 

For a second, you both just stare at it. Then Yunho breaks first, a sharp bark of laughter escaping him as he bends slightly at the waist, one hand braced against the cart. The sound is contagious; you laugh too, echoing softly down the aisle.

"Okay, no," you manage between giggles, shaking your head. "No, wait. I have an idea."

He straightens, eyebrow cocked, still smiling. "Do you now?"

"Trust me, Yunho." You unlock your phone, flicking through apps until you land on exactly what you’re looking for. "Pinterest. I guarantee there are a million ideas for this exact situation."

Yunho leans in closer, watching as you type in the searchbar. Gift basket ideas. Image after image floods the screen: neatly packed gift bags, handwritten notes taped to snack wrappers, and piles of treats tied with ribbons. 

"You don't need to go all out like some of these," you say quickly as a disclaimer, scrolling past an especially overdone one. "Just put everything in some kind of basket or bag. Arrange it so he can actually see what you got him without digging through it." You pause on a simpler image, a tiny black basket filled with different flavors of Doritos. "Keep it simple, but thoughtful."

"Huh," Yunho murmurs, studying the screen as he reaches over to save a few of the less extravagant images. "That's actually not bad."

You grin triumphantly. "I told you—"

Just then, your phone buzzes in your hand. Your head snaps down to read the notification that just came through, and your smile drops instantly.

Wooyoung: 7 p.m. reservation sound good?

You freeze. No. No, no, no—

Your eyes dart between your phone and your best friend, who is currently staring at the message with eyes blown wide, all amusement wiped clean from his face. You let out a nervous laugh that sounds wrong even to your own ears.

"____," Yunho begins slowly and calmly, eyes locked on the notification. "Why the fuck is Wooyoung texting you about a dinner reservation?"

You swallow, buying time, grasping for anything that might resemble an explanation. "Well..." you start carefully, lowering your phone like it might soften the blow. "We talked a little at your party."

Yunho blinks once, slowly. "Yeah?" he says. "And?"

"And," you repeat, stretching the word thin as you search for footing, "we talked a little more after that."

A beat passes. The hum of the store presses in around you.

"Yeosang and I warned you," Yunho says flatly, jaw tightening as he studies your face. "We warned you not to get involved with him."

"Yes. Yes, I know," you rush out, hands lifting instinctively. "And I didn't! I'm not. I mean—" You hesitate. "...Kind of."

His eyes widen slightly as he repeats your words. "Kind of."

"That’s not—"

"What," he cuts in lowly, "does 'kind of' mean?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second. There’s no threading your way out of this. Yunho knows you too well. You can practically see the realization clicking into place behind his eyes, the puzzle pieces lining up one by one.

"…Shit," you mutter.

He straightens immediately. "____. Tell me."

You exhale, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Okay. So. We hung out."

An uncomfortable silence follows.

"Once," you add quickly, the word tripping over itself. "Just once. Last weekend."

Yunho doesn’t move. He just stares at you, expression blank, like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive in a language he understands. "…Where?" he asks at last.

You hesitate just a fraction of a second too long.

His eyes widen. "You didn't."

"In his apartment," you say, the words tumbling out now. "But it’s not bad! I swear, it’s really not what you’re thinking—"

"You went to Wooyoung’s apartment?" he interrupts, voice jumping an octave. "Alone?"

You press your lips together, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. "Okay," you admit, barely above a whisper, "maybe it is what you’re thinking."

He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the ground out from under him. "____, what," he demands, incredulous, "does that mean?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. Your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the cart like it might keep you steady. "I may have made some... um... questionable decisions."

For a split second, his face goes completely slack: no judgment or disbelief, only shock. Then—

"You fucked Wooyoung?”

The word echoes, far louder than it should, drawing at least two curious shoppers' heads from the next aisle over.

"Be quiet!" you hiss, mortification flooding your face as you lean closer to the cart, wishing the floor would open up beneath you.

Yunho looks from you to your phone and back again, stunned, like he’s trying to reconcile two incompatible realities. "You fucked Wooyoung," he repeats, quieter this time, which is somehow worse.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Oh my god, Yunho, please." You glance around the aisle again, praying no one you know is anywhere near you. "You cannot say that out loud. You actually can't tell anyone. Please."

He watches you, arms folding across his chest with agonizing slowness, the last traces of shock draining from his face and leaving something far worse behind. Judgment.

"It was a mistake," you ramble on, starting to stammer as panic takes over. "I’m embarrassed. I’m humiliated. I don’t even know why I let it happen, and I just—" You drop your voice, desperate. "Please keep it a secret."

Yunho exhales through his nose, long and controlled, the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to lose it in public. His jaw works like he’s chewing back a dozen comments.

"…No one knows?" he asks finally.

You shake your head immediately. "No. No one. Not even San. Or Yeosang." You swallow. "Wooyoung knows I want to keep it quiet, too."

That seems to land harder. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you, assessing and rearranging pieces in his head, trying to make them form a picture that makes more sense.

"Okay," he says at last. "I won’t tell anyone." Relief crashes through you so fast your knees nearly buckle. "But," he adds, pointing a finger at you, "I am judging you. Harshly."

You wince, heat flooding your face, but you nod anyway. "...I expected that."

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "I just—" He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?" You hesitate long enough for him to continue. "I thought you were into Hongjoong," he says, quieter now. "You are into Hongjoong."

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining out of you all at once. "I am," you admit. "That’s the problem."

He frowns, confused. "What does that even mean?"

You stare down at the cart, at the ridiculous pile of snacks stacked like a monument to poor decision-making, wishing briefly that answers were as easy to grab as impulse buys.

"I really like him," you say softly. "But I don’t know if he’s ever going to do anything about it. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make any moves. And I don’t want to just…" You trail off, trying to find the right words. "...sit around waiting for something that might never happen, no matter how badly I want it."

Yunho’s expression shifts then, his judgment melting into something closer to concern.

"So Wooyoung was…" he starts.

"A distraction," you finish. “A bad one. A convenient one." He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, so you unlock your phone again and hold it out to him. "Look."

He takes your phone from you carefully, like it might burn him. You swipe first, pulling up Hongjoong’s music account and the cover he posted. Yunho listens, eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly.

"No way," he mutters under his breath, looking up at you in disbelief. "Is this... about...?"

You say nothing, keeping your thumb poised on the screen, and move on to the design account. You show Yunho the piece that Hongjoong never explicitly tagged you in, but that anyone who knew would know. His thumb stills as his jaw slightly drops.

"Holy shit," he finally breathes, almost too quietly for words. His eyes are wide and unblinking. "____, he's in love with you."

Your chest constricts, and a flutter rises in your stomach. "Yunho—don't—"

"No," he stops you firmly, handing the phone back like he’s seen enough evidence to convict. "I’m serious. That’s not just a little crush, ____. That fully says that Hongjoong is pouring his feelings into what he creates because he can't say them out loud.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. "Well... there's more, too."

You tell him about the library. You walk him through every little detail, lingering on the moment Mingi voiced the unthinkable: that Hongjoong just likes hearing you speak his first language. How Hongjoong's mask had slipped, replaced by a glare so intense it sent Mingi scurrying for the bookshelves, leaving the two of you to deal with the aftermath.

By the time you finish, Yunho is grinning.

"He always just speaks whatever's on his mind," he all but sighs fondly, shaking his head. "Who does that? Who just drops that and walks away?"

"Focus," you warn, already knowing you've lost him.

"I am focusing," he insists, pointing a silencing finger at you. "I'm just saying. Mingi is ridiculous. I've never met someone so unintentionally funny. He makes me laugh at almost—"

"Yunho. The point," you interrupt, deadpan. 

He blinks at you, snapping out of his Mingi-induced trance. "Oh. Right. Yes. Sorry."

The smile fades as he straightens, sobering, leaning back against the cart with a little sigh. Arms attentively cross over his chest again as he tries to understand what you did and why the hell you did it.

You inhale slowly, shoulders rising before you let the breath fall out of you. "I think I just appreciated how honest Wooyoung was," you say quietly. "He didn't try to hide his feelings or pretend he wanted anything different than he did." You glance at Yunho, searching his expression. "I swear, I’ve never met a man like him before."

Yunho nods once, absorbing that. "Yeah," he says after a beat. "I get it." Then his eyes sharpen just a little. "But you also said it was a mistake."

You huff out a soft, humorless laugh. "It was."

"How can it be both?" he asks, tilting his head. 

You look down again, fingers brushing the cart handle. "Because I trust you. And Yeosang. When you both told me he’s not the kind of guy I’d actually want to be with long-term… you were right." Yunho stays quiet, giving you the space to keep going. "I now know that I'm one hundred percent a relationship person," you admit. "I like emotional connection. Vulnerability. All of that. I like knowing someone chooses me every day." You shrug, a little self-conscious. "I don't judge people who can do one-night things, like Wooyoung. I really don't. It just doesn't feel like me."

Yunho snorts softly under his breath. "Yeah. No shit. Everyone knows that about you."

You glance up at him, lips pressing together. "Wooyoung doesn’t."

That makes him falter. 

"With him," you continue, voice steadier now that you're saying it out loud, "there’s no expectation or pressure. And that makes it easy." You wince slightly at the word. 

Yunho exhales, understanding settling into his features as the last piece clicks into place. "So he’s not the point," he says. "You were telling the truth. He's just somewhere to put your feelings so you don't have to deal with the ones you have for Hongjoong."

You bite your bottom lip, then nod, small and resigned. "Yeah," you confirm quietly. "I think he is."

Yunho watches you for a second, considering everything you've admitted. "Okay," he says slowly. "Then why are you meeting him tonight?"

"Not to do that again," you say immediately, slightly too quickly for your own liking. You catch yourself and slow down, exhaling as your thumb rubs along the cool edge of the cart handle. "I just need to talk to him." He doesn't interrupt. He rarely does when you sound like this, your more vulnerable tone. "He won't stop texting me," you continue, gaze fixed on the different Oreo flavors behind your best friend's head. "He even showed up at my dorm the other night. I can't just pretend nothing happened."

The hum of the store fills the silence while Yunho waits, patient, letting you explain the truth on your own.

"But I also can't do another one-night thing," you say finally, quieter now, more honest. "It didn't feel right afterward. I kept thinking about it, and the more I did, the worse it felt. I just want to be honest and figure out what we're doing—or not doing—before it all gets messier."

Yunho nods in approval. "That's actually the right call. You need to be upfront. Especially since..." He hesitates, jaw tightening before he grimaces. "Well. You know his reputation. He's probably been with, like, five other people since that night."

Though you're very aware of said reputation, the reminder still lands unpleasantly. "Yeah," you murmur. "Right."

Gross isn't even the right word to describe how you feel; it's more like a sudden, icy reminder of how differently the night meant to each of you. The thought leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

Yunho senses your discomfort instantly. "Okay," he says quickly, tone shifting as he waves a hand, like physically brushing the moment aside. "Sorry. Not the direction I wanted your brain to go."

You glance at him, still reeling slightly, when his mouth curves into something far too mischievous to be trusted. Something that promises he's about to change the subject into something you may not exactly want to think about at the moment.

"But," he adds, eyes gleaming as he leans closer. "Since we're already here... be honest. Was he at least good?"

"Yunho!" you hiss, mortified, eyes darting to the end of the aisle as heat floods your face.

He bursts out laughing. "I'm serious!" he insists, eyes expectant and shining with curiosity. "What happened?" 

You hesitate, weighing how much damage you’re about to do to both of you. You're not sure how much you want to or should say aloud. "We were just... cooking," you begin, vague on purpose.

He narrows his eyes. "And?"

"And I tried some of his pasta sauce..."

He raises an eyebrow at you, knowing there's more.

"...by sucking it off of his finger."

Yunho's eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. "You what?"

Your face burns. "It wasn’t like—I mean, it was just—"

"So it was you, not him! You started things!"

"No! You have no idea what he was saying before that!"

"I really, truly, honestly do not want to know."

You sigh and shrug helplessly. "Whatever. One thing just kind of... led to another... and um..."

He stares at you, waiting, bracing himself.

"...hefuckedmewithaknifeonthekitchencounter."

Yunho makes a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a choke. He stares at you like he’s reevaluating every assumption he’s ever made. "What. The fuck?"

You cringe. "Yeah."

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing half a step before stopping to stare at you again. "Holy shit," he breathes. "I need you to know I will neversee you the same way again."

"Shut up," you groan, shoving his arm. 

"You're even more of a freak than Wooyoung," he says, half laughing, half in awe.

"Yunho! I am not."

He shakes his head, a stunned grin spreading across his face. "Uh-huh. And then what happened?"

You exhale, long and tired, like surrendering to gravity. “Then we ate.”

The words come out flat and final—an obvious attempt to end the interrogation. You catch the way his mouth twitches anyway and immediately cut him off with a look. "Dinner," you clarify pointedly. "We ate dinner. Like normal people. People who hadn't just..." You trail off, waving a vague hand between the two of you. "Anyway. He did the dishes. And I waited in his room. And then...yeah. You know."

Yunho lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief, blinking repeatedly as if that might reset his brain. "And?" he presses, not relenting.

You pause, feeling the heat creep back into your face, realizing you’ve already told him far too much to pretend dignity still exists. 

"...Yeah," you admit at last. "It was pretty good."

For a second, Yunho just stares at you blankly. Then he breaks—laughter spilling out of him as he bends slightly at the waist, one hand braced on the shopping cart like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. "This is insane," he manages between laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I can't believe you're dropping this on me in the middle of the grocery store."

You lift both hands, gesturing helplessly at the cart overflowing with groceries and snacks. "You asked!"

You let the moment settle, the echo of laughter fading as Yunho straightens and exhales, still shaking his head like he’s trying to recalibrate. He takes the cart, nodding toward the front of the store, and starts pushing it forward slowly, wheels squeaking as you begin to make your way to the registers.

"So," he says after a beat, casual but not careless. "What about after?"

You know what he means. Not after, as in logistics or who slept where, but after in the way that lingered in your mind for days.

Your pace slows without you meaning to, fingers tightening briefly around the edge of the cart even though he's doing all the work. "After it was done," you say carefully, "it just felt like something was missing." You search for the right words, brows knitting. "I don’t know. I felt weird. Like it was completely normal for him, but for me? It was so much bigger than I expected."

Yunho listens, expression softening, the humor draining out of him. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "That makes sense." He hesitates, then adds gently, "I don’t want to make you feel worse, but… that guy’s kind of a revolving door. Yeosang's mentioned it. People are in and out of that apartment all the time. For Wooyoung, that is normal."

You wince even though you already knew.

"And that's fine if that works for him, but if that's not you," he pauses to look at you earnestly, "you shouldn't be forcing yourself into it just to forget about Hongjoong."

A quiet breath escapes you, one that tastes equal parts relief and defeat. "I know," you admit, voice low. "I know you’re right."

The cart rolls forward again, inching closer to the registers. You lift your chin slightly, trying to reclaim some of the composure you’ve lost. "So," you say, attempting confidence, though it feels like a fragile mask, "I’ll talk to him tonight, and I'll tell him exactly that." You give yourself a small nod as if you're sealing a deal with yourself. "It'll be fine. No hard feelings, just a mutual agreement to be friends and never speak about this again."

Yunho watches you carefully. "You really think it'll be that easy?"

You shrug, trying to infuse confidence into the motion even though your stomach tightens at the thought of the conversation ahead. "Well…" you pause, weighing your words, "he doesn’t want anything more than hooking up, right? So how hard can it be?"

Yunho lets out a low, humorless chuckle. "Easy on paper," he says, eyes narrowing, "but people don’t always react the way you plan. Just… be careful, okay?" He says it with care, but there's a warning laced behind it that you can't ignore.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," you murmur. "I’ll be fine. He’s not Hongjoong. He’s predictable."

Yunho doesn’t push. He simply nudges the cart forward, letting you cling to your fragile sense of control as the store's lights hum softly above and the lines of shoppers stretch ahead. The checkout scanners beep steadily in the near distance, the squeak of the cart wheels keeping time with your nervous heartbeat. You tell yourself he’s just being cautious, that you know Wooyoung—maybe even better than Yunho does at this point—and that he’s overthinking it. Still, despite the nagging warning and the tiny prickle of doubt, you hold onto a fragile, stubborn hope that tonight will be simple, that honesty will be enough, and that everything will work out exactly the way you plan.

Wooyoung's car is already idling at the curb when you step out of your building.

It's a sleek, midnight-black BMW, polished to such a high gloss that it catches the yellowed glow of the streetlights and throws it back at you. If Wooyoung were a car, this would be him: expensive, intimidating, and impossible to ignore, no matter how hard you try. You pause on the top step, your fingers curling instinctively around the strap of your purse.

He’s leaning against the driver’s side door, his weight shifted back in such a way that suggests he’s been there for a while but isn't in any rush to leave. He’s scrolling through his phone, the blue light of the screen illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. He’s dressed in head-to-toe black: a dress shirt tucked into tailored pants that are just oversized enough to look effortless, topped with a lazily unbuttoned suit jacket. 

When he looks up and spots you, his focus snaps instantly. Something bright and predatory flickers across his face as he scans your body before it settles into a grin.

And god, he looks good.

His hair is dark and glossy, styled back with gel to look as though he's just stepped out of the shower, with a few stray, damp strands falling perfectly over his forehead. His features are the same ones you see every day, but tonight, his eyes are different—darker and more intense, looking through you with a level of awareness that makes your pulse skyrocket. 

Your heels click softly against the pavement as you walk toward him. In the stillness of the street, the sound feels deafening, like a countdown. You suddenly feel very small in the little black dress you’d pulled from the back of your closet. You’d told him casual was fine, and you really meant it. But somehow, with one "dress code" text from him, casual had turned into fabric that skims your hips and a hemline that hitches higher with every step you take under his gaze.

Wooyoung punches his arm out casually, wrist curving back as he lazily glances at his watch. "You're late," he says, his voice a smooth contrast to the running engine. He doesn't move from his spot against the door, just watches you approach with that knowing smirk.

You don't need to dig your phone out of your purse to know it's 6:45 on the dot. "I'm exactly on time," you counter, stopping a few feet away. "You're just early."

His mouth curves. "When it comes to you?" He winks. "Always."

You roll your eyes, biting back the smile that tries to tug at your lips.

He finally pushes off the car, the movement fluid and cat-like. He opens the passenger door for you, dipping his head slightly as you slide inside. As he leans in to ensure you're settled, he lingers, his hand resting on the roof of the car and his body blocking out the rest of the street. He’s close enough that you catch the scent of the BMW’s pristine leather interior mixed with his own cologne. 

He flashes a slow smile, his eyes tracing the line of your throat before meeting yours. "We look good together, baby," he says in a gravelly hum, like a fact, an objective truth you'd be a fool to argue with. 

Your stomach immediately erupts with butterflies.

No. That is not why you’re here. You're not here to be charmed, or to let a five-word sentence undo the boundaries you've been mentally setting for days. You’re here to talk, to deliver the speech you’ve been silently rehearsing since you got home from the grocery store. 

You school your expression into something neutral, pressing your back against the heated leather seat and clutching your purse in your lap like a shield.

"Yeah," you say, your voice steadier than you expected. "If you say so." 

He lets out a short, airy laugh. He doesn't pull back immediately; instead, his gaze drops to your lips just long enough for you to notice before he finally retreats. 

"Cute," he murmurs before shutting your door with a solid, expensive-sounding thud and circling around to the driver's side. When he slides into the seat beside you, the engine purrs to life.

You pull away from the curb, the town beginning to stretch out ahead of you in long, blurred streaks of gold and shadow. You watch your building disappear in the side mirror, your own reflection ghosting over the glass, and press your hands together in your lap until your knuckles turn white.

I'm not here to look at him like this, you tell yourself firmly, the mantra repeating in time with the click of the car's turn signal. I'm here to talk. 

But as the car glides forward, the logic you spent all afternoon building begins to fray. How is it that just one look from him can make you completely forget your reason for being here? How does he manage to erase the mountain of guilt and anxiety you've been climbing for the past few days? With a single "baby," he’s managed to make your talk with Yunho feel like a lifetime ago.

Wooyoung’s hand rests easily on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping a silent beat against the leather. His eyes are fixed on the road, but he doesn't need to look at you to command the space. That half-smile still tugs at his mouth, as if he knows exactly what you're thinking. 

The car hums steadily beneath you, the world outside sliding by in muted blurs of light. He doesn't reach for you or even angle his body your way. One hand stays draped over the top of the steering wheel, while the other rests casually on the door’s edge, his fingers absentmindedly tapping out a rhythm to the quiet, bass-heavy track pulsing softly from the speakers. He keeps his eyes trained on the asphalt ahead, looking every bit like a man who is exactly where he wants to be.

"Funny seeing you Sunday night," he says suddenly. The smirk is audible in his voice, devoid of any apology.

You roll your eyes, the rigid tension in your shoulders dropping just an inch. "Wooyoung. Why were you there?"

His mouth quirks like he's been waiting for you to ask. "What? Can't I hang out with my friend San? We're very close."

"Wooyoung." You turn your head to look at him, leveling him with a flat, unimpressed stare that usually works on your roommates, but seems to have the opposite effect on him.

He glances at you for a brief moment before he returns his gaze to the road. A quiet chuckle escapes his chest. "Okay," he concedes. "Okay. I wanted to see you again. Is that such a problem?"

His honesty catches you off guard, forcing you to hesitate. "San was there."

That makes him bark a laugh, cutting through the polished atmosphere of the car. "You really don't want him knowing, huh?" He casts you a sideways glance, eyes gleaming. "You know, most people would kill to be in your position. They'd be running around campus screaming, 'I just fucked Woo—'"

"Well, I'm not most people," you cut him off.

You try your best to keep your tone flat and uninterested, but his ego is so utterly ridiculous that amusement weaves into your voice. You're still annoyed with him, still dealing with the guilt of the past few days, but his demeanor is like a vacuum, sucking the air out of your carefully prepared words.

Wooyoung raises a dark eyebrow, letting the silence hang for a second before he shakes his head. "You’re right," he murmurs, his tone shifting uncharacteristically soft. "You're not."

You let the comment slide, choosing not to dwell on whatever he might mean by that, especially as he slows the BMW and pulls into the valet of a restaurant that looks way too expensive and exclusive for the casual vibe you'd explicitly requested. 

"Oh, I almost forgot," he says casually as he kills the engine. He reaches into the back seat, his suit jacket straining slightly across his shoulders, and pulls out a bouquet of roses. He holds them out to you with a confident smirk that says he already knows how much you'll love them. "These are for you."

You stare down at them, and for a second, the sheer opulence of the flowers makes your breath hitch. They're absolutely beautiful. A dozen Black Baccaras, their petals a red so deep they look like crushed velvet. They're held together by a silk ribbon that likely cost more than the heels you're wearing, and they're scented with a rich perfume that fills the front of the car instantly. 

They are, by every objective standard, perfect. 

They're also exactly what you told Yunho you didn't want.

"Oh," you say, your fingers tentatively brushing a petal. It feels cool and unnaturally thick, like expensive fabric.

It isn't that you aren't grateful. It’s just that as you look at them, you’re transported back to the grocery store, back to the moment you admitted to your best friend that you didn't need the "Standard Romance Package." You don't want the clichéd symbols of affection that a man buys when he's following the script. You want the "shrimp chips", the acknowledgment that someone had actually been paying attention to you, not the occasion.

"Um... thank you," you finally settle on, forcing a smile that feels tight and uneasy against your cheeks.

"You're welcome," he says, sounding pleased with himself. He watches you with a hint of pride, completely missing the uncertainty in your voice and your stiff grip on the stems. 

You look at the roses, then at the valet waiting to open your door. That's when it hits you—for Wooyoung, this is an actual date.  You hadn't realized it until this moment, not until the flowers were resting in your lap and the engine was silenced. What have you gotten yourself into?

Earlier, the "effort" you’d described to Yunho was about the intimacy of being seen. And you truly thought Wooyoung actually did see you. He always seemed to know what you were thinking before you said it; he could read the shift in your body language like he’d written the manual on you himself. But as he steps out of the car, running a hand through his hair to settle the loose strands before adjusting his jacket with that same smirk, you get the sinking feeling that maybe he isn't really looking at you at all.

The valet pulls the door open, the sound of the latch clicking like a final seal on the evening.

You step out onto the pavement, the roses clutched against your chest. Wooyoung is already around the front of the car, tossing his keys to the valet without so much as a glance. When he reaches you, he doesn't just walk beside you; he places his hand firmly on the small of your back, his palm warm through the thin, skimming fabric of your dress.

"The table’s in the back," he says, leaning down so his breath brushes your temple. "Best view in the place. I had to pull a few strings to get it on such short notice."

You walk into the foyer and have to hold in your gasp. Here, the floors are buffed marble that reflects the flickering candlelight, and the air smells of aged cognac and broiling steak. You feel like every eye in the lobby is on you, but they aren't looking at you. They're looking at the image of you and Wooyoung: the sleek man in the tailored suit and the girl with the expensive flowers.

"You bring a lot of people here?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper as you notice the way the hostess’s eyes light up the second she sees him. She doesn't even ask for a name; she just grabs two menus with a smile. Even the valet had nodded to him like they were old friends.

Wooyoung just smirks, his thumb tracing a small circle on your lower back. "You ask too many questions, baby. Come on, let’s sit."

The dismissive answer leaves you feeling cold. As you follow him, you suddenly remember what Yunho had said earlier about Wooyoung’s lifestyle: the "revolving door."

You definitely feel like you’re part of the rotation right now.

The hostess leads you to a secluded table draped in dark velvet, tucked away in a private room. It’s undeniably romantic, with a beautiful view of the landscape outside, but as you slide into the seat, an embarrassing heat crawls up your neck. How many people had sat in this exact chair? Does he pick this specific table every time he brings someone here? Is this known as his table? You can’t help but wonder if the staff is watching from the shadows, seeing you as just another one of his toys for the night, a temporary fixture in his permanent reservation.

You set the roses on the black tablecloth between you—a barrier to provide a little security in this unfamiliar territory.

Wooyoung settles into his seat with a contented exhale, surveying the room like he’s checking to make sure everything is exactly as he likes it before finally settling his gaze on you. He looks so satisfied, so sure of himself, that the words you’ve been practicing feel like lead in your throat.

"Wooyoung," you start, your voice muffling against the low, smooth hum of the restaurant's jazz. "About this weekend... I think we need to clear some things up."

He doesn't even flinch. He just picks up the heavy, gold-embossed menu, his dark eyes sparkling over the edge. "Let's order first," he says.

Either he's ignoring your serious expression entirely, or he's so blinded by the glow of his own successful planning that he genuinely doesn't notice it. He leans forward, the candlelight catching the sharp, handsome angles of his face as he lowers the menu just an inch.

"Besides," he continues, his gaze dropping to the curve of your collarbone before snapping back to your eyes, "I haven't even told you yet. You look pretty tonight." He gestures at your dress with a flick of his silver-ringed fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. "You have good taste. I knew you'd wear something pretty when I told you we were going somewhere nice."

"Oh," you stutter. "Um... thank you." A traitorous heat crawls up your neck. You loathe how your body reacts to him, no matter the situation you're in. 

He watches the flush spread across your cheeks, his smile widening into amusement, entertained by how easily he can make you stumble over a simple compliment. He leans back, looking entirely too comfortable in the plush velvet of his seat. "My mom is really going to like you," he says casually.

He says it with the same effortless tone he used when he was stirring aglio e olio in his kitchen, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his glass just like he’d traced the patterns of his tattoos while you watched him.

Your heart doesn't just skip a beat; it hits a wall. "What?" You blink at him, the word coming out a little too high-pitched. 

Inwardly, your mind is a mess of sirens. Meeting his mom? What is he talking about? You'd agreed to come here to talk, but he’s already fast-forwarding to family introductions?

Wooyoung's eyes soften a bit, though that mischievous glint never truly fades. "Because," he says as though it's nothing, "I know better than anyone that you aren’t actually innocent, baby. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. But to most people? You have that look. Smart, independent, confident... that's how you carry yourself. But your eyes have that cute, deer-in-headlights look all the time." He lets out a dry, short laugh, shaking his head. "My mom will eat that up. She hates my usual type."

Despite the unease his words stir in your chest, curiosity still gets the better of you. "Which is...?"

He opens his mouth to answer, his eyes fixed on yours, but he doesn't get the chance.

The waiter appears as if on cue, standing just at the edge of the table with two glasses of red wine. He doesn't offer a greeting or ask if you’ve had time to look at the menu; he just looks directly at Wooyoung with a nod of recognition that practically confirms your "revolving door" fears. Without even glancing back down at the cardstock, Wooyoung starts ordering. He doesn't ask for your preference, and he doesn't pause for your input. He rattles off two entrees and a few sides with confidence.

As the waiter retreats, you realize with a start that he just ordered exactly what you would have picked yourself. Every detail, down to the steak being cooked medium rare, is perfect.

You blink at him in genuine surprise. "How do you always...?"

"Baby," Wooyoung interrupts, his smirk returning in full force as he picks up one of the wine glasses the waiter left behind. He takes a slow sip, watching you over the crystal rim, winking as the candlelight dances in his pupils. "You have to know by now. I basically know you better than you know yourself."

I know you better than you know yourself. His words should be romantic, but in the sterile luxury of this special room, nothing feels romantic at all. You stare at the empty space where the waiter stood, your mind spinning. Is Wooyoung actually paying attention to what you like? Or is he just thatgood at this?

You can’t help but wonder if there’s a mental checklist he runs through for everyone who sits in this booth: the Baccara roses, the medium-rare steak, the "my mom would love you" line. You came here to talk, to finally put words to the guilt and anxiety that have been eating away at you. You came here to tell him that whatever "this" is, it has to stop before you regret anything more. But it’s hard to be the voice of reason when you’re wearing a dress and drinking wine that makes you feel like a prop in a high-budget movie. Wooyoung is the director; you're simply following the marks he taped to the floor. 

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He reaches for his wine glass again, but this time, he doesn't sip it. He finishes the rest of the dark liquid in one heavy gulp, his throat working as he swallows.

Suddenly, the playful, smug energy he’s had all night changes.

He sets the empty glass back down on the tablecloth with a soft thud. He leans back, examining you carefully—how your fingers are nervously twisting the silk ribbon of the roses, and the way your eyes are wide when they land on him. He doesn't look at you like you're shy or nervous. He looks at you like he's actually reading the "goodbye" stuck in the back of your throat. 

"I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I met you," he says suddenly.

The air in the private room feels like it’s been sucked out through the vents. You blink. "Wooyoung—"

"I know what you've heard," he continues, cutting through your protest. "I know our mutual friends have a lot to say about me. But it’s true. I haven’t even thought about anyone else. I swear."

A wave of nausea-inducing guilt washes over you. If he's telling the truth, if he's really only thought about you... You have thought about someone else. You've thought about Hongjoong more than you've thought about Wooyoung's loud charm, and you and Hongjoong haven't even touched. 

"I like you," he says, and the way he says it feels like a weight being dropped right on your heart. "I like how different you are. I like that you don't care about being the center of attention. I like that you’re comfortable being yourself." He leans in closer, eyes earnest for once. "I like that you want to keep me a secret. I like that you don't want to be known as some girl who got to fuck me. You have so much respect for yourself, such a high standard... and I love that we're different. I like that we balance each other. I like that while I’m speeding up, you’re the one who slows me down." He pauses, a small, triumphant smirk ghosting over his lips. "I like that when you're with me, you finally let go of your standards and just let loose. And I like being the one who brings that out of you."

You're frozen.

You feel the air in your lungs turn to lead as you stare at him, your heart dropping in a panic. What is he saying? Is this a confession? 

"I like you," he repeats, his voice dropping even lower. "A lot. But I don't just like you. I want you."

You suck in a deep breath and grip the edge of the table to steady yourself, feeling like you're about to faint.

"I'd treat you differently than anyone else," he goes on, confidence threading through every syllable. "You don't need guessing games or the usual bullshit. You need someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, who'll actually take the lead so you don't have to." The candlelight emphasizes the focused heat in his eyes. "I'll be that for you," he finishes. "I'll be the one person who finally gives you a reason to stop thinking so much and just start feeling."

He doesn't look away, even as your gaze threatens to fall to your lap. "I know Yeosang and San and Yunho and everyone else in the world all think they have me figured out, and I can tell tonight that you think you have yourself figured out, too. But I think you're all wrong." He reaches out, not to take your hand, but to slowly trace the design of the velvet tablecloth with his fingertips. "I realized it on Sunday night. I'm serious about this, ____. I'm serious about you."

In theory, it’s the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to you. 

But as the words settle into your mind, something isn't right. You keep waiting for that one sentence that will send sparks flying through your chest, that will make everything sound like a fairytale come true, but it never comes. He’s saying all the right things, but you can’t help the traitorous, gut-wrenching wish that it was your tutor's voice saying them instead.

And as the silence stretches, you start to wonder if he’s even saying the right things at all. Every compliment he's thrown your way has been about how you're so different from his "usual type," and you're not even fully sure what that means. Does Wooyoung actually like you, or is he just fascinated by the novelty of you? Is he only feeling this way because he's met someone who managed to surprise him? Is he even really feeling this way at all?

"I'm not saying I want to put a label on it tonight," he adds, his voice smoothing out again. "I just want you to know that I really am serious about you. I want to see where this goes, where this evolves, without a label hanging over us and making things complicated."

Evolves. You don't like the sound of that one bit. 

A cold clarity starts to settle in your gut. If he knows, shouldn't he know? If he's truly willing to move past the hookups, shouldn't he want to start something real? Shouldn't there be a desire for loyalty? To you, "seeing where it goes" had always sounded like a polite way of keeping a guy's options open while ensuring you stay exactly where he wants you—and with Wooyoung, it doesn't feel any different. 

You’re left staring at him, wide-eyed and paralyzed. You didn't expect this. You hadn't prepared for a vow of... whatever this is. You had come here with a speech of your own, ready to tell him that you weren't the type of girl who enjoyed a hookup, and that you were better off just forgetting anything ever happened. 

Now, saying any of that to him is absolutely impossible.

Is he saying he doesn’t want the hookup lifestyle anymore, or is he just renaming it? A sickening thought crosses your mind: Is he just saying what he thinks a "relationship girl" like you needs to hear to keep the bedroom door open?

You look at the roses, then back at him. He looks so proud of himself, so certain that he’s just given you exactly what you've been dreaming of hearing. But as you study him carefully, you realize that his entire speech was built on the idea of you being someone who needs to let go of your standards. I'll be the one person who finally gives you a reason to stop thinking so much and just start feeling, he had said.  He thinks your standards are some cage he can help you escape from. He wants to save you.

But then there's Hongjoong. You can tell by how he treats you during your sessions that he would never ask you to lower your standards or stop thinking. In fact, you believe he would demand that you think bigger. Even with the smallest tasks and assignments, it's clear that he loves the high expectations you hold yourself to—loves them so much he’d be willing to break you just to make sure you actually reach them.

You realize then that while Wooyoung is trying to win you over by telling you that he can make your life easier, your heart is screaming for the man who is willing to make your life harder. You don’t want to be "handled" or "taken care of". You don't want to "evolve" at a pace that keeps you convenient for someone else’s schedule.

The tension in the air is mercifully broken by the arrival of the waiter, who sets your plates down gracefully. The steak is cooked perfectly—seared dark and glistening, juices pooling beneath it—but the sight only tightens the knot already coiled in your stomach.

Wooyoung just smirks at you as the waiter places the sides of greens and potatoes around your main dishes. Whether he realizes you’re reeling from your realizations, or if he’s simply so confident that his speech has stunned you into a romantic daze, he looks satisfied.

"I don’t expect a response right now, baby," he says, his voice returning to that effortless, casual tone as he picks up his steak knife. "Just eat."

So, not knowing what in the world you could possibly respond... you eat.

You pick at your food with agonizing slowness, the expensive meal tasting like nothing. Across from you, Wooyoung eats with a relaxed, healthy appetite, occasionally humming along with the jazz playing in the background, looking every bit like a man who just had a very successful day. You're not sure, but you think he’s so convinced that he’s "the one who knows you better than you know yourself" that he’s stopped looking at you to see if it’s true.

"Is the steak cooked okay?" he asks, reaching out to top off your wine, his silver rings glinting in the candlelight.

"It's perfect," you lie, the word feeling like ash in your mouth. "Exactly what I would have picked."

He smiles, satisfied with his own intuition, and settles back into his meal.

Sitting here, staring at him, is when it all finally makes sense. 

Wooyoung is offering you a beautiful escape from the weight of your own expectations. He wants to be your vacation, your permanent "out." Throughout the night, he’s made it clear that he views your standards as a burden he’s doing you the favor of lifting. He wants to peel back the layers of your ambition until he finds someone simpler, someone who doesn't care about the placement of a subject marker or the precision of a GPA. He’s interested in you because you’re a challenge, a type of girl completely foreign to him.

But as you look at him, all you can think about is the man who makes you want to work until your fingers ache.

You don't want a vacation. You don't want someone who looks at your hard-earned standards and sees a flaw that needs to be smoothed over. You want someone who sees those goals and holds you to them, even if it’s difficult. Especially if it’s difficult. You want the person who doesn't soften the "try again" because they know you’re capable of getting it right.

You take a small, hollow bite of the steak he chose for you, the luxury of it suddenly tasting like nothing. You had enjoyed the time you spent with Wooyoung; you enjoyed the low stakes and how easy it all felt. But now, you see that the ease was actually an erasure. He doesn't love the parts of you that strive; he loves the idea of the person you’d be if you just gave in to him. You realize that while Hongjoong sees who you are and respects it, Wooyoung sees who you are and simply wants you to give it up. 

"Baby, I can tell your mind is racing again," he pouts, reaching across the table to tap your hand playfully. "Just breathe. Enjoy the wine. Let everything else disappear. Just focus on me."

He says it like a gift, but it feels like a cage.

You’re surrounded by luxury, drowning in compliments, being asked to let go of the things that make you you. And suddenly, sitting across from Wooyoung in this private room, you’ve never felt more invisible. 

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen, @yunhospinkyring