Summary: Drunk you has no filter and your husband has always been a weak, weak man when it comes to you. He just didn’t expect your family planning conversation to awaken the caveman part of his brain or a raging breeding kink in both of you.
Warnings: smut!MDNI, established relationship, trying to conceive, pregnancy, soft dom!cheol, domestic fluff, humor, healthy communication, breeding kink awakening, enthusiastic consent, multiple + creative locations and one very smug husband who knocked you up in paradise, married life, baby fever, hormone-induced chaos, obsessed husband!Cheol x obsessed wife!reader, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 18.1k
Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.
Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.
His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.
“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”
He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.
“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”
His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”
You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.
You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.
“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”
He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.
You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”
A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”
The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.
“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”
He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.
“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.
“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.
Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.
He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”
“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”
“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”
Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.
His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.
Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.
“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”
“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.
Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.
“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”
“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”
You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.
“I said hold still.”
“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.
“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”
You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”
“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”
“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”
“Ooh, would you—”
“No.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”
“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.
“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”
“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”
“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”
“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”
He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”
You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.
“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.
“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”
The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.
“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”
“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”
“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”
“No promises.”
He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.
“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”
“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.
“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”
“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”
Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”
“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”
“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”
He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”
“Really?” you sniffle.
“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”
You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”
A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“But am I prettier?”
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”
Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”
“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”
“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”
“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”
“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”
“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”
“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”
You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”
Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”
“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”
“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”
You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.
“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.
“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”
“We’re literally married.”
“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”
“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”
He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”
“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”
He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”
“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”
“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”
He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.
“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.
You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”
“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.
You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.
“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.
“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Cheol?” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know.”
“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”
“Woman, I swear to—”
“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.
“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”
You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.
“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”
You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.
“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”
Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.
Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.
“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”
“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.
“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.
“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”
“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”
His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.
“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”
“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”
“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”
“Third date,” he repeats faintly.
“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”
Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.
“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.
“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”
But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.
Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”
“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.
“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.
“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”
“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”
You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”
He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”
“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”
“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”
“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”
“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.”
But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.
But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.
But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.
Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.
Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—
Your eyes fly open.
“Oh no.”
The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.
“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.
He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.
“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.
“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”
“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”
His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Cheol.”
“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”
“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”
“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”
“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”
“I was a disaster.”
“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”
“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.
“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”
“Seungcheol.”
He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”
“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”
Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.
“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.
“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”
“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”
“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”
“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…
“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”
The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”
“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”
Your breath catches.
“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”
“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”
“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”
“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.
Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.
You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.
“Cheol?”
“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”
You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.
“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”
“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.
“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”
Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.
“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”
“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”
It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”
His grip tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”
You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,
“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.
“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”
“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”
He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”
You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”
You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”
This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.
His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”
You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”
“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.
“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”
You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.
“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.
“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”
“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”
Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”
“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.
“What’s not fair?”
“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”
“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”
Your breath catches. “Are we?”
“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”
“Seungcheol—”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”
You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.
“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”
“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Yes, god, yes—”
His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…
“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”
His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.
“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”
“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”
“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”
You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”
So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.
About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.
“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.
“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”
“You’re a fein.”
“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”
“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”
“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”
“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.
“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.
“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.
“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”
One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.
“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”
“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.
“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”
“Need what, baby? Use your words.”
“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”
He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.
“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.
“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”
“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.
“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.
“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.
“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.
“You really did research.”
“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”
Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”
“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”
His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”
“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.
“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”
And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.
Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.
Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.
“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”
And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.
“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”
“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”
“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”
The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.
“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.
He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.
“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”
“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”
“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”
“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”
“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”
“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.
You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“And if not?”
“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”
His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”
“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”
“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”
“And then?”
“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”
“Again?!”
“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”
You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.
“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”
“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.
After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.
The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”
“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”
“That’s not—oh—”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”
“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”
“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”
“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.
This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.
“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”
“Cheol, baby please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”
You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.
The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.
You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.
You made it halfway through your sandwich.
“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“I’m eating—”
“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”
“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.
“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”
“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.
The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.
“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, god, anywhere—”
“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”
The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.
“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”
You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.
“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.
“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.
When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.
“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”
“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.
“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”
The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.
“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”
You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.
When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.
You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.
“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.
“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”
“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”
He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”
“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”
He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”
“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”
“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”
“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”
You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”
And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?
Well.
You’d had worse problems.
“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”
“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.
Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.
You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.
“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”
“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.
What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.
You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.
The office after hours? Check.
The car in the parking garage? Check.
The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.
But this—this was a new level, even for him.
“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”
“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”
“That’s not the point—”
“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”
“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”
You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.
It was romantic. Just also obscene.
“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”
There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.
“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”
“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”
“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.
“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”
His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”
The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.
“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.
“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.
“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”
You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”
“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”
“You’re counting?”
“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.
“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”
“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.
“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”
“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”
“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”
“We literally just finished—”
“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”
It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.
“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.
“Anything.”
“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”
His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”
“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”
He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.
This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.
“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”
He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”
“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”
“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”
“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”
But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.
Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.
You didn’t make it to dinner.
Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.
“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”
“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”
“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”
“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”
“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”
His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”
“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”
“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”
“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”
“You’ve been planning this.”
“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”
And he did.
You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.
Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.
“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”
“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”
“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”
Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.
“Cheol, this is going to tip—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.
“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.
“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.
His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.
“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”
“Cheol! You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”
“Someone could see—”
“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”
“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”
His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.
“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”
You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”
You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.
“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”
You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.
The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.
“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”
“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.
“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”
“Kids, plural?”
“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”
“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”
“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”
“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”
You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.
“Morning,” you murmured.
“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”
“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”
“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”
“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”
The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”
“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”
“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.
You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.
“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.
You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”
“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.
“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”
His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”
He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?
Totally worth it.
The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.
You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.
“Did I forget something?”
You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.
“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”
“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”
“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”
His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”
Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”
His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”
“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”
“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”
“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”
“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”
“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”
“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”
“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”
Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.
Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.
“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”
“To seduce me before dinner?”
“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”
His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”
“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”
He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”
“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”
“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”
“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.
“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“We haven’t even finished dinner.”
“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”
You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.
“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
“About the baby thing.”
That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”
You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”
“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”
“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”
“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”
“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”
He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”
“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”
“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”
“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.
You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.
Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.
“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat.
And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.
Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.
Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.
“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.
“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”
The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”
“Que?”
You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.
“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”
Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…
“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”
Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.
“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”
Your own heart seems to stop entirely.
“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”
“How early were you testing?”
“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”
“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”
The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.
“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”
Your baby.
“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.
“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”
“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”
“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”
Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.
“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”
“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”
Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.
“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”
“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”
“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”
“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”
“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”
“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”
“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”
“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”
“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”
The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”
Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”
“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”
“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”
“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.
“Little bit. You?”
“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.
“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.
“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”
“So spoiled.”
“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”
“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”
“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”
“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”
“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.
“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”
“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”
“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”
“Planning what?”
“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”
You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.
“Let’s go home,” you say softly.
Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.
“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”
“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.
All those months of trying.
All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.
Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.
Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.
You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.
Best surprise ever.
You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.
Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.
“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.
“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”
You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”
“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”
“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”
“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”
“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”
“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.
“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”
Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.
His baby. The thought still makes him feral.
“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”
And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.
“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.
“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.
“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”
“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”
You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.
“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.
“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”
“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”
“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.
“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”
“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”
“You just…we literally just—”
“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.
Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.
He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.
You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.
He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”
His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.
“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”
“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.
He does.
“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.
“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”
“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.
“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”
“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.
“I look pregnant.”
“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”
You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”
“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”
“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”
Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”
“Cheol.”
“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”
“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”
“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”
“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”
“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”
“Exactly, very responsible.”
“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”
“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.
“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.
The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.
This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.
This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.
Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.
Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.
genre: college au, eventual simp x simp dynamic, smut, slow burn
synopsis: getting partnered with jake, the tall awkward nerd from on of your computer science classes, should've been simple—work on the project, get your grade, move on. except now you're completely obsessed with him and he's totally clueless about it. between tutoring sessions you definitely don't need and "coincidental" dorm hall run-ins, you're pulling out all the stops. too bad jake's more interested in his textbooks than your very obvious flirting.
you've never been rejected before, so this should be fine.
…right?
warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut (oral sex(f. and m. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, size difference, big dick!jake, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk!jake, dry humping, heavy makeout, whiny!jake), cursing, mild alcohol use, emotional manipulation, jealousy, themes of insecurity, angst, lots computer science related terms(i kind of geeked out here), reader's kind of delulu and a jerk
note: i'm back to my writing style for lighthearted fics for this one hehe. i lovelovelove nerdy shy men tropes sooo much. i did try to keep it a little realistic though. i hope you like this! enjoyyy
word count: 21.8k
taglist | more works!
you were alone in the computer science lab at nearly midnight, which wasn't unusual. assignments had a way of turning the building into a second home. but tonight felt wrong. everything felt too much. the lights buzzed too loud, drilling into your skull with that persistent electrical hum. your eyes burned from staring at your screen for four hours straight, vision going fuzzy at the edges. somewhere around hour three, you'd stopped actually processing code and started just staring through it.
your cold coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop, abandoned but still somehow necessary because the alternative was admitting defeat and going back to your dorm where your roommate and her boyfriend were probably still taking up the entire common space. you'd rather deal with this. the overstimulation. the way every tiny sound felt amplified in the empty lab. the aggressive brightness of your laptop screen. the uncomfortable pressure building behind your eyes that meant you were about to either cry or throw your laptop across the room. probably both.
your code wasn't working. hadn't been working for two days, and you'd tried everything. every forum suggestion, every stack overflow solution, every pathetic office hours visit where you'd explained your problem three times and still left confused. the cursor blinked at you on line two thousand and forty seven, mocking. the compiler kept throwing errors you didn't understand, and you'd rewritten that function six times already. your hands shook slightly from too much caffeine and not enough food. that tight, hot feeling crept up your throat. the one that signalled imminent breakdown.
you pressed your palms against your eyes until you saw spots, trying to reset something in your overwhelmed nervous system. didn't work. nothing worked tonight.
the silence in the lab was the worst part, it was so quiet that it made you hyper-aware of your own breathing, your heartbeat, the small wet sound your tongue made against the roof of your mouth when you swallowed. you hated it.
then suddenly, the power cut out. total darkness that swallowed everything in an instant, your laptop screen going black, even the emergency exit signs disappearing. your heart kicked into overdrive, adrenaline flooding so fast you felt dizzy. you reached out instinctively for your laptop, fingers scrabbling across the desk, needing to confirm it was still there, that everything you'd been working on wasn't just gone.
suddenly you heard footsteps. someone else was in the lab. you hadn't known anyone else was here. the realisation sent fear spiking through your chest because you'd been so certain you were alone. now there was someone moving closer, footsteps uneven and hurried like they couldn't see any better than you. you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could form words there was sudden pressure against your shoulder, hard and unexpected, and then there was the splash of cold liquid, spreading across your lap and chest.
your coffee. the cup tipped and spilt, liquid soaking through your jeans, spreading sticky and uncomfortable across your thighs. panic hit first, pure and primal, because for a split second all you could think was laptop, everything's gone, hours of work, my entire project. your hands flew out in the darkness, patting frantically at the desk, trying to assess the damage. your chest was so tight you couldn't get a full breath.
then came the anger. fast and hot and overwhelming, rising from somewhere deep in your stomach. you wanted to scream. wanted to grab whoever crashed into you and shake them. wanted to cry from sheer frustration because this was exactly what you didn't need tonight, not when you were already hanging on by a thread.
"oh my god, oh my god, i'm so sorry, i didn't see you, i didn't think anyone else was here, i'm so sorry." the voice came rapid-fire from somewhere to your left. male, young, pitched higher than normal with genuine distress.
he kept apologising, words tumbling over each other, and there was something in his tone that didn't sound rehearsed. he sounded actually afraid, like he'd just committed some unforgivable sin.
"i didn't mean to, i couldn't see, the power just went out and i was trying to get to the door and i'm so sorry, did it get on your laptop? please tell me it didn't get on your laptop."
you took a breath, trying to force words past the tightness in your throat, trying to formulate some response that matched the fury still coursing through your veins. your mouth opened, something sharp and cutting right on the edge of your tongue.
the emergency lighting kicked in. not much, just pale green strips along the baseboards casting everything in eerie, insufficient glow. enough to see by. enough to make out shapes, faces.
the guy who'd run into you stood about two feet away, and the first thing you noticed was his hands. hovering in the air between you, trembling visibly even in the dim light, fingers spread like he wanted to help but didn't dare touch anything. he was tall and lean, dark hair stuck up in odd directions like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. glasses had slipped down his nose, and behind them his eyes were wide. genuinely panicked in a way that didn't feel performed at all.
"your laptop," he said, voice still shaking with that same desperate concern. "what model is it? did the coffee get on it? the keyboard is the main concern, if liquid got into the keyboard we need to shut it down immediately and flip it over to drain, we need to know if you had everything backed up."
he was already moving closer, trembling hands reaching toward your desk, and you realised with a start that he hadn't even looked at you properly yet. his entire focus was on your laptop. on the problem he'd created. on fixing it.
"it's fine," you managed, voice coming out rougher than intended. you looked down at your computer. sitting safely to the right of where your coffee had been, completely dry and unharmed. "it didn't get on it."
the relief that washed over his face was so profound you almost felt embarrassed witnessing it. his shoulders sagged. his hands finally dropped to his sides. he let out a long, shaky breath like he'd been holding it since the collision.
"okay. okay, that's good, that's really good." then, almost as an afterthought, his eyes finally moved to actually look at you. taking in your coffee-soaked lap, your tense posture, your expression which you were sure wasn't friendly. "are you okay? did you get burned? that coffee looked hot, if it was hot we should get you to a sink, run cold water on it."
"it was cold," you said. true, but didn't make the situation better. your jeans were soaked through, fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin, coffee starting to seep into your chair. you were sticky and irritated and still running on too much adrenaline. but he looked so genuinely distressed that some of your anger started deflating despite yourself.
"cold coffee is still a problem," he said, already pulling his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping it with fumbling fingers. "the sugar content means it'll get sticky when it dries, and it can stain, especially on lighter fabrics. i have napkins, i think, or maybe paper towels, i definitely have something."
he was rummaging through his bag now, pulling out crumpled papers, a graphing calculator, several pens, tangled earbuds, talking the entire time in that same rapid, anxious way.
"i'm really sorry, i should have been more careful, i knew the power was out, i should have used my phone flashlight, i just thought i knew the layout well enough to navigate in the dark but obviously i was wrong."
you watched him. something uncomfortable shifted in your chest. you'd been prepared to snap at him, to unleash all your accumulated frustration on whoever had been careless enough to run into you. but he wasn't making excuses. wasn't trying to minimise what he'd done or deflect blame or make some joke to lighten the mood. he was just genuinely, almost painfully concerned about the problem he'd created. the way he kept apologising, kept trying to fix things, made it very hard to stay angry.
"here," he said triumphantly, producing a small pack of tissues from the bottom of his bag. he held them out, then seemed to realise how inadequate they were and let out a frustrated sound. "these aren't going to be enough. we should go to the bathroom, get some actual paper towels. or maybe the kitchen area on the second floor, they have those industrial dispensers that are way more absorbent."
he paused, finally seeming to register that you hadn't moved, that you were just sitting there watching him. his ears went red, visible even in the dim green emergency lighting. "sorry, i'm sorry, i'm doing it again. my sister always tells me i go into problem-solving mode when i'm anxious and it makes people feel like i'm not actually listening to them. are you okay? like, actually okay, not just physically okay?"
the question caught you off guard. nobody had asked you that in days. maybe weeks. everyone just assumed you were fine because you were handling things, meeting deadlines, showing up to class. but this stranger who'd just spilt coffee all over you was looking at you with genuine concern, waiting for a real answer. something in your chest felt suddenly too tight.
"i'm fine," you said, softer than intended. you took the tissues from him, dabbing uselessly at your jeans. he was right. they weren't nearly enough. but the gesture felt important somehow. "it's been a long night."
"assignments?" he asked. when you nodded he made a sympathetic noise. "yeah, same. i've been here since six. had a project deadline at midnight but then the power went out fifteen minutes before and now i don't know if my submission went through because the wifi died with the electricity." he pushed his glasses up his nose. nervous gesture you got the impression he did frequently.
"i'm jake, by the way. jake sim. i feel like i should probably introduce myself since i just, like, assaulted you with your own beverage."
despite everything, ruined jeans and exhaustion and broken code, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. not quite a smile, but close. "assaulted me with my own beverage?"
"well, yeah," he said, looking vaguely embarrassed. "i mean, i weaponised your coffee against you. that's technically assault, right? or maybe battery? i always get those mixed up. my roommate's a poli-sci major, he'd know."
he was rambling now, words spilling out in that same anxious rush, and there was something almost endearing about how completely lacking in artifice it was. he wasn't trying to be charming. wasn't trying to be funny. just genuinely nervous and dealing with it by talking too much.
you told him your name. he repeated it carefully, like he was committing it to memory. "i really am sorry," he said again, quieter this time. "what were you working on? before i interrupted?"
"data structures project," you said. just thinking about it made your shoulders tense again. "it's due tomorrow and there's a bug i can't figure out and i've been staring at it for hours."
his eyes lit up behind his glasses, spark of interest that transformed his whole face. "what kind of bug? runtime error? logic error? is it a pointer issue? those are always the worst, especially with linked lists."
he was already moving closer to your laptop, stopping himself at the last second like he'd realised he was being presumptuous. "sorry, i mean, i could take a look if you want? i'm pretty good with data structures. it's kind of my thing. i'm a TA for comp 201 actually, so i see a lot of common bugs. but also totally no pressure, i know i just dumped coffee on you so you probably don't want my help."
you should have said no. didn't know this guy, didn't owe him anything. you'd been managing just fine on your own. except you hadn't been managing fine. you'd been on the verge of a breakdown in an empty lab at midnight. now here was this nervous, rambling stranger offering help without expecting anything in return, looking at you like your problem was genuinely important to him.
it was disorienting. how quickly your anger had evaporated, replaced by something you couldn't quite name. you found yourself noticing details you shouldn't care about. the way he kept pushing his glasses up. the way his hands had finally stopped shaking now that he had something concrete to focus on.
"okay," you heard yourself say. his whole face brightened in a way that made something flutter uncomfortably in your stomach. "yeah, if you don't mind looking at it."
"i don't mind at all," he said quickly, already pulling up a chair. he left careful distance between you though, hyper-aware of not invading your space again. "show me what you've got."
you turned your laptop toward him. he leaned in, eyes scanning the lines with immediate focus. his expression shifted into something concentrated, intense. this was probably what he looked like when he wasn't tripping over people in the dark and panicking about it. he started asking questions about your implementation, your logic, what you'd already tried. his voice had lost that nervous edge. this was clearly where he was comfortable. in the clean logic of code, in problems that had solutions.
you answered his questions. watched as he nodded, occasionally pushing his glasses up, finger tracing lines of code on the screen without quite touching it. the emergency lighting cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration.
you were noticing things you shouldn't notice. but you told yourself it wasn't because you found him attractive. you were just paying attention because he was helping. because he'd disrupted your solitary misery and replaced it with something else. something that felt almost like companionship.
"there," he said suddenly, pointing to a line in the middle of your function. "you're incrementing the counter before you check the condition, but you need to check the condition first. it's causing an off-by-one error. see? you're accessing index n when your array only goes up to n minus one."
you stared at the line he was indicating. slowly, horribly, you realised he was right. such a simple mistake, the kind of thing you should have caught hours ago. but you'd been too tired, too frustrated, too deep in your own head to see it. "oh my god," you said quietly. "that's it. that's the whole problem."
"easy fix," jake said, smiling now. a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "just move that line down two spaces and add the conditional check first. you want me to...?" he gestured at your keyboard, asking permission. you nodded, watched as he made the adjustment with quick, confident keystrokes. "there. try running it now."
you hit compile, holding your breath. for the first time in two days the program ran without errors. the output printed exactly the way it was supposed to. clean and correct and perfect. relief flooded through you so intensely you felt dizzy with it, all the tension you'd been carrying suddenly releasing at once. "thank you," you said, voice more emotional than intended. "seriously, thank you, i've been losing my mind over this."
"it happens to everyone," jake said gently. "sometimes you just need fresh eyes. i've definitely been there." he leaned back in his chair, that nervous energy returning now that the immediate problem was solved. "your code is really clean, by the way. like, really well-structured. that bug was literally the only issue, everything else is solid."
the compliment settled warm in your chest. you realised with a start that you felt calm. actually calm, for the first time all night. your heart rate had slowed. your hands were steady. the overwhelming pressure behind your eyes had eased.
the lab was still too quiet, the emergency lighting still eerie and insufficient, your jeans still soaked with cold coffee. but somehow none of it felt as unbearable as it had fifteen minutes ago. and that was because of him. because jake had crashed into you in the dark and apologised too much and fixed your code and made you feel less alone in this empty building at midnight.
jake was gathering his things, shoving papers and pens back into his backpack with the same energy he'd had while searching for tissues. "i should probably try to find someone about the power situation," he said. "and you should probably change before that coffee stains permanently. there's a campus store in the student centre that's open twenty-four hours, they have overpriced sweatpants but at least they're dry."
"yeah," you said, surprised to find you didn't want him to leave yet. "yeah, i probably should."
he stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and hesitated. "hey, um. if you ever need help with code stuff again, or if you just want to work in the lab at the same time, i'm here most nights. usually not spilling beverages on people, but, you know. tonight was special." he smiled awkwardly. you found yourself smiling back, a real smile this time.
"i might take you up on that," you said. meant it.
jake's expression brightened again. that same transformation you'd noticed earlier. he nodded. "cool. yeah, that would be cool. okay. i'm gonna go now before i accidentally break something else." he gave you a small wave, started toward the door, then turned back. "your code really is good, by the way. i wasn't just saying that."
then he was gone, disappearing into the dark hallway beyond the lab. you were alone again. but that realisation, that awareness that a stranger's clumsy kindness had affected you so much, sat uncomfortable and warm in your chest as you saved your work and finally, finally, packed up to leave.
you walked into your lecture the next morning running on four hours of sleep and caffeine-induced alertness that felt vaguely hallucinogenic. your jeans from last night were balled up in your laundry basket, probably stained beyond saving, and you'd thrown on the first clean thing you could find.
you slid into your usual spot next to yunjin, who was already comparing notes with beomgyu across the aisle. they were your people. your safe zone. the ones you'd suffered through intro courses with, pulled all-nighters with, shared desperate pre-exam breakdowns with.
"you look like death," yunjin said cheerfully, not looking up from her phone.
"thanks. love you too."
"late night?" beomgyu leaned over, stealing one of yunjin's chips. "you missed the group chat meltdown about the algorithms homework."
you hummed noncommittally, pulling out your laptop. your code from last night was still open, that perfect, error-free output staring back at you. you'd submitted it at 12:47 am, seventeen minutes after jake had fixed it. seventeen minutes after he'd disappeared down that dark hallway.
you hadn't told yunjin and beomgyu about any of it. the power outage, the coffee, jake. especially jake. it felt somehow private, like explaining it would cheapen it or make it feel less significant than it had been in the moment.
professor kim walked in, and the room settled into that particular brand of restless attention that morning lectures always had. "alright, alright," she said, pulling up a slide that made half the room groan in unison. "i know you're all thrilled to hear this, but it's time to discuss your semester-long project."
chairs scraped against floors as people twisted around to look at their friends. voices overlapped, people already calling out names, forming pairs out of habit and convenience. you felt yunjin's hand on your arm at the same time beomgyu leaned over.
"partners?" yunjin said.
"obviously we're doing a group," beomgyu added. "the three of us, right?"
you nodded, half-listening, your attention already drifting across the lecture hall. you weren't sure what you were looking for until you found it. him. jake was sitting near the back with a small group of guys you vaguely recognised from other cs classes. he was hunched slightly over his notebook, pen moving across the page, taking notes while everyone else was busy forming alliances. his hair was even messier today, sticking up on one side like he'd rolled out of bed. his glasses kept sliding down his nose and he kept pushing them back up with his index finger, that same nervous gesture from last night.
he looked small somehow, despite being tall. like he was trying to take up less space. one of his friends said something and laughed, nudging jake's shoulder, but jake just smiled politely without really engaging. his attention stayed on his notebook.
you watched him for a moment longer than necessary. watched the way his shoulders curved inward, the way he held his pen, the concentrated furrow of his brow. something in your chest did an uncomfortable little flip.
"so we're agreed then?" yunjin was saying. "i'll handle the frontend, beomgyu can do the database stuff, and you can—"
you stood up. the decision happened before you'd fully processed it, your body moving on instinct or impulse or something you didn't want to examine too closely. your chair scraped loud enough that a few people glanced over.
"actually," you said, already stepping past beomgyu into the aisle. "i'm gonna partner with someone else."
"what?" yunjin's voice pitched up in genuine confusion. "who?"
but you were already walking. moving up the steps toward the back of the lecture hall, weaving between people who were still negotiating partnerships and arguing about skill distributions. you were aware of people watching. of yunjin and beomgyu's matching expressions of confusion. of the way conversations paused as you passed.
jake's friends noticed you first. one of them, a guy with bleached hair, nudged jake's arm and nodded in your direction. another one went quiet mid-sentence, eyes tracking your approach with unconcealed curiosity. jake looked up last, following their gazes, and when his eyes met yours he froze. actually froze, pen suspended over his notebook, lips slightly parted like he'd been about to say something and forgotten how.
you stopped at the edge of their row. suddenly hyperaware of how many people were definitely watching this interaction. "hey," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near awkward. "you have a partner yet?"
jake blinked. once, twice. his friends were staring at him now, then at you, then back at him like they were watching a tennis match. "i—what?"
"for the project," you clarified, gesturing vaguely at professor kim who was still explaining requirements at the front of the room. "do you have a partner?"
"i—" jake's hand came up to push his glasses up his nose even though they hadn't moved. his ears were already turning red. "no? i mean, no, i don't, but—" he glanced at his friends, then back at you, looking genuinely lost. "are you—do you mean—"
"i'm asking if you want to partner up," you said, more directly this time. your heart was doing something weird and arrhythmic in your chest. "for the semester project."
the guy with bleached hair made a noise that might have been a strangled laugh. another one of jake's friends just gaped openly. jake himself looked like you'd just spoken to him in a language he only half understood. "you want to—with me?"
"yeah."
"but—" he gestured helplessly toward where yunjin and beomgyu were sitting, both of them now watching with unconcealed shock. "don't you usually work with your friends? i thought—"
"i'm asking you," you said, cutting him off before he could talk himself out of it or before you could overthink what you were doing. "if you already have other plans it's fine, i just thought—" you paused, scrambling for justification that didn't sound insane. "you're good at this stuff. you're a TA. you knew exactly what was wrong with my code last night in like, five seconds. it makes sense. strategically."
strategically. god, you sounded unhinged.
jake stared at you. his friends stared at you. half the lecture hall was probably staring at you at this point. "i—" jake swallowed visibly. "yeah. yes. i mean, if you want to, then—yeah. okay."
"yeah?"
"yeah." he nodded, more firmly this time, though he still looked vaguely shell-shocked. "we can—yeah. that would be—yeah."
his friends exchanged glances that were absolutely loaded with unspoken communication. the bleached hair guy, jungwon you think, was grinning now, looking between you and jake like he'd just witnessed something phenomenal. "well," he said, voice thick with amusement, "this is interesting."
you ignored him. "cool. we should probably meet up sometime this week to go over the requirements?"
"yeah, definitely," jake said quickly, already pulling out his phone with hands that trembled slightly. "i can—do you want my number? or i can get yours, or—we could use email if that's easier—"
"number's fine." you rattled it off, watching him type it into his contacts with endearing focus, tongue poking slightly between his teeth. when he looked up his expression was softer, less panicked. almost shy.
"okay," he said. "i'll text you?"
"sounds good."
you turned to head back down to your seat, acutely aware of the weight of multiple stares following your retreat. yunjin grabbed your arm the second you sat down, eyes wide with questions, but professor kim chose that moment to actually start the lecture and yunjin had to settle for furious whisper-hissing "what the hell was that?" while you studiously ignored her.
you pulled up your laptop, pretending to focus on the slides about project requirements and grading rubrics. but your attention kept drifting. you could feel it, that awareness of jake sitting several rows behind you. you wondered if he was taking notes. if his friends were grilling him. if his ears were still red.
you told yourself this was practical. logical. jake was skilled, focused, clearly knew his stuff. working with him made sense from a grades perspective, from an efficiency perspective. it was a smart choice. strategic, like you'd said.
but the justification felt thin even as you repeated it to yourself. because practical partnerships didn't make your pulse spike like this. strategic choices didn't leave you feeling weirdly breathless, or hyperaware of your phone in your pocket, waiting for a text that might come in an hour or a day. smart decisions didn't come with this flutter of satisfaction sitting warm and dangerous in your chest, the kind that felt unearned and a little reckless.
you'd just chosen jake over your actual friends for a semester-long project. you'd walked across the entire lecture hall in front of everyone to ask him specifically. you'd done it without planning it, without fully understanding why, acting on instinct alone.
your phone buzzed. you grabbed it maybe too quickly, ignoring yunjin's pointed look.
unknown number: hi, it's jake. from the lab? and also from just now. obviously. you know who i am. anyway this is my number.
unknown number: we can meet whenever works for you btw. i'm pretty flexible.
unknown number: sorry i'm rambling over text now apparently. i'll stop.
despite everything, despite the weirdness of the entire situation, you felt yourself smile. properly smile, which made yunjin lean over and whisper, "oh my god, you're blushing," which you absolutely were not.
you saved his number. typed out a response. deleted it. typed it again.
you: library tomorrow at 6?
his reply came almost instantly.
jake: perfect. i'll see you there.
yeah. perfect. that's exactly what this was.
you'd gotten there ten minutes early, which was ridiculous and you knew it, but you'd told yourself it was just to secure a good table. not because you were nervous. definitely not because you'd changed your shirt three times.
jake showed up at 6:02, slightly out of breath like he'd been rushing, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair even messier than usual.
"sorry, sorry," he said, sliding into the chair across from you. "my last class ran over and then i couldn't find my charger and—" he stopped himself, ears going pink. "sorry. you don't need the full explanation. i'm here now."
"you're fine," you said, surprised by how much you meant it. "i just got here too."
it was a lie, but whatever.
he pulled out his laptop, a slightly battered thing covered in tech company stickers, and immediately opened what looked like a meticulously organised project folder.
"so i was thinking we could start by breaking down the requirements," he said, already pulling up the assignment sheet. "if we divide it into modules we can work on different parts simultaneously and then integrate everything at the end. i made a rough outline last night, but obviously we can change whatever you want."
you blinked at him. "you made an outline? already?"
"i—yeah?" he looked uncertain suddenly, like he'd done something wrong. "was that—should i not have? i just thought it would be helpful to have a starting point, but if you wanted to plan it together—"
"no, that's—" you leaned closer to look at his screen, close enough that you could smell whatever soap or shampoo he used. something clean and faintly citrusy. "that's really good actually. you're like, super organised."
"oh." he pushed his glasses up, not quite meeting your eyes. "thanks. i just like having things structured, it makes the actual coding part less chaotic."
you shifted your chair around the table, closing the distance between you under the pretence of seeing his screen better. your knees almost touched under the table. jake didn't seem to notice, already walking you through his outline with the kind of focused enthusiasm that made his whole face more animated. he talked with his hands a little, you realised. small gestures that punctuated his explanations.
it was kind of endearing. he was kind of endearing, in this unpolished, genuine way that made you want to keep watching him talk even though you should probably be paying attention to the actual content of what he was saying.
"—so if we use that framework it'll save us a ton of time on the backend. does that make sense?" he glanced at you, expectant.
"yeah, totally," you said, even though you'd caught maybe half of it. "you're really good at this."
"at what?"
"explaining things. breaking stuff down." you let your voice soften deliberately, the kind of tone you'd use on someone you were interested in. testing. "you must be a really good TA."
jake's expression brightened with genuine pleasure, completely innocent. "oh, thanks! i really like teaching actually. it's really satisfying when something clicks for someone, you know?" he turned back to his laptop. "okay so for the first module, i was thinking we could—"
you felt something deflate slightly in your chest. he'd just. moved on. thanked you politely and redirected straight back to work like you'd commented on the weather.
you tried again twenty minutes later, when he'd finished explaining the database architecture. "seriously, how is your brain even wired like this?" you said, letting your hand rest on the table between you, close enough to his that moving a few inches would mean touching. "like, this would've taken me hours to figure out and you just see it."
"i mean, i've been coding since i was like twelve," jake said, smiling in that self-deprecating way that made your stomach flip. "my dad's a software engineer so i kind of grew up around it. you'd be just as good if you'd had the same exposure."
he grabbed his water bottle, took a sip, completely oblivious to the way you were looking at him. "anyway, should we start on the initial setup? i can handle the repository if you want to draft the pseudocode for the first function?"
"sure," you said, trying not to sound as frustrated as you felt.
it continued like that. you'd find little ways to compliment him, to touch his arm when he said something funny, to lean into his space. and every single time jake would light up with friendly appreciation and then just. keep going. keep working. keep being nice in this utterly platonic way that was starting to drive you slightly insane.
when you suggested taking a break and offered to buy him coffee, he'd said "oh that's so sweet, but i'm good, i don't want to lose momentum." when you'd asked about his hobbies, trying to find some common ground beyond code, he'd given you a genuine answer about gaming and soccer and then immediately asked about your hobbies with the same earnest interest he gave to literally everything.
he wasn't being cold. wasn't being dismissive. he was just. friendly. sincerely friendly in a way that suggested he thought you were also just being friendly and nothing more. the idea that you might be flirting with him clearly hadn't even crossed his mind.
it shouldn't have bothered you. it was one study session. you barely knew him. but there was something about the way he was so completely unaffected that made you want to push harder, try more obviously, make him see you the way you were apparently seeing him.
which was insane. you were being insane.
"okay i think that's a good stopping point," jake said eventually, glancing at his phone. "we got through way more than i expected, honestly. you're really fast at this."
"we work well together," you said, maybe too much emphasis on the together part.
"yeah," he agreed easily, already packing up his stuff. "this is gonna be way less painful than i thought. usually group projects are a nightmare but i think we're pretty compatible."
compatible. he said it like he was talking about software versions.
you packed up your own stuff, trying to shake off whatever weird frustrated feeling had settled in your chest. this was good. you had a competent partner who was easy to work with. that's what mattered. not whether he noticed when you laughed at his jokes or sat closer than strictly necessary.
the library had gotten dark outside while you'd been working, the early winter darkness that feeking too heavy for eight pm. you pushed through the doors together, the cold air immediately biting at your face.
"which way are you headed?" jake asked, adjusting his backpack.
you pointed toward the east side of campus. "miller hall."
jake stopped walking. just fully stopped and stared at you. "wait, seriously?"
"yeah?"
"i'm in miller," he said, and his face did this thing, this open, delighted thing like you'd just told him something genuinely exciting. "i'm on the fourth floor. what floor are you?"
"third," you said, trying to keep your voice normal even though your brain was already racing ahead. same building. same building. you lived in the same building and you hadn't known. "that's—what are the odds?"
"i know, right?" jake fell into step beside you, and he seemed more relaxed now, less formal than he'd been in the library. "i can't believe we haven't run into each other before. though i guess i'm not around that much, i'm usually either in class or the lab or—" he laughed. "okay i'm making myself sound really boring."
"no you're not," you said, maybe too quickly. "i'm the same way. especially during midterms."
"the worst," he agreed. "hey, at least now if we need to meet up for the project it's super convenient. we can literally just knock on each other's doors."
he said it so casually. so normally, like it was just a nice logistical benefit and nothing more. meanwhile your mind was already cataloguing possibilities. you could time your meals to match his schedule. figure out when he usually left for class. find reasons to be in the common areas when he might pass through. it would look natural, coincidental. just friendly neighbors running into each other.
you were already strategising.
the realisation made something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. this was. this was too much maybe. you were thinking about him too much, cataloguing details about him like you were studying for an exam. getting frustrated when he didn't respond to your flirting even though you had no actual reason to expect him to. you'd had one late-night interaction and now one study session and somehow you were already rearranging your mental map of campus to accommodate his presence in it.
"you good?" jake asked, and you realised you'd gone quiet.
"yeah, just tired."
"same." he smiled at you, easy and warm. "thanks for picking me as your partner, by the way. i know you could've worked with your friends and i'm—i'm really glad you asked me instead. i think this is gonna be fun."
fun. he was looking forward to the project because he thought it would be fun. because he liked coding and teaching and he probably thought you were a cool person to work with. he was just. happy to have company. happy to make a new friend.
meanwhile you were over here planning imaginary coincidental run-ins and getting weirdly possessive over someone who didn't even know you liked him.
god, you were pathetic.
"yeah," you managed. "me too."
you reached miller hall, and jake held the door open for you, still talking about some technique he wanted to try for the project. you half-listened, watching the way his hair flopped over his forehead, the animated way he gestured when he got excited about something.
the elevator ride to your floor felt too short. jake got off with you, said he'd just walk up the extra flight of stairs for the exercise. "text me if you think of anything for the project," he said, already heading toward the stairwell. "or honestly just text me whenever. i'm always on my phone."
then he was gone, and you were standing alone in the hallway outside your door, feeling weirdly deflated and wired at the same time.
your phone buzzed before you'd even gotten your key out.
jake: forgot to say this but your idea for the UI was really smart. i think it's gonna make the whole thing way more intuitive.
jake: ok NOW i'm done bothering you. have a good night!
you stared at the messages, that dangerous warm feeling spreading through your chest again. he'd texted you immediately to compliment your idea. with absolutely no prompting.
you were smiling at your phone like an idiot.
yeah. you were definitely pathetic.
"i'm just saying, he's clearly not interested," yunjin said, stabbing her salad with more force than necessary. "like, you've tried everything."
you were sitting in the dining hall, picking at your food while yunjin and beomgyu conducted what was essentially an intervention about your jake situation. an intervention you hadn't asked for and definitely didn't want.
"maybe he's just shy," you said, defensive.
beomgyu snorted. "shy guys still notice when someone's flirting with them. they just get weird about it. this guy sounds like he genuinely has no idea."
"which means he's not into you," yunjin added, gentler now. "and that's fine, you know? you can just be project partners. you don't have to keep torturing yourself."
except the thing was, you weren't entirely convinced jake wasn't interested. or maybe you just didn't want to accept it yet. because he texted you unprompted sometimes, sent you memes he thought you'd find funny, always smiled when he saw you in the hallway. that had to mean something, right?
"i'm not torturing myself," you muttered.
"you've mentioned him like fifteen times in the past hour," beomgyu pointed out.
"have not."
"you literally just told us about how he holds his pen. his pen."
okay. maybe you were torturing yourself a little.
you left the dining hall feeling irritated and restless, your friends' words circling in your head. he's not interested. he has no idea. you're torturing yourself. maybe they were right. probably they were right. you should just focus on the project, get a good grade, and move on like a normal person.
you were cutting through the student centre, not really paying attention to where you were going, when you passed the community bulletin board. the usual chaos of flyers and posters, study abroad programs, club meetings, someone selling a barely-used microwave. your eyes skimmed over it automatically, not really looking.
then you saw his name.
TUTORING AVAILABLE - COMP 101, 201, 301
patient, experienced, flexible schedule
contact: jake sim
there was a row of little tear-off tabs at the bottom with his phone number. several were already missing. the flyer itself was simple, almost plain. you stared at it. people flowed around you, conversations and footsteps and the ambient noise of the student centre, but you just stood there staring at jake's handwritten flyer.
you didn't need tutoring. your grades were fine. good, even. you and jake were in the same advanced class, for god's sake. he'd probably seen your test scores when he was TAing. this would be…obvious. wouldn't it? taking a tab would be transparent and desperate and—
your hand moved before you'd fully decided. the paper tore with a soft sound that felt too loud. you stared at the little strip in your palm, jake's number printed in his neat handwriting even though you already had it saved in your phone.
what were you doing?
you shoved the tab in your pocket and walked away quickly, like someone might have witnessed you doing something incriminating. your heart was beating too fast. this was insane. this was transparent. he was going to see right through it.
but.
but it was also legitimate, wasn't it? people got tutoring all the time, even when their grades were fine. wanting to understand the material better, wanting a different perspective, wanting to be extra prepared. those were all valid reasons. normal reasons. and yeah, maybe you had ulterior motives, but the cover story was solid enough that you could maintain plausible deniability. to him. to yourself.
you made it back to your dorm before you pulled out your phone.
you: hey! i saw your tutoring flyer in the student centre. do you still have availability?
you hit send before you could overthink it. then immediately started overthinking it anyway. he was going to ask why. he was going to point out that you clearly didn't need help. he was going to—
your phone buzzed.
jake<3: oh hey! yeah i have some slots open. but wait, aren't you doing pretty well in class? i've seen your test scores when i'm grading and you're like, consistently in the top range
jake<3: not that you CAN'T get tutoring obviously! everyone can benefit from extra help
jake<3: i just want to make sure you actually need it and aren't just being nice or something
god, he was even considerate about this. checking in to make sure you weren't wasting your time or money on something you didn't need. being thoughtful and genuine while you were over here manipulating the situation to manufacture more time with him.
you felt a twinge of something uncomfortable. guilt maybe. but you pushed it down.
you: i mean yeah my grades are okay, but i feel like i'm just memorising patterns without really UNDERSTANDING the concepts you know? like i can solve the problems but i couldn't explain WHY
you: i just want to make sure i actually get it. especially since the material keeps building on itself
it wasn't entirely a lie. you did sometimes feel like you were pattern-matching your way through assignments. and deeper understanding was always good. these were reasonable concerns. the fact that they weren't your primary motivation didn't make them untrue.
jake<3: oh yeah that makes total sense actually. i see that a lot with students. they can execute but the underlying logic isn't solid
jake<3: okay yeah we can definitely work on that! my rate is $20/hour but honestly for you i'd be happy to just do it for free? since we're already working together on the project anyway
you: no way i'm paying you. you're already helping me so much with the project
jake<3: the project is a two person thing, you're helping me just as much
jake<3: but okay we can argue about payment later. when works for you?
you felt that warm, dangerous flutter again. he'd offered to tutor you for free. just casually, like it was no big deal. like spending extra time with you was something he actively wanted to do, even without compensation.
you: i'm pretty flexible. whenever you have time
jake<3: thursdays at 7? we could do the library again or somewhere on our floor if you want somewhere quieter
jake<3: also i promise i'll actually TEACH and not just fix your code for you like last time lol
you smiled at your phone. somewhere on your floor. which meant his room or yours. which meant private, just the two of you, no other students around.
you: thursdays work for me!
jake<3: cool! we can switch off. i'll bring snacks
jake<3: this'll be fun :)
he'd sent a smiley face. an actual emoticon. it shouldn't have made your heart skip but it did.
you locked your phone and sat on your bed, that satisfaction settling warm in your chest. you'd done it. you'd created a legitimate, recurring excuse to see jake outside of project work. an hour a week, minimum, where you'd have his complete attention. where you could sit close to him in the privacy of a dorm room, help him help you, let those boundaries get just a little bit blurrier.
it was harmless. he was offering tutoring anyway, you were just taking him up on it. and yeah, maybe your motivations weren't entirely pure, but you weren't lying to him. not really. you did want to understand the material better. the fact that you also wanted to be around him more was just. additional context. secondary reasoning.
you were being smart about this, honestly. creating opportunities without being pushy. letting things develop naturally within structures that already existed.
you ignored the small, quiet voice in the back of your mind that whispered this was too much. that you were engineering situations and manufacturing proximity and maybe that wasn't as harmless as you wanted to believe. that jake was offering to help you in good faith while you had an agenda he knew nothing about.
you were good at ignoring that voice.
your phone buzzed again.
jake<3: btw i've been thinking about the database structure and i had an idea
and just like that you were smiling again, typing back, that uncomfortable feeling dissolving into something easier and warmer and more immediately gratifying.
it was fine. everything was fine. this was just tutoring. just spending time with someone you enjoyed being around. there was nothing wrong with that.
nothing wrong with it at all.
you'd been doing the tutoring sessions for three weeks when your roommate officially moved out. well, not officially officially. her stuff was still there, her side of the room still technically occupied. but she'd been spending every night at her boyfriend's off-campus apartment for the past month, and one day she just stopped pretending she was coming back.
"i'm still paying rent," she'd said, shoving clothes into a duffel bag. "so like, it's still my room. i'll probably crash here sometimes. but you basically have the place to yourself."
you'd nodded sympathetically while internally celebrating. your own space. privacy. no need to coordinate schedules or deal with her boyfriend's annoying habits. it was perfect.
it took you less than a day to realise it was perfect for other reasons too.
the next tutoring session was supposed to be in the library. thursday at seven, like always. but you'd been sitting in your empty apartment that afternoon, looking at your space with new eyes, and the idea had planted itself so naturally you'd almost convinced yourself it was practical.
you: hey, would you maybe want to do tutoring at my place tonight instead? my roommate moved in with her boyfriend so it's way quieter than the library
you: totally fine if you prefer the library though!
the response took longer than usual. long enough that you started second-guessing yourself. maybe this was too much. too obvious. crossing some line from study partner into something else.
jake<3: oh
jake<3: um
jake<3: yeah that's fine. if you're sure?
jake<3: i don't want to like. intrude or anything
jake<3: but yeah quieter is definitely better for focusing
you: you're not intruding i literally invited you haha
you: i'm in 3B. just come by at 7
jake<3: okay! see you then
you spent the next two hours in a cleaning frenzy you absolutely did not want to examine too closely. you weren't trying to impress him. you just wanted the place to look nice and presentable. the fact that you changed your clothes twice and lit a candle that made the whole apartment smell like vanilla and sandalwood was just. coincidence.
the knock came at exactly seven. jake was annoyingly punctual.
you opened the door to find him standing in the hallway looking uncertain, backpack slung over one shoulder, holding a bag of chips. "hi," he said. "i brought snacks. i didn't know what you liked so i just got the variety pack."
"you didn't have to do that."
"i know, but—" he shifted his weight. "i don't know, it felt weird showing up empty-handed."
you stepped back to let him in, watching as he moved into your space with obvious hesitation. he didn't walk in so much as carefully entered, like he was worried about disturbing something. his eyes went immediately to your walls, taking in the art prints you'd hung, the string lights, the bookshelf crammed with novels and textbooks. then to your desk setup, the small kitchen area, the couch that your roommate had left behind.
"wow," he said quietly. "this is. really nice."
"it's just a dorm apartment."
"no, i know, but—" he gestured vaguely at everything. "it's decorated. like, actually decorated. my place looks like a prison cell compared to this." he was still standing near the door, like he hadn't fully committed to being here. "is that an original print?"
you glanced at the framed artwork he was pointing at. "yeah. local artist. i got it at a campus market thing."
"it's really cool." he finally took a few more steps inside, setting his backpack down carefully on the floor like he was afraid it might scuff something. his attention caught on your kitchen counter, where you'd left out the fancy coffee you'd bought yesterday. the expensive cheese and crackers. the fruit you'd pre-cut and arranged in a bowl because apparently you were that person now.
jake went quiet for a second. then he laughed, but it sounded a little uncomfortable. "okay i have to ask. are you like, rich?"
you felt your face heat. "what? no."
"because this—" he gestured at your apartment again, at the candle burning on your coffee table, the throw blanket artfully draped over your couch, the general aesthetic coherence of the space. "this seems like. i don't know. very put together for a college student."
"i just like my space to feel nice," you said, defensive. "there's nothing wrong with that."
"no, definitely not! i didn't mean—" he ran a hand through his hair, flustered. "i just meant. my room has like, a bed and a desk and some clothes on the floor. this looks like an apartment from a magazine. in a good way," he added quickly. "it's impressive. i'm just. you know. mildly intimidated."
"don't be intimidated," you said, softer now. trying for casual. "seriously, make yourself comfortable. do you want something to drink? i have coffee, tea, juice, those fancy sparkling waters—"
"you have fancy sparkling water?"
"they were on sale."
they were absolutely not on sale. you'd bought them specifically because you remembered jake mentioning he liked trying different flavours. but he didn't need to know that.
"um, sure. i'll try one." he was still standing awkwardly in the middle of your living room, like he couldn't figure out where he was allowed to exist.
you grabbed two cans from the fridge, handing him one and gesturing toward the couch. "we can work there if you want. or the desk. whatever's comfortable."
"couch is good," he said, finally sitting down and immediately looking slightly less tense. he opened the sparkling water, took a sip, and made a surprised noise. "oh this is actually really good."
"told you." you sat next to him, closer than you would have in the library. not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him next to you. close enough that when he leaned forward to pull his laptop out of his backpack, you caught that familiar scent of soap and citrus.
he pulled up the lesson he'd prepared, something about optimisation algorithms, and fell into his teaching rhythm. you'd noticed this about jake before. when he was explaining code, he became more confident. less apologetic. his hands moved as he talked, tracing invisible diagrams in the air, and his whole face became more animated.
you were trying to focus. really, you were. but you kept getting distracted by the fact that he was here, in your space, sitting on your couch. his knee bumped yours at one point and he apologised even though it was barely contact. you told him it was fine. his handwriting was neat when he sketched out examples in your notebook. he had a small scar on his left hand you'd never noticed before.
"are you following?" he asked, glancing over at you.
"yeah," you said, snapping back to attention. "sorry. just thinking."
"it's kind of a dense topic," he said, apologetic again. "we can take a break if you need."
"no, keep going. you're good at this."
something in his expression softened. "thanks. i—i actually really like doing this. the tutoring, i mean. it's nice having someone to talk through concepts with who actually cares about understanding them properly." he paused, looking around your apartment again like he was seeing it with fresh eyes. "and this is. yeah. this is better than the library for sure."
"yeah?"
"the library's always so loud, even in the quiet sections. and people keep interrupting to ask if they can take chairs from our table." he settled back into your couch slightly, his shoulders loosening. "this is way better. i can actually think here."
you felt that dangerous satisfaction bloom in your chest. this is better. i can actually think here. he was comfortable. in your space. comfortable enough to relax, to take up room, to exist without that careful hesitation he'd had when he first arrived.
"we should do all our sessions here," you said, trying to sound casual. "if you're cool with it."
jake glanced at you, then around the apartment again. for a second you thought he might question it. might recognise this for what it was. but then he just smiled, easy and genuine. "yeah, i'd like that. this is really nice."
"cool," you said. your heart was doing that annoying fluttery thing again.
you went back to the lesson, jake's voice steady and patient as he walked you through increasingly complex problems. his knee stayed pressed against yours. he'd stopped apologising for taking up space. he reached for the fancy crackers you'd set out without asking if it was okay first, just casual and comfortable like he belonged here.
and god help you, you liked seeing him like this. liked having him in your space, surrounded by your things, relaxed and focused and entirely unaware of how much thought you'd put into creating this exact scenario.
he was more comfortable here than he should be. settling into your life with an ease that should have alarmed you but instead just made you want to pull him deeper.
you were playing a game he didn't know existed. creating intimacy in careful increments. manufacturing closeness that felt organic to him but was entirely designed by you.
"okay your turn," jake said, pushing your laptop toward you. "try implementing that function we just talked through."
you pulled the computer into your lap, fingers moving over the keys, hyper-aware of jake watching. of his presence next to you, patient and encouraging. of how easy it would be to let this become routine. thursday nights on your couch, just the two of you, the rest of the world locked outside.
professor kim handed back midterms on a wednesday, and the energy in the lecture hall was exactly what you'd expect. nervous shuffling, people immediately comparing scores, that girl in the front row who always cried regardless of her grade already tearing up.
you flipped your exam over and saw the 100 staring back at you. perfect score. you felt a flush of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the grade itself and everything to do with the fact that jake would see it.
"holy shit," yunjin whispered, leaning over to look. "you got a perfect score?"
"apparently."
"that's insane. i got an 87 and i thought i did well." she shook her head, impressed and maybe slightly annoyed. "what did jake think? he must be so proud, that's basically a direct result of his tutoring."
speaking of jake, he was two rows behind you, and you could hear his friends' voices carrying.
"dude, you got a 98," one of them said. "that's insane."
"i missed this one question," jake said, and he sounded genuinely disappointed. "i can't believe i mixed up the time complexity."
you turned around without really thinking about it, catching his eye. he was already looking at you, and his face did this thing, this hopeful uncertain thing. "how'd you do?"
you held up your exam. his eyes widened.
"you got a hundred?" he said it loud enough that a few people glanced over. then he was standing up, moving past his friends, coming down to your row with his exam still in his hand. "holy shit, that's—that's amazing. you—" he stopped himself, looking almost embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. "sorry, i'm like. weirdly excited about this."
"don't apologise," you said, smiling despite yourself. "you sound more excited than i am."
"because i—" he gestured at your exam, then at you. "you understood it. like really understood it. i could tell during our sessions that things were clicking but seeing it actually translate to a perfect score is just—" he ran his hand through his hair, grinning in a way that made your stomach flip. "i'm really proud of you."
the words hit you weird. i'm proud of you. said with such genuine warmth, such unironic sincerity. like your success was somehow his success too. like he was personally invested in your performance because he'd helped you get there.
except you hadn't really needed the help. you'd manufactured the entire situation. you'd been doing fine before the tutoring started and you'd probably have gotten a perfect score regardless. jake's proud smile was based on a false premise. he thought he'd helped you achieve something when really you'd just. used him. used his time and his patience and his genuine desire to help people, all so you could sit close to him once a week.
something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. you shoved it down.
"i couldn't have done it without you," you said, because that's what you were supposed to say. what he expected to hear. even if it made you feel slightly sick.
"i know, i know. it's a good grade. i just hate making careless mistakes." he smiled at you again, softer this time. "but seriously, i'm really happy for you. you worked really hard for this."
"we should celebrate," you said, before you could second-guess it. "both of us. good scores, successful tutoring, whatever. come over tonight? i'll make dinner, we can watch a movie. my treat, as a thank you."
jake hesitated, just for a second. "you don't have to thank me."
"i want to," you said firmly with a smile. "you've been helping me for weeks and not accepting any payment. the least i can do is feed you."
"when you put it that way." he was smiling again, that easy smile that made your heart do stupid things. "yeah, okay. what time?"
"seven?"
"perfect."
...
you went slightly overboard with dinner. not crazy overboard, just. more effort than was strictly necessary for a casual thank-you meal. homemade pasta, the good parmesan, a salad that actually had more than three ingredients. you'd also bought wine, which felt very adult and sophisticated until you remembered you were literally just having your study partner over.
jake showed up at seven on the dot, holding a bag of cookies from the expensive bakery near campus. "i know you said your treat, but i can't show up empty-handed," he explained, handing them over. "it's like, physically impossible for me."
"you're ridiculous."
"i've been told." he stepped inside, immediately more comfortable than he'd been that first time. he knew where to put his shoes now, where to set his bag. he went straight for the couch like he belonged there.
dinner was easy. conversation flowed naturally, jumping from classes to campus gossip to a debate about whether the dining hall pizza was underrated or genuinely terrible. jake argued passionately for underrated, gesturing with his fork, getting sauce on his chin that he didn't notice until you pointed it out. he laughed, embarrassed, wiping it away.
"wine?" you offered, after you'd cleared the plates.
"oh, um. sure?" he looked uncertain. "i'm not really a big drinker."
"me neither. but we're celebrating, right?"
"right." he accepted the glass you poured, taking a small sip and making a face. "god, why do people like this? it tastes like someone made juice go bad on purpose."
you laughed despite yourself. "it's an acquired taste."
"that's what people say about things that are objectively bad." but he took another sip anyway, settling back into the couch as you pulled up netflix.
you ended up on some action movie neither of you had seen, the kind with improbable stunts and a plot that didn't require much attention. which was good, because you weren't really watching it. you were too aware of jake next to you, closer than he needed to be, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours. he'd finished his wine faster than you expected and seemed looser now, more animated. he kept making commentary on the movie, pointing out plot holes and questionable physics, his hands moving as he talked.
"—and there's no way that building would still be structurally sound after that explosion," he was saying, gesturing at the screen. "like, basic engineering, you know?"
"you're thinking too hard about it."
"i can't help it. my brain won't turn off." he glanced at you, something warm in his expression. "this is nice though. just hanging out. we're always studying or talking about the project, it's cool to just…exist. without an agenda."
without an agenda. the words hit harder than they should have. because you did have an agenda. you'd had one this entire time. this whole evening was carefully constructed, from the homemade dinner to the wine to the deliberately casual intimacy of it all.
"yeah," you managed. "it's nice."
the movie continued. jake shifted closer, his thigh pressing against yours. you didn't move away. his arm ended up along the back of the couch, not quite around your shoulders but close enough that you could feel the warmth of it. neither of you acknowledged it, but neither of you adjusted either.
"can i ask you something?" jake said during a particularly slow part of the movie.
"sure."
"why did you pick me? for the project, i mean." he was looking at you now instead of the screen, his expression curious and open. "you could've worked with your friends. people you already knew. but you walked all the way across the lecture hall to ask me."
your heart kicked up. "i told you. you're good at this stuff."
"yeah, but." he paused, like he was trying to figure out how to phrase something. "it felt like. i don't know. like you went out of your way. and i've been trying to figure out if i'm reading too much into it or if there was something else."
the air felt suddenly thinner. "something else like what?"
"i don't know." he laughed, self-conscious. "i'm probably being weird. forget i said anything."
"jake."
"i just—" he met your eyes, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that made your breath catch. "i really like spending time with you. like, more than i probably should for someone who's just a project partner and tutoring student. and sometimes i think maybe you. i don't know, feel the same? but i'm also really bad at reading these things so i'm probably completely wrong."
oh. oh.
"you're not wrong," you said quietly.
his eyes widened slightly. "i'm not?"
instead of answering, you leaned in. gave him enough time to pull back, to stop this, but he didn't. he met you halfway, his lips soft and uncertain against yours. for a second neither of you moved, the kiss chaste and almost careful. then something shifted. his hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you pressed closer, your fingers curling into his shirt.
jake made a soft sound against your mouth, surprise or maybe pleasure, and kissed you back with more confidence. his other hand found your waist, tentative at first then firmer, pulling you closer. you ended up in his lap somehow, his hands spanning your back, your fingers threading through his hair. he tasted like wine and something sweet from the cookies he'd brought.
"is this okay?" he whispered against your lips, breathing hard.
"yes," you said, and kissed him again before he could second-guess it.
his hands moved under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you felt him shiver when you rolled your hips experimentally. "god," he breathed, sounding almost pained. "we should—are we really—"
"do you want to stop?"
"no. god, no. i just—" he looked up at you, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen. "i didn't think this would happen. i'm not. i don't usually."
"it's okay," you said softly, meaning it. "we don't have to do anything you don't want."
jake didn’t stop you. instead, he seemed to melt into the contact, his hands trembling as they slid further up your back, skin hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. when you moved to guide him off the couch and onto the rug, he followed with a sort of dazed compliance, his glasses slightly askew on his face.
you knelt between his legs, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. the movie was still playing—some distant sound of tires screeching—but all you could hear was the ragged, uneven hitch of jake’s breath. when you reached for the button of his jeans, his hand flew to your wrist, not to stop you, but just to steady himself. his knuckles were white.
"are you sure?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "i—i'm not... i don't want to mess this up. our project, the tutoring... i don't want to make things weird for you."
"jake," you said, looking up at him through your lashes. "shut up and let me."
he let out a shaky, half-strangled laugh, his head hitting the base of the couch as he let go of your wrist. "okay. okay, yeah. shutting up."
as you eased his jeans down, you realised the lanky, awkward way he carried himself in the halls was a massive deception. he was built with a surprising, heavy sturdiness that the oversized hoodies always hid. his legs were long, his thighs thick with the kind of muscle that suggested he actually did play soccer as more than just a hobby. and when you finally freed him, you couldn't help the small, sharp intake of breath that escaped you.
"jake," you breathed, your eyes widening. "holy..."
he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, and covered his eyes with his forearm. "don't. don't look at me like that. i know. i'm sorry, is it... is it too much? i can—"
"it's perfect," you cut him off, reaching out to touch him. his skin was searing, and the moment your fingers closed around him, his entire body jolted like he’d been hit with a live wire.
when you leaned forward to take him into your mouth, jake’s reaction was explosive. he arched off the floor, his fingers tangling desperately in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. he was so sensitive, so completely overwhelmed by the sensation that it felt like he was losing his grip on reality.
"oh god," he choked out, his voice high and strained. "wait, wait—that's—you’re so... the pressure, i can't—"
you didn't slow down. you liked the way he lost his composure, the way the articulate, logical TA was reduced to incoherent stutters. you used your hands to keep him steady, your tongue swirling around the head of him, and jake’s hips began to move in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. he was trying to keep some semblance of control, trying to stay "polite," but the sheer intensity of it was breaking him.
"i'm gonna... i'm actually gonna..." he gasped, his hands tightening in your hair, pulling you closer until he was practically burying himself in you. "please, don't stop. don't stop, just like that—right there—"
he hit his limit with a loud, guttural shout that was muffled only by the back of his hand as he bit down on his own knuckles to stay quiet. his body went rigid, muscles in his arms and chest standing out in sharp relief as he came, the force of it leaving him limp and shuddering against the couch.
it took him a long time to come back down. for several minutes, the only sound in the room was his heavy, labouring breath and the flickering light of the tv. you pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling a fierce, glowing sense of triumph. he looked completely wrecked—hair a disaster, glasses hanging off one ear, chest heaving.
you felt powerful. you’d spent weeks engineering this, calculating every move, and seeing him like this—totally undone by you—was better than any perfect exam score.
"you okay?" you asked, leaning your chin on his knee.
jake let out a long, shaky exhale, finally moving his arm to look at you. his eyes were hazy, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red. "i... think my brain just short-circuited," he whispered, a small, dazed smile tugging at his lips.
"in a good way?"
"in the best way." he reached out, his fingers trembling as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. "thank you. seriously. i don't—i don't even know what to say."
you smiled, leaning into his touch. the apartment was warm, the air still smelling of vanilla. "you don't have to say anything. you should just stay."
the words were soft, natural. it felt like the obvious next step. but the second they left your mouth, you felt the shift.
it was subtle at first—the way jake’s fingers went still against your skin. then his pupils, which had been blown wide with pleasure, suddenly constricted. he blinked, the haziness clearing as his internal "problem-solving mode" kicked back in with a vengeance.
"stay?" he repeated, his voice sounding suddenly small.
"yeah. it's late, and it's cold out. just stay over. we can... i don't know, wake up and have coffee. maybe look at the project again."
jake’s eyes darted toward his hands, then to his backpack, then to the door. the relaxation in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a rigid, frantic tension. he looked like he’d just realised he was standing in the middle of a minefield.
"i—" he started, scrambling to pull his jeans up. he was moving so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. "i can't. i mean, i should... i have that grading to finish. for kim. and i—i didn't bring my toothbrush. or my meds. and my roommate, he—he'll wonder where i am. he gets worried."
"jake, it’s fine, you can borrow—"
"no!" he said, a bit too loudly. he was fumbling with his belt, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely loop it through. he wouldn't look at you. his face wasn't flushed with pleasure anymore; it was pale, his expression twisted into something that looked dangerously like panic. "no, i really should go. i’m sorry. i just... i realised the time. i have to go."
you stood up, feeling a cold, hollow pit open in your stomach. "did i do something wrong? was it... was it too much?"
"no! no, it was... it was amazing," he said, finally getting his shoes on, not even bothering to tie the laces. he grabbed his backpack, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "it was too amazing. that's the... that's the problem. i'm—i'm not good at this. i think i need to... i need to think. logically. about the implications."
"the implications?" you asked, your voice rising with a sharp, hurt edge. "it was just a night, jake. it doesn't have to be a 'logical problem' to solve."
"i know, i know. i'm sorry. i’m just... i'm a mess." he backed toward the door, his hand fumbling for the handle behind his back. "i'll text you? about the project? we still have that deadline on tuesday."
"jake—"
"goodnight! thank you for dinner. the pasta was really... the texture was perfect. okay. bye."
he practically fell out of the door, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway as he sprinted toward the stairs.
the click of the door closing felt final. you stood in the centre of your perfectly decorated, candle-lit apartment, surrounded by the remnants of the dinner you’d spent hours on. the half-empty wine glasses, the bag of expensive cookies, the rumpled rug.
you felt a hot, stinging prickle behind your eyes. you’d done everything right. you’d been strategic, patient, and kind. you’d gotten him to open up, to trust you, to want you. and yet, watching him run away like you were a bug in his code—something to be deleted or fixed—hurt more than any midterm failure ever could.
you sat back down on the couch, the silence of the room suddenly feeling just as oppressive as it had back in the computer lab. you picked up your phone, looking at his last text. this'll be fun :)
you threw the phone onto the cushions and buried your face in your hands, the smell of his citrus shampoo still clinging to your skin, mocking you.
jake didn't text.
you stared at your phone for the entire next day, watching the screen like you could will a message into existence. the "i'll text you" he'd thrown over his shoulder before fleeing felt increasingly like a polite lie. by saturday afternoon you broke first.
you: hey, you okay?
the message sat there. delivered, but no response.
you tried again sunday morning, going for casual.
you: still on for project work this week?
still no response.
by monday you'd moved past confusion into something that felt uncomfortably like panic. this wasn't how things worked. people didn't just. stop responding to you. they didn't ignore you or avoid you or remove you from their orbit like you were some problem to be managed. you were used to being wanted, pursued, the one who had to let people down gently. this reversed dynamic was unfamiliar and honestly humiliating.
you saw him in the dining hall on tuesday. he was with his friends, laughing at something one of them said, looking completely normal. like nothing had happened. like he hadn't been on your couch four days ago falling apart under your touch.
you started walking toward their table before you could think better of it, but jake's eyes flicked up, met yours for a fraction of a second, and then he was standing, gathering his tray, saying something to his friends. they all got up and left. just. left. walked out the side exit while you stood there holding your lunch like an idiot.
yunjin grabbed your arm. "okay, what the hell was that?"
"nothing," you said, but your voice came out wrong.
"that was not nothing. did something happen with you and jake?"
"no. i don't know. it's complicated."
it wasn't complicated. it was actually pretty simple. you'd pushed too hard and now he wanted nothing to do with you.
wednesday he wasn't in his usual spot in lecture. you spent the entire class scanning the room, finally spotting him in the very back corner, a place he'd never sat before. he kept his eyes on his laptop the entire time, didn't look up once. when class ended he was the first one out the door.
thursday was supposed to be tutoring. seven pm, his room or yours, the standing appointment you'd had for weeks now. you waited in your apartment, laptop open to the half-finished project, telling yourself he'd show up. he was responsible and dedicated. he wouldn't just bail without saying anything.
seven came and went. then seven-thirty. by eight you accepted he wasn't coming.
you: are we still working together on the project? i need to know so i can plan accordingly.
again, no response.
friday morning you were walking to class when you saw him ahead of you on the path. for once he hadn't spotted you first. you sped up, closing the distance, and watched in real time as he seemed to sense your presence. his shoulders tensed. then he took a sharp left turn down a path that definitely wasn't toward any of his classes. he was actively avoiding you. taking different routes. altering his entire routine just to not run into you.
something hot and humiliated burned in your chest.
by next week, you'd had enough. you knew his schedule. knew he had algorithms right before lunch on mondays, in the engineering building, third floor. you positioned yourself outside the classroom before class ended, ignoring the curious looks from other students filing out. you spotted jake immediately when the doors opened. he saw you at the same moment and actually stopped walking, causing someone behind him to bump into his back.
"we need to talk," you said.
"i have—i need to get to—"
"jake." your voice came out sharper than intended. "five minutes. please."
something in his expression shifted. resignation maybe. he nodded once, following you to an empty study room down the hall. you closed the door. the small space suddenly felt suffocating.
"you've been ignoring me," you said.
"i know."
"for a week. you didn't text, you didn't show up to tutoring, you're literally avoiding me on campus."
"i know," he said again, quieter. he wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed somewhere around your shoulder. "i'm sorry. that wasn't— i should have communicated better."
"so communicate now. what's going on?"
jake was quiet for a long moment. when he finally spoke, his voice was careful. measured. "what happened last week. that crossed a line for me."
"we both wanted it."
"did we?" he looked at you now, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach drop. "because i've been thinking about it a lot. about how we got there. and i feel like. i don't know. like maybe i missed something."
"what do you mean?"
"the tutoring," he said. "you didn't actually need it, did you? your grades were already good. and the project. you had friends you could have worked with. people you actually knew. but you picked me." he paused. "why did you pick me?"
the question hung in the air between you. you could lie. deflect. but something about the way he was looking at you, patient and a little sad, made it feel pointless.
"i liked you," you said finally. "i wanted to spend time with you."
"okay." he nodded slowly. "so the tutoring was. what. an excuse? a way to manufacture time together?"
"it wasn't like that."
"wasn't it though?" there was no anger in his voice. just. tiredness. "because from my perspective, i thought i was helping someone who needed help. i thought we were becoming friends. and then suddenly we're… doing that. and i'm trying to figure out when the shift happened and i can't. because maybe there was no shift. maybe that's what you wanted the whole time and i just didn't see it."
"i did want to be your friend," you said, defensive now. "i wasn't. it's not like i was using you."
"weren't you?"
the words hit harder than they should have. because he wasn't wrong. you had used him. used his kindness, his eagerness to help, his complete inability to see through your motivations. you'd engineered situations and manufactured proximity and told yourself it was harmless.
"i like you," jake said, and somehow that made it worse. "i really do. but i feel. god, i don't even know how to explain it. exposed? like you saw something in me that made me an easy target and you just. went for it. and i didn't even realise what was happening until it had already happened."
"that's not—"
"and the thing is," he continued, talking over you gently, "you're so far out of my league. like, objectively. you're smart and pretty and confident and you have your shit together. and i'm just. me. i'm awkward and i ramble and i spend friday nights debugging code for fun. so the fact that you were interested never made sense. i kept waiting for it to click, for me to understand why, and now i think i do. it wasn't about me. it was about. i don't know. the chase? the conquest? i was a project to you."
"no," you said, but your voice came out weak. "jake, that's not true. you weren't a project."
"then what was i?"
you didn't have an answer. or you did, but it was complicated and messy and saying it out loud would mean admitting things you didn't want to admit.
jake sighed. "i'm not trying to be cruel. i'm really not. but being around you right now makes me feel uncomfortable. like i can't trust my own judgement because i didn't see any of this coming. and that's. that's my issue to work through. but i need space to do it."
"what about the class project?"
"we can do it over email. divide up the work, combine it at the end. we don't have to see each other."
"and tutoring?"
"i think we should stop. you don't actually need it anyway."
each sentence felt like a door closing. practical, reasonable, and completely final.
"i'm sorry," you said, and meant it. "i didn't mean to. i wasn't trying to hurt you."
"i know," jake said, and he sounded sincere. "i don't think you set out to do anything malicious. i just think you didn't really consider how it would feel from my side. and now we're here."
"so that's it? we just stop talking?"
"for now, yeah. maybe later we can be normal around each other. but right now i need. distance."
he moved toward the door, his hand on the handle. you wanted to say something, anything that would fix this. some argument that would make him see you differently. but looking at his face, at the quiet certainty there, you knew there was nothing you could say. he'd made up his mind. he'd set a boundary. and you had no choice but to respect it.
"i really am sorry," you said again.
"i know," jake said. "me too."
then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with that same horrible finality. you stood there in the empty study room, staring at the space where he'd been.
you couldn't even argue with his reasoning. everything he'd said was true. you had manufactured situations. you had used his kindness and his obliviousness to get what you wanted. you'd told yourself it was harmless, that your feelings were real even if your methods were questionable.
but intent didn't matter when the impact was someone feeling manipulated and exposed.
you left the study room feeling hollowed out. the campus looked the same. people laughed and talked and went about their days. somewhere out there jake was probably headed to lunch with his friends, relieved to have finally said what he needed to say.
and you were just. alone. with the sharp realisation that you'd ruined something before it even had a chance to be real.
the party was exactly the kind of loud, chaotic mess you needed. bass thrumming through the floors, bodies packed into every available space, the air thick with sweat and cheap alcohol and too many competing perfumes. yunjin had dragged you here, insisting you needed to "get out of your head" after moping around for two weeks straight.
so here you were. red cup in hand, smile fixed in place, laughing at jokes you weren't really hearing. performing normalcy while your brain kept circling the same thoughts on loop. jake's face in that study room. the careful way he'd said i need space. the hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in your chest.
"you good?" beomgyu asked, leaning close to be heard over the music.
"yeah, great," you said automatically, taking another drink.
you were on your third. or fourth. you'd stopped counting. the alcohol sat warm in your stomach but hadn't managed to quiet your thoughts yet. maybe if you drank enough you'd stop replaying every conversation with jake, analysing every moment for signs you'd missed, evidence of how thoroughly you'd fucked everything up.
"i'm gonna get another drink," you said to no one in particular, pushing through the crowd toward the kitchen.
that's when you saw him.
jake. standing near the makeshift bar someone had set up on the counter, red cup in hand, talking to a girl you didn't recognise. and he was laughing. actually laughing, head thrown back, completely at ease in a way that made something hot and ugly twist in your chest.
because he never looked like that with you. even before everything went wrong, even during those tutoring sessions in your apartment when you'd thought you were building something real, he'd always been slightly careful and polite, like he was containing himself. but now he was loose and animated, gesturing with his free hand while the girl laughed at whatever he was saying, her hand resting on his arm.
her hand was on his arm.
you watched as she leaned closer, saying something that made jake grin. that specific grin, the one where his eyes crinkled at the corners and you could see his perfect teeth on display. you'd thought that smile was special. something you'd earned. but apparently he was just like this, with everyone who wasn't you.
the jealousy hit so hard it felt physical. burning through your chest, turning your vision sharp and focused. you were moving before you'd decided to, weaving through people, your jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
jake saw you coming. his smile faltered, something uncertain crossing his face. "hey—"
"who's this?" you said, gesturing at the girl. your voice came out sharper than you'd intended, heavy with something you couldn't quite name.
the girl looked between you and jake, confused. "i'm mina. jungwon's sister remember? we just met like ten minutes ago."
"oh right." you focused on jake, ignoring her entirely. "you look like you're having fun."
"i—yeah?" jake's eyebrows drew together. "it's a party?"
"funny how you can make time for parties but couldn't respond to any of my texts about the assignment."
"i told you we could do it over email—"
"is that what you're doing right now? project work?" you knew you sounded irrational, accusatory, but you couldn't stop. the words kept spilling out, poisoned by alcohol and jealousy and two weeks of feeling like you'd been the only one affected by any of this.
"or are you just. moving on? found someone new to—"
"okay, i'm gonna go," mina said, backing away with her hands up. "this seems like. a thing. nice meeting you, jake."
she disappeared into the crowd. jake stared at you, his expression shifting from confused to something harder. "what the hell was that?"
"you tell me. you've been ignoring me for two weeks and now you're here flirting with random girls?"
"flirting?" jake's voice pitched up slightly. "flirting? i was literally just talking to her. she asked where the bathroom was and then we started chatting about the music. that's—that's not flirting, that's called being polite."
"she had her hand on your arm."
"so?" jake looked genuinely baffled now. "people touch arms when they talk. that doesn't mean anything. and even if it did—" he stopped himself, jaw tightening. "i don't owe you an explanation. you don't get to. we're not together. we're not anything."
the words hit exactly where they were meant to. "right. because you decided we're not."
"no, because you decided we weren't, like a month ago when you started playing games instead of just being honest." his voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. "and now you're mad because i'm talking to someone else? you don't get to do that. you don't get to manipulate me into something and then act possessive when i try to move on."
"i'm not—" you started, but stopped. because he was right. you were being possessive and irrational. reading intent into a harmless conversation because you wanted there to be something there. wanted confirmation that jake was thinking about you as much as you were thinking about him.
but he wasn't. he was just living his life. talking to people at parties. laughing easily with strangers. completely unaffected while you spiralled.
"i wasn't flirting with her," jake said, quieter now. tired. "i was just being friendly. that's what normal people do. they don't engineer entire relationships or manufacture situations. they just exist around each other."
"i know," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you wanted. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have. that was out of line."
jake nodded once, already turning away. "yeah. it was."
you watched him disappear back into the crowd, leaving you standing alone by the kitchen counter. your hands were shaking. you downed the rest of your drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.
you'd just proven everything he'd said about you. possessive. manipulative. unable to let go. you'd projected your own feelings onto a completely innocent interaction and made a scene because you couldn't handle seeing him okay when you were so thoroughly not okay.
you'd been so certain. so sure he was flirting, that the girl meant something, that you'd caught him in some kind of lie. but you'd been wrong. completely, embarrassingly wrong. because you didn't actually know what jake was thinking. you never had. you'd just assumed, projected, filled in the gaps with your own narrative.
and now he was probably telling his friends what a psycho you were. probably regretting he'd ever let you into his life in the first place.
you grabbed another drink.
…
the party had devolved into that late-night haze where everything blurred together. people you didn't recognise, conversations you weren't part of, music that had gotten somehow both quieter and more invasive. you'd lost track of yunjin and beomgyu somewhere around drink number six. or seven. the room tilted slightly when you moved too fast.
you were trying to find your jacket, ready to call it a night, when you spotted him. jake. sitting alone on a couch in the corner, looking absolutely exhausted. his head kept drooping forward like he was fighting to stay conscious, then jerking back up. his eyes were half-closed, his usual careful posture completely abandoned.
you should walk past him. nothing good could come from another interaction tonight. you'd already embarrassed yourself once. but your feet carried you closer anyway, some magnetic pull you couldn't quite resist even knowing it was a bad idea.
you were almost past him when his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "don't," he said, not looking at you. his voice was rough, slurred slightly. "don't leave."
you stopped. "jake—"
"been trying," he mumbled, his grip loosening but not releasing. "trying so hard. but you make it impossible."
"what are you talking about?"
he finally looked up at you, and his eyes were unfocused, glassy with alcohol. "you. i'm talking about you. can't stop thinking about you. it's driving me insane."
your heart lurched. "you're drunk."
"i know but so are you," he said, like that explained everything. "that's the only reason i'm saying this. because sober me knows better. sober me has self-control and boundaries and all that shit." he pulled gently on your wrist, making you stumble slightly closer. "but drunk me is tired. so tired of pretending i don't want you."
"you said you needed space."
"i do need space. because when i'm around you i can't think straight. i can't trust myself." his words were coming out uneven, tripping over each other. "you think i was avoiding you because i was mad? i was avoiding you because if i saw you i'd—" he made a frustrated noise. "i'd do something stupid. like this. this is stupid."
you sat down next to him, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. "jake—"
"you're so pretty," he said, almost accusatory. "and you smell good. and you're smart, like actually smart, not just good at school. and when you laugh it's. it does things to me. and i hate it. i hate that you have this much power over me when i don't even know if you actually like me or if i'm just… convenient."
"i do like you," you said quietly. "i've liked you the whole time."
"but do you?" he turned to face you more fully, his eyes searching yours even though he seemed to be having trouble focusing. "or do you like the idea of me? the nerdy guy you can manipulate? your little project?"
"that's not—" you stopped. "it wasn't like that. it's not like that."
"then what is it like?" he was still holding your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "because i've been trying to figure it out for weeks and i can't. i can't understand why you'd want me. what you get out of this. and maybe i'm just stupid but i need you to tell me. plainly. what do you want from me?"
"you," you said, the word coming out more honest than you'd intended. "just. you."
jake laughed, bitter and tired. "that doesn't make sense."
"i know."
"i'm not interesting. i'm not cool or funny or—"
"you are though," you interrupted. "you are all of those things. you just don't see it."
he went quiet for a long moment. then, so quietly you almost missed it: "i've been trying so hard not to want you back. because i knew—i know it's not good for me. but i can't stop. and i'm so tired of trying."
his hand slid from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading through yours. the touch was so much gentler than you expected, almost reverent. "i deleted your texts without reading them," he admitted. "because if i read them i'd respond. and if i responded i'd end up right back where i started. wanting you. letting you in. getting hurt."
"i don't want to hurt you."
"i know. that's what makes it worse." he leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closing. "you don't mean to. you just. do."
you didn't know what to say to that. didn't know how to fix the damage you'd done or convince him that your feelings were real when your actions had been so calculated. so you just sat there, holding his hand, feeling the warmth of him next to you.
"i missed you," jake said, so quiet you barely heard it over the music. "i fucking missed you and i hated myself for it."
"i missed you too."
"yeah?" he opened his eyes, looking at you with something raw and unguarded. "you missed manipulating me?"
"that's not fair."
"isn't it though?" but there was no heat in his words. just exhaustion. "god, i'm so tired. tired of being angry. tired of trying to stay away from you. tired of pretending i don't want you so badly it hurts."
the confession hung in the air between you. jake was looking at you like he was waiting for something, permission or rejection or maybe just confirmation that you'd heard him.
you leaned in. gave him time to pull away, to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea. but he didn't. he met you halfway, his lips crashing against yours with none of the careful hesitation from before. this was messy and desperate, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kissed you like he'd been holding back for too long, like all that careful control had finally snapped.
you shifted closer, practically climbing into his lap, and he made a sound against your mouth that went straight through you. his hands were everywhere, spanning your waist, sliding up your back, gripping like he was afraid you'd disappear if he loosened his hold even slightly.
"been thinking about this," he mumbled against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. "every night. hated myself for it but couldn't stop."
"me too," you admitted, kissing along his jaw. "i couldn't sleep. kept replaying everything."
"i lied about the texts i didn't respond to," he said, tilting his head to give you better access. "i read them. all of them before deleting. at like three am. read them over and over."
"why didn't you answer?"
"because i wanted to say things i shouldn't say. like how much i missed you. how i kept going to the lab hoping you'd be there. how seeing you at the party tonight fucking destroyed me even though i pretended i was fine." his hands tightened on your waist. "how i've been so fucking miserable without you."
you kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing his words. he responded immediately, pulling you fully into his lap now, and you could feel how much he wanted this, wanted you. it was overwhelming. intoxicating. the desperation in every touch, every small sound he made.
"we should," he said between kisses, "we should probably stop."
"do you want to stop?"
"no. god no." he pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown, lips swollen. "but i'm drunk and you're drunk and tomorrow we're gonna regret—"
"i won't," you said firmly. "i won't regret this."
something shifted in his expression. softened. he touched your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "you're gonna break my heart," he said, not quite a question.
"i'm not."
"you will." but he kissed you anyway, softer this time. slower. like he was memorising the feel of you. "and i'm gonna let you. because i'm weak and pathetic and i want you so much i don't even care anymore."
"you're not weak."
"i am though." he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing. "i'm so weak for you. it's embarrassing."
you could feel his exhaustion creeping in, the way his body was getting heavier against yours, his movements slowing. "come on," you said softly, standing and pulling him up with you. "let's get you somewhere you can actually sleep."
"don't wanna sleep," he protested, but let you guide him anyway. "wanna stay with you."
"you will. i'm not going anywhere."
you found an empty bedroom on the second floor, the door unlocked and the bed mercifully unoccupied. jake collapsed onto it immediately, pulling you down with him. he was asleep within minutes, his arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck. his breathing evened out, deep and steady.
you should probably feel guilty. taking advantage of his drunken honesty, letting him confess things he'd normally keep locked away. but you were too tired, too overwhelmed by everything he'd said. i want you so badly it hurts. i've been so fucking miserable without you. you're gonna break my heart and i'm gonna let you.
you didn't have answers. didn't have promises you could make. didn't know how to fix the fundamental imbalance between you, the manipulation and hurt that had gotten you here.
but for now, in this quiet room with jake's warmth pressed against you, you could pretend tomorrow didn't exist. could pretend this was simple. just two people who wanted each other, tangled together in the dark, nothing more complicated than that.
you fell asleep still wearing your shoes, jake's arms tight around you, his heartbeat steady against your chest.
you woke to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the warm weight of jake still wrapped around you. for a disorienting moment you couldn't place where you were. then it came back in pieces. the party. the confrontation. jake's drunken confessions. falling asleep tangled together.
jake stirred against you, his breath catching as he woke. you felt the exact moment awareness returned, the way his body went tense. slowly, carefully, he pulled back just enough to look at you. his hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction. his glasses sat crooked on the nightstand. his eyes were cautious but clear.
"hi," he said quietly.
"hi."
he didn't let go of you. didn't immediately scramble away or apologise or retreat into panic like last time. he just looked at you, searching your face for something.
"i said a lot of things last night," he finally said.
"yeah."
"i meant them." his voice was serious, steady despite the embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "i know i was drunk, and i probably shouldn't have said half of it, but. i meant it. all of it."
your heart kicked up. "jake—"
"i like you," he said, cutting you off gently. "i've liked you since that first night in the lab when you were stressed about your code and i got to actually help you with something. and it's been killing me trying to stay away from you because every time i see you i just. want you. so much that it scares me."
"why does it scare you?"
"because i don't know how to want someone this much and still protect myself." he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see you better. "last time i didn't protect myself at all. i just. gave in. and then i panicked because it felt too big, too fast, and i didn't know how to handle it."
"and now?"
"now i'm still terrified," he admitted. "but i'm more scared of not trying. of walking away and spending the rest of college wondering what could have happened if i'd just. been brave enough to give you a real chance."
you felt something tight in your chest start to loosen. "i want that. a real chance. i want to do this right."
"yeah?"
"yeah." you reached up, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. "i'm sorry. for all of it. the manipulation, the games, not being honest about what i wanted. you deserved better than that."
"i know," jake said simply. then, softer: "but i also know you were scared too. just in a different way."
he leaned down, kissing you with a gentleness that made your chest ache. different from last night's desperate intensity. this was slow, careful, almost questioning. you kissed him back, trying to pour everything you couldn't quite say into it. apology and promise and want all tangled together.
when he pulled back his eyes were dark, pupils blown. "i want to try again," he said. "properly this time. but i need you to be honest with me. about what you want. about what this is."
"i want you," you said. "not as a project or a conquest or whatever i convinced myself it was before. just you jake."
something in his expression softened. "okay," he said. "okay. we can work with that."
he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt his weight settle more fully over you. "i want to make it up to you," he murmured against your lips. "for running away before. for making you feel like you did something wrong when i was just scared."
"you don't have to—"
"i want to." he was already kissing down your neck, hands sliding under your shirt. "let me. please."
there was something in his voice, almost pleading, that made you nod. he smiled against your skin, helping you out of your clothes with more confidence than he'd had before. when you were bare beneath him he just. looked. taking his time, hands mapping your body like he was memorising every detail.
"you're so pretty," he said, almost reverent. "i thought about this. about you. so many times."
then he was moving lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, your hip bones, the inside of your thighs. when his breath ghosted over where you needed him most you couldn't help the small sound that escaped.
"tell me if anything's too much," he said, glancing up at you. then he lowered his mouth to you and your brain short-circuited.
he started slowly, almost tentatively, like he was learning you. his tongue moved in careful strokes, testing what made you gasp, what made your hips shift toward him. when he found the rhythm that had your fingers tightening in his hair, he made a low, satisfied sound against you that you felt everywhere.
"jake," you breathed, and he looked up at you through his lashes, pupils blown wide, lips glistening with your arousal.
"tell me," he said, voice rough. "tell me what feels good."
"that—" your words cut off as he did it again, tongue flicking over your clit with that same perfect pressure. "right there. just like that."
he was a quick learner. always had been. he catalogued every reaction, every sound you made, adjusting and refining. except this wasn't detached or analytical. this was hungry. desperate. he sucked your clit into his mouth and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your thighs trembling on either side of his head.
"fuck, jake—"
"god, you taste so good," he mumbled against your pussy, barely pulling back enough to speak. his chin was wet, his glasses fogged slightly. "been thinking about this. wanted to do this right last time."
he was getting lost in it now, the careful control slipping into something messier, greedier. he alternated between focused attention on your clit and broad, indulgent strokes through your folds, like he couldn't decide between making you fall apart and simply savouring you. his tongue pushed inside you and you keened, your back arching off the bed.
"oh my god," you gasped. "jake, your mouth—"
he moaned against you, the vibration making your thighs clench around his head. he didn't seem to mind, just gripped your hips harder, pulled you closer, like he wanted to suffocate in your pussy. when his fingers joined his mouth, sliding through your wetness before pressing inside, you nearly sobbed.
"so wet," he murmured, almost to himself.
he crooked his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made you cry out, and worked it mercilessly while his tongue circled your clit. the dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building so fast you couldn't catch your breath. your fingers tightened in his hair, probably painful, but he just groaned and doubled his efforts.
"jake, i'm—fuck, i'm gonna—"
"i know," he said against you, his voice wrecked. "i can feel it. let go for me."
his fingers thrust deeper, faster, his mouth sucking hard on your clit, and you shattered. your orgasm hit like a shockwave, your whole body going taut as pleasure whited out your vision. you were dimly aware of the sounds you were making—high, desperate whimpers and moans—but you couldn't stop them.
jake moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and he didn't let up. he worked you through it with devastating patience, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like he was starving for it.
"jake," you gasped, trying to push at his head. "too much—"
but he just whined—actually whined—and gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them spread. "please," he mumbled against your pussy, his words muffled and desperate. "please, just one more. need to feel you come again. please."
"i can't—" but your protest died as he sealed his lips around your clit again, sucking gently, his fingers still working inside you. the overstimulation was almost painful but it was already shifting into something else, something that had you gasping and arching into his mouth instead of away from it.
he was making sounds now—desperate, needy whimpers and moans that vibrated against you. he was rutting against the mattress, you realised dimly, seeking friction while he lost himself in eating you out. his hair was a mess from your fingers, and he looked absolutely wrecked.
"so good," he whined between licks. "taste so good. could do this forever. please let me—need to make you come again—"
he was babbling now, drunk on you, his movements getting messier and more desperate. his tongue worked your clit in frantic circles while his fingers curled inside you, and the pleasure was building again impossibly fast. you were so sensitive that every touch felt electric, overwhelming.
"that's it," he gasped, feeling you start to tighten around his fingers. "yeah, give it to me. please, please—"
your second orgasm hit even harder than the first, ripping through you with an intensity that had you crying out his name, your thighs clamping around his head. jake moaned like he was the one coming, his hips jerking against the mattress as he worked you through it, tongue lapping up everything, fingers gentling but not stopping until you were actually sobbing from oversensitivity.
only then did he pull back, and when he finally lifted his head he looked completely gone. his face was flushed and wet, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his lips swollen and red. he looked drunk on you, his eyes unfocused and dark.
"fuck," he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "you're so hot when you come. the sounds you make—"
you pulled him up into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, feeling the way he groaned into your mouth. his cock was rock hard against your thigh, leaking and desperate.
"your turn," you said, reaching down to wrap your hand around him.
he hissed at the contact, his hips jerking forward. "you don't have to—"
"i want to." you stroked him slowly, base to tip, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm. precum leaked from the slit and you used it to ease the glide. "you're so hard, jake. does eating my pussy turn you on that much?"
"fuck—" his voice broke. "yes. god, yes. you have no idea."
"tell me." you tightened your grip slightly and he whimpered. actually whimpered. "tell me what you were thinking about."
"i was thinking—" he gasped when your thumb swept over the sensitive head. "thinking about how good you taste. how you were shaking. how i could feel you clenching and i wanted—wanted to be inside you—"
"yeah?" you stroked him faster, loving the way his abs tensed, the way his thighs trembled. "you want to fuck me, jake?"
"so bad," he choked out.
you guided him between your legs, not quite inside yet, just letting the head of his cock slide through your wetness. he made a strangled sound, his whole body shuddering.
"we should—do you have—" he was trying to think through the haze of arousal, being responsible even now. "condom?"
"pill," you said. "i'm on the pill. and i'm clean. tested recently."
"me too. clean, i mean." his cock twitched against you, smearing precum through your folds. "can i—fuck, can i feel you bare?"
"yes," you breathed. "want to feel all of you."
he positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head pressing against you, and even that felt like too much. he pushed in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch was intense. you were wet enough that he slid in smoothly at first, but the sheer size of him was overwhelming.
"oh fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders. "jake, you're so—you're so big—"
"i know, i'm sorry—" he froze, only halfway in. "am i hurting you?"
"no, don't stop," you urged, your legs wrapping around his hips to pull him deeper. "just—go slow. need to adjust."
he sank in another inch and you both moaned. he was splitting you open, stretching you so full you could barely breathe. when he finally bottomed out, buried completely inside you, he dropped his forehead to yours.
"oh my god," he choked out. "you're so tight. so fucking tight and wet and—i can't—"
"don't move yet," you managed, clenching around him involuntarily. he was so deep you could feel him everywhere, pressing against spots that made your toes curl. "just let me—fuck—"
"you feel incredible," he said, his voice shaking. "i've never—nothing compares to this."
you tightened around him experimentally and he swore, his hips jerking forward. "sorry, sorry," he gasped. "i'm trying to hold still but when you do that i want to—"
"want to what?" you rolled your hips slightly and he groaned, deep and guttural.
"want to move," he admitted, his control clearly fraying. "want to fuck you."
"then do it," you said.
something in him snapped. he pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in hard, the force of it punching a cry from your lips. he did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that was deep and relentless. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each thrust.
"yes," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "just like that—don't stop—"
"god," he panted, his voice wrecked. "you feel so good."
you looked down between your bodies and moaned at the sight—his thick cock disappearing into you, glistening with your wetness, stretching you obscenely. "jake, oh my god—"
"feel how deep i am?" he thrust particularly hard and you keened.
"yes—fuck yes—"
he wasn't being careful anymore, wasn't being gentle. he fucked into you with abandon, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine. the sounds were obscene—skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock, his grunts mixing with your moans.
"wanted this," he said against your neck, his breath hot. "wanted you. for so long."
"tell me more," you demanded, loving this unfiltered version of him.
"thought about this constantly," he admitted, his thrusts getting harder. "thought about having you like this. making you feel good. hearing you say my name."
"jake—" you were getting close again, that familiar tension building low in your belly.
"touch yourself," he said. "want to feel you come on my cock. need it. please."
you slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, already swollen and sensitive. the added stimulation made you clench around him and he swore, his rhythm faltering.
"that's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixed on where your fingers worked. "fuck, that's so hot. you're so hot. make yourself cum. let me feel it."
you worked your clit in tight circles, the pressure building faster with each thrust of his cock. he was so deep, hitting all the right spots, the slide of him inside you absolutely perfect. you were making sounds you'd never made before—high, desperate whines and gasps.
"close," you managed. "so close—"
"come for me," he urged, his voice strained. "squeeze my cock. want to feel your pussy milk me. come on, baby, let me feel it—"
the orgasm hit you like lightning, sudden and intense. you cried out his name, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him rhythmically. waves of pleasure crashed over you, so intense you forgot how to breathe.
"oh fuck," jake choked out, his hips stuttering. "you're—i can feel you—i'm gonna—"
he tried to last, you could see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his arms were shaking. but your pussy was still fluttering around him, still clenching in aftershocks, and it was too much. he buried himself deep with a broken moan, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. you felt the warmth of it, felt him fill you up, and the intimacy of it made something in your chest crack open.
"fuck," he gasped, collapsing on top of you. "oh my god. that was—i've never—"
you wrapped your arms around him, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in sync. he was still inside you, softening slowly, and you could feel his release leaking out around his cock.
"that was amazing," you said when you could finally speak. "you were amazing."
he lifted his head to look at you, his expression soft and vulnerable. "i think i might be falling for you," he said quietly. "is that okay? am i allowed to say that?"
your throat felt tight with emotion. "yeah. that's okay."
"good." he kissed you gently, sweetly. "because i don't think i could stop even if you told me to."
he pulled out carefully and you both hissed at the sensitivity. immediately he was gathering you into his arms, pulling you against his chest like he couldn't stand not touching you. you fit there perfectly, your head tucked under his chin.
"we should probably talk about this," you said after a while. "about us."
"we will," jake promised, his fingers tracing patterns on your spine. "but can we just stay like this for a bit first?"
"yeah." you pressed closer, breathing in the scent of him. "we can stay like this."
and you did. stayed tangled together as the morning light grew stronger, as the sounds of people leaving the party filtered up through the floor. his cum was still leaking out of you, making a mess on your thighs, but neither of you moved to clean up. you just held each other in this new, tentative peace.
jake changed almost overnight once you started dating. it was like giving him permission to want you openly had flipped some switch in his brain. suddenly he was everywhere.
he'd show up at your door before your 9 am lecture with coffee, your exact order memorised, his hair still messy from sleep because he'd woken up early just to see you. he'd kiss you goodbye and then text you five minutes later with some random thought he forgot to mention. did you know that octopuses have three hearts? just learnt that. thought you should know.
in class he'd sit next to you instead of in his usual back corner spot, his knee always pressed against yours under the desk. sometimes his hand would find its way to your thigh, just resting there, his thumb tracing absent patterns while he tried to focus on the lecture. you'd catch him staring at you instead of his laptop, and when you'd raise an eyebrow he'd just smile, unashamed.
"you're distracting," he'd whisper.
"i'm literally just sitting here."
"i know. it's very distracting."
study sessions became impossible. you'd be explaining a concept and he'd lean over to kiss your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth. "jake, i'm trying to help you."
"i know, keep going," he'd say, already doing it again.
"you're not even listening."
"i am. you were talking about. um." he'd grin sheepishly. "okay i wasn't listening. but you're just so pretty when you're focused."
your friends noticed immediately. yunjin had taken one look at jake's arm slung around your shoulders at lunch, the way he was playing with your hair while talking to beomgyu, and pulled you aside.
"okay so he's like. obsessed with you," she said. "it's actually kind of cute. in a golden retriever kind of way."
"he's not obsessed."
"babe, he just offered to carry your bag even though your apartment is literally three minutes away. and he's been smiling at you for the past ten minutes like you hung the moon. it's obsessed behaviour."
but she said it fondly, and later you caught her telling beomgyu that she'd never seen you this relaxed before. "she's not performing," yunjin had said. "she's just. being."
and she was right. with jake you didn't have to strategise or calculate or perform anything. he wanted you. obviously, openly, without games or subtext. when you showed up to his place in sweats and no makeup, he'd light up like you'd dressed up specifically for him. when you stole his hoodies, he'd just buy more so you could steal those too.
"i like seeing you in my clothes," he'd admitted once, pulling you close. "makes me feel like. i don't know. like you're mine."
"possessive," you'd teased.
"is that bad?"
"no," you'd said, kissing him. "i like it."
jake's friends had their own reactions. you'd been nervous meeting them properly, remembering that disastrous first encounter at the party. but they'd welcomed you easily, even if they did give jake endless shit.
"dude, you're so whipped," his roommate said, watching jake immediately get up to refill your drink without being asked.
"and?" jake had said, completely unbothered.
"and nothing, it's just funny. remember when you said you'd never be that guy who drops everything for someone? and now you're literally—"
"finish that sentence and i'm not helping you with discrete math anymore."
but he was smiling when he said it, and later his roommate told you that jake talked about you constantly. "it's honestly annoying how happy he is."
the thing was, you were happy too. unexpectedly, overwhelmingly happy. jake made you sharper somehow, more focused. when you studied together you actually retained information because he made learning feel collaborative instead of competitive. he celebrated your successes like they were his own, staying up with you before big presentations, bringing you stress-relief snacks, sending you encouraging texts.
and you did the same for him. learnt his patterns, his tells when he was overwhelmed. you'd show up at the lab with dinner when you knew he'd been working for hours. you'd run your fingers through his hair when he was stressed, and he'd melt into your touch, all that tension draining away.
"you make everything easier," he'd told you once, late at night when you were both too tired to filter. "like the world's less heavy when you're around."
"that's the cheesiest thing you've ever said."
"i know. i mean it though."
weeks blurred together in the best way. stolen kisses between classes. jake's hand always finding yours. the way he'd kiss you goodbye at your door and then text you goodnight five minutes later even though he lived one floor up. movie nights that turned into makeout sessions on your couch, jake's glasses getting in the way until you carefully removed them, setting them aside so you could kiss him properly.
he got clingy when he was tired, wrapping around you like a koala, mumbling into your neck. "don't leave."
"i'm just going to get water."
"too far. stay."
"jake, i'll be gone thirty seconds."
"thirty seconds too long."
you'd laugh, running your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep, and feel something warm and settled in your chest. this was what it was supposed to feel like.
the beach had been jake's idea. "there's supposed to be a meteor shower tonight," he'd said, eyes lighting up behind his glasses. "and i know this spot that's perfect for stargazing. barely any light pollution. we could bring blankets, make a whole thing of it?"
so here you were, sitting on a blanket in the sand while the ocean crashed softly in the background. the sky was impossibly clear, stars scattered across it like someone had spilt diamonds. jake lay with his head in your lap, one of your hands playing with his hair while he pointed up at the sky.
"okay, so see those seven stars there?" he traced a pattern with his finger. "that's the big dipper, which is part of ursa major. but if you follow those two stars at the edge, they point directly to polaris. the north star."
you hummed, only half listening to the actual words. you were too busy watching him. the way his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, how animated his expressions were when he talked about something he loved. the moonlight caught on his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.
"and that one—" he was still going, completely absorbed. "that's cassiopeia. she was a queen in greek mythology who bragged about being more beautiful than the sea nymphs, so poseidon punished her by placing her in the sky upside down. you can see how the constellation kind of looks like a W? that's her throne."
"jake," you said softly.
"oh, and if you look over there, that really bright one? that's actually venus, not a star. common misconception. planets don't twinkle like stars do because—"
you leaned down and kissed him, cutting off his rambling mid-sentence. he made a surprised sound but responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. when you pulled back he followed your lips automatically, trying to chase another kiss.
"you were saying?" you teased.
"i—" he blinked up at you, slightly dazed. "what was i saying?"
"something about venus."
"right. venus. because of the. um." he lost his train of thought as you leaned down again, kissing him slower this time. "you're distracting me from the meteor shower."
"am i?"
"yeah. very effectively." but he was smiling, pulling you down for another kiss.
you shifted, moving to straddle his lap properly. jake's hands immediately found your waist, sliding under your shirt to rest against bare skin.
the kissing turned heated quickly. jake made these small, needy sounds that drove you crazy, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, anywhere he could reach. when you rolled your hips experimentally he gasped into your mouth, his grip tightening.
"fuck," he whispered. "you're gonna kill me."
you kissed down his jaw, his neck, feeling his pulse racing under your lips. his hands had moved to your hips now, guiding your movements, and you could feel how affected he was. "still thinking about the stars?" you teased.
"what stars?" he pulled you down for another bruising kiss, one hand tangling in your hair. "can't think about anything except you."
you ground down harder and jake made a sound that was almost a whine, his head falling back against the blanket. "please," he gasped. "please, i need—"
suddenly, the loud, insistent beeping of his watch interrupted the moment.
you both froze.
jake's face went bright red as he fumbled with his wrist. "oh my god. oh my god. it's my fitness watch. it thinks i'm exercising because my heart rate—" another beep. "make it stop."
you couldn't help it. you burst out laughing, burying your face in his shoulder while his watch continued its concerned beeping about his elevated heart rate. "it's not funny," jake groaned, still trying to silence the watch. "this is so embarrassing."
"it's a little funny."
"my watch just cockblocked me. there's nothing funny about that."
you kissed his jaw, still giggling. "i think it's cute. your heart rate got that high just from kissing me?"
"you were not just kissing me, you were—" he made a frustrated noise. "yes. okay. yes. you have that effect on me. are you happy?"
"very." you settled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing under your ear. the watch had finally stopped beeping. "for what it's worth, my heart's doing the same thing."
"yeah?" he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.
"yeah."
you lay there together, the ocean providing a steady soundtrack, the stars scattered above you. jake pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "i love you," he said softly. "in case that wasn't obvious from the way my watch literally staged an intervention."
you lifted your head to look at him. his eyes were soft, open, vulnerable in the moonlight. "i love you too," you said, meaning it completely.
he smiled, that full, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. then he kissed you again, sweet and unhurried, his hands gentle on your face.
"we should probably head back soon," you murmured eventually. "it's getting late."
"five more minutes," jake said, pulling you closer. "just. let me hold you for five more minutes."
you settled back against him, his arms wrapped securely around you, both of you looking up at the vast sky. you'd come here to watch a meteor shower but you'd been too distracted by each other to notice if any had passed.
somehow, you didn't mind at all.
"hey," jake said softly. "thank you."
"for what?"
"for giving me another chance. for being patient with me while i figured my shit out. for. this. all of it." his arms tightened around you. "i know i was difficult at first."
"you weren't difficult. you were protecting yourself. i get it now."
"still. you could have given up on me. but you didn't."
"of course i didn't," you said, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "you're worth it. you've always been worth it."
jake made a soft, overwhelmed sound, burying his face in your hair. "i'm gonna marry you someday," he mumbled. "just so you know."
"jake—"
"not now. obviously not now. but someday. when we've graduated and figured our lives out and i can actually afford a ring. i'm gonna marry you."
you felt your chest go tight with emotion. "okay," you whispered. "someday."
"yeah. someday."
you stayed like that until the cold started seeping in, until you were both shivering despite being pressed together. finally, reluctantly, you packed up the blanket and headed back to campus. jake held your hand the entire walk, occasionally pulling you close to kiss you at random intervals.
"what was that for?" you asked after the third surprise kiss.
"just because," he said, smiling. "because i can. because i love you. do i need more reasons?"
"no," you said, kissing him back. "no more reasons needed."
if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3
Themes: Smut | Angst | Slow Burn | Small Town | Found Family | Cowboy AU | Jealousy | Second Chance Romance | T.W.: mentions of domestic abuse, infidelity, physical violence
Wordcount: 50.5K
Playlist: 'Whirlwind' - Lainey Wilson | 'Too Sweet' - Hozier | 'Girl I Never Met' - Corey Kent | 'Old Pine' - Ben Howard | 'Not With Haste' - Mumford & Sons | 'Agape' - Bear's Den | 'Wildfire' - Seafret
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Quickie - Semi Public Sex (twice) - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Soft Dom! Mingyu - PIV - Unprotected Intercourse - Praise (Yes, he uses 'good girl')
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The bus doesn’t so much arrive as it gives up.
It hisses to a tired stop beside a curb that looks like it hasn’t been repainted since the last century, and for a second, you just sit there with your hands buried in the straps of your duffel, watching dust drift across the windshield in a slow, lazy sheet. The driver calls out the town name—soft, drawled, almost bored—and a couple of people stand and stretch like they’ve got somewhere to be. You do too. It just isn’t somewhere you can say out loud.
You step down into air that smells like pine and sun-warmed asphalt. There’s no ocean here, no damp salt on your tongue, none of that sticky, crowded heat you’ve been living in for months. The sky is vast in a way that makes you feel both smaller and safer, blue pulled tight over jagged mountains that sit on the horizon. Not the kind of mountains you grew up seeing in postcards. These are closer. Real. Their shadows over the town look protective rather than threatening.
Your pulse stays where it is. You wait for it to sprint—wait for the familiar headrush of panic, for your skin to go cold, for your ears to ring with imagined footsteps behind you. But the street is quiet. Not dead quiet, not eerie, just… slow. A car passes with a dog’s head out the window. Somewhere, a doorbell rings. A bird calls from the trees. A cow lows in the distance, so far away it sounds like it might be part of the wind. A man in a faded cap crosses the road with a cup of coffee, nods at you like you belong. You don’t.
You shift the duffel higher on your shoulder and walk. Your shoes scrape on gravel. Every few steps, you glance over your shoulder anyway, because your body doesn’t know how to stop doing that. It does now out of muscle memory, out of survival. Out of the kind of fear that doesn’t vanish just because the scenery changes. You keep your head down, hat low, sunglasses on, even though the sun is mild. You are a shadow wearing a name that isn’t yours.
Just keep moving. Just one night. That’s what you told yourself when you bought the bus ticket. That’s what you told yourself every time you crossed a state line, every time you slept in a seat with your arms wrapped around your bag like a life vest. One night to reset. One night to breathe. Then you’d be gone before anyone could notice you were there.
Transit town. That plan feels tidy in your mind until you see the motel. It’s a squat building at the edge of Main Street, the neon sign blinking VACANCY like a half-hearted promise. The kind of place with flower boxes on the windows and an ice machine that probably hasn’t worked in a decade. There are two pickup trucks in the lot, both covered in dust. A porch swing sits outside the office door, creaking lazily in the breeze even though no one’s sitting in it.
You pause on the sidewalk. You don’t want to go in. Going inside means saying a name. It means producing cash. It means being seen by a person who might remember you if someone ever asks—Did you see a woman come through here? Brunette, about this tall, nervous? But you’re tired. You are so tired you feel hollow in your bones. Like if you take one more step without stopping, you’ll split open and pour yourself onto the ground. So you go in.
A bell jingles when you push the door open. Behind the counter, a woman in wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan sits despite the mild day. There’s a mug in her hand that says World’s Best Grandma and a crossword half-finished beside it. She looks up and smiles like she’s been waiting for you in a way that is purely polite and nothing more. “Afternoon, hon. Looking for a room?”
Your throat feels dry, tight like you’ve swallowed sand. You force your mouth to shape the words you practised. “Yes. Just for a night.”
“Sure thing. Passing through?” There it is—that little question that always feels like a hook in your ribs. You nod. Make yourself look casual. “Just passing through.”
She doesn’t ask where you’re headed. She doesn’t ask where you came from. She just pulls a ledger toward her, taps a pen against it thoughtfully. “We’ve got a single upstairs or a double on the ground floor. Single’s cheaper.” Cheaper wins. Always.
You slide folded bills across the counter—money that feels too thin, too fast to disappear. You hate how aware you are of every dollar. You hate how much you hate needing to count. Your last job used to pay by direct deposit. Now you feel each note leaving your hands like a small amputation. She peels off the bills, counts them, and hands you a key attached to a wooden block with a faded number branded into it. “Upstairs, end of the hall. Breakfast is coffee and toast in the morning if you want it. No charge.”
You swallow, nod again. “Thank you.”
She tilts her head, looking at you a second longer. Your skin prickles. Then she smiles softly. “You look like you’ve had a long road.”
Your breath stutters. You don’t know what expression you’re wearing, but it must be something honest, something that makes her say that. You exhale softly. “Yeah. I… yeah.”
She doesn’t push. She just nods as if that’s the whole conversation. As if she understands every human who walks in here is carrying something invisible. “Well, get some rest.”
You take the key and head back outside. Your room is exactly what you expected: a narrow bed with a floral quilt, a little table with a lamp that hums, and a bathroom with a shower curtain that smells faintly of bleach. There’s a window at the far end that looks out on the mountains. You put your duffel on the bed and stand there for a while, breathing.
No one followed you in. No one is outside your door. No car has slowed in the parking lot. Your hands are shaking anyway. You turn the deadbolt twice. Then you drag the chair from the tiny table over to the door. The legs scrape on the linoleum, loud in the quiet room, and the sound makes your stomach coil. You wedge it beneath the handle like you’ve done a hundred times, like it’s a ritual more sacred than prayer. Only then do you let yourself sit on the edge of the bed.
Your phone stays off. It has stayed off for weeks now. The battery is a useless brick, SIM card removed and wrapped in tissue at the bottom of your bag. You don’t check messages. You don’t scroll. You don’t search for anything that can ping your location. You try not to think in straight lines. That’s the worst way to remember.
Your body is still running on the leftover adrenaline that got you here. It’s a jitter behind your ribs, an electric ache under your skin. You should sleep. You should collapse. Instead, you drift to the window and stare out.
You don’t know the names of the mountains. You’ve never cared about names for things like this before. But something about the way they cut into the sky makes a quiet feeling bloom low in your chest, unfamiliar and almost painful in its gentleness. You didn’t know quiet could sound like this. Back there, quiet was never safe. Quiet meant listening. Quiet meant waiting for the footstep in the hall, the shift of a door, the click of a bottle on a counter. Quiet was a warning that something was about to break. Here, quiet is almost… comforting.
You force yourself to unpack only what you need: toothbrush, a change of clothes, the tiny travel deodorant you bought at a gas station three towns ago. You lay your ID on the table face down, because even looking at the plastic makes your stomach twist. You don’t want to see that name again. You don’t want to see that face. You take a shower that lasts too long just because hot water feels like a luxury you almost forgot. Then you sit on the bed with wet hair, wrapped in the motel towel, and eat the granola bar you’ve been rationing since yesterday. You count the cash you have left. You count it twice.
The number doesn’t change, but the second count still feels better, like maybe if you look hard enough, money will multiply out of pity. It doesn’t. Two nights. Maybe three if you stretch it, if you don’t eat much, if you don’t need anything unexpected. You stare at the ceiling and whisper to yourself, “Three days.” Then softer: “Two.” Then: “Maybe one.”
You close your eyes. You sleep with your sneakers still beside the bed within reach. You sleep with the chair wedged under the handle like a guard dog.
Dreams come in flashes you don’t want to name. Hands. A voice. A hallway that feels too narrow. You wake up before dawn with your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest. It takes a full minute to remember where you are. It takes another full minute to notice the quiet is still quiet. You breathe into your palm until you stop shaking.
The chair is still wedged beneath the handle. No one touched it.
Outside, the sky is beginning to pale. The mountains are turning purple and gold like they’re waking up too. The sight is so beautiful your throat goes tight again, but not from fear this time. Something else—something you forgot you were allowed to feel.
You rinse your face, tuck your hair under your hat, and look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your eyes are too alert for this early hour. Your skin is a little sallow from the road. There’s a bruise blooming under your jaw that you keep covering with your collar and hoping no one sees. You don’t look like a woman who came here for vacation. You look like someone who fled. You grab your purse and head out before the office even opens, because being in a room too long makes you feel trapped.
Main Street at sunrise looks like an old movie set: brick storefronts with peeling paint, a hardware store with saddles hanging in the window, a diner with a neon coffee cup sign already lit. Pickup trucks line the curb. Someone is sweeping the sidewalk in front of a feed store, slow and unbothered. You keep your head down and walk like you belong here, even though every muscle in your body is still coiled. First stop: the grocery store.
It’s small, maybe four aisles, old linoleum, a bell over the door like the motel’s. The produce section is tidy, apples stacked in pyramids, local honey in jars with handwritten labels. A teenage cashier with freckles and a ponytail smiles at you like she recognises you, even though she doesn’t.
You hover by a bulletin board near the entrance. Job ads are pinned in crooked rows: hay for sale, babysitting, church bake sale, tractor repair. Nothing that says I will hire a woman with no references and no past. A middle-aged man stocking shelves notices your slow scan and asks, “You lookin’ for somebody?” The question is kind, casual. It still makes your breath hitch.
“Work,” you say. Keep it simple.
His brow furrows thoughtfully. “Uh… we’re full up. But you could try the diner? Marla sometimes needs a hand.”
“Thanks.”
His smile is easy. “Good luck.”
You nod quickly and escape with a loaf of bread you didn’t plan to buy but do, just to look normal. Next: the diner.
The bell jingles again. Everything in this town has bells. Maybe to announce people coming in. Maybe because people don’t sneak here. Maybe because no one has anything to hide. A woman behind the counter wipes the counter down with a rag and looks up. Her name tag says Marla. “Morning. Sit anywhere.”
You take the stool closest to the exit by instinct. When she pours coffee into a chipped mug, your hands shake as you add cream. “Passing through?” she asks, and you almost laugh because it seems to be the town’s only question. “Maybe,” you say.
She studies you briefly, not unkindly. “Well, you’re welcome all the same.” You swallow a sip of coffee that tastes like it’s been brewed a thousand times, and all of them were for you. You clear your throat. “Do you have any openings? Someone at the grocery store said you might. I can wait tables, wash dishes, anything.”
Marla’s face softens in apology. “I’d love to, hon, but my niece’s doing weekends now, and I can’t afford another body unless I know I can keep them on. Town’s quiet this time of year.” Quiet.
You nod, pretending it doesn’t deflate you. “I understand.”
She doesn’t stop there. She lowers her voice a little, friendly conspiratorial. “Try the post office board. Sometimes folks stick real jobs up there. Or the bar later, if you don’t mind a bit of noise.” Noise isn’t what scares you. Noise is manageable. It’s silence with teeth you don’t trust. “Thank you.”
She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, a gesture so maternal it almost unspools you on the spot. You leave money for the coffee you barely drink and walk out with the sun on your face.
The post office board has more of the same. Yard work. Fence repair. A notice about a lost black lab. Someone needs help fixing a roof, but it’s clearly for a man who can lift two-by-fours without flinching.
By late morning, you’ve done three loops of the town, pretending your feet are restless instead of desperate. You buy a cheap apple at a fruit stand. You smile at strangers. You keep your head down when a truck slows to turn, not because it’s suspicious but because your body doesn’t know how to interpret not suspicious.
You find yourself outside a bakery without remembering how you got there. It’s a narrow place with old white paint and windows fogged from warmth. A small chalkboard sign out front reads: FRESH CINNAMON ROLLS — HOT COFFEE — ASK ABOUT PIE
The smell hits you like a tidal wave. Butter, sugar, yeast—home. Your stomach twists painfully. You haven’t let yourself eat like a human in weeks. You push the door open. No bell this time. Huh.
The bakery is alive: a few small tables, sun spilling in, a glass case full of pastries that look like they were made by someone who loves feeding people. Behind the counter is an older woman with a braid going silver down her back. She wears flour on her apron and wrinkles around her eyes. She looks up and smiles. “Well, you look hungry.”
The bluntness makes a laugh escape without permission. “I am.”
“Sit. I’ll get you something to start.”
Before you can protest, she’s already moving. She pours coffee, slides a plate with a warm roll in front of you, and when you instinctively reach for your wallet, she shakes her head. “First one’s on the house.” You blink at her. “I can pay.”
“I’m sure you can. But you don’t have to for that.” Her voice is calm. “Eat. Then talk.” You don’t know why your eyes burn.
You focus on the roll instead. It’s too good. It tastes like Sundays and safe kitchens and mornings you don’t have to earn with fear. You eat half of it before you even think to slow down. The woman watches you without staring. She wipes her hands on her apron and leans her elbows on the counter. “You’re not from around here.”
You shake your head. “Just… passing through.” There it is again. The safe line.
She hums softly, not buying it but not challenging it either. “Passing through usually doesn’t look like an empty stomach and a blur behind the eyes.”
Your throat tightens. You force yourself to breathe evenly. “I’m looking for work,” you say, because you need the conversation to stay on familiar ground. “Anything. Cleaning, serving, I don’t…” You stop when your voice wobbles. The woman’s gaze stays steady. There’s a weight to it. Not suspicion. Attention. “Name’s Nora,” she says.
You hesitate, then give her the name you’ve been wearing all week. It feels foreign in your mouth. “I’m… I’m staying at the motel.”
Nora nods once. “We don’t have an opening here. Not one that pays real money.” The words sting even though you braced for them. You nod anyway. Then Nora tilts her head a little, like she’s listening to something you can’t hear. Like she’s hearing the between-the-lines you didn’t say. “You willing to work hard?”
You give her a look that’s probably too intense. “Yes.”
“You mind getting dirty?”
“No.”
“You mind early mornings?”
Your mouth twitches. “I’m already awake.”
That makes her smile properly. “Alright then.”
She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a napkin, and smooths it with her palm. She takes a pen from behind her ear. “There’s a ranch out past the old highway,” she says, writing as she talks. “Big one. Been here longer than I’ve been alive. Three owners these days. Always busy. Always needing hands. They don’t hire just anybody—so don’t go in there expecting it to be easy—but if you’re serious about work, it’s the best shot in this county.”
The word “ranch” lands in your mind. A ranch means land. Animals. Long days. A place that probably doesn’t ask too many questions as long as you show up and do your job. A place far enough from town that you might be able to breathe without flinching at every passing truck. You watch her pen scratch lines and arrows on the napkin. “Take County Road 4 till it forks,” she continues. “Go left at the old windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house. Tell whoever you meet that Nora sent you. They’ll know I wouldn’t bother them without a reason.”
She slides the napkin across the counter. Your fingers hover over it like it might burn. “Why are you helping me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Nora’s brows lift slightly. Then her face softens into something that looks like memory. “Because I’ve been tired in strange towns before,” she says simply. “And because you don’t look like trouble. You look like someone who needs a roof and a chance.”
Your throat works. “I don’t have experience. With… ranch stuff.” Nora waves a hand. “Ranch stuff can be taught. Work ethic can’t.”
You stare down at the napkin again. The directions are plain.
For the first time since you ran—since you threw clothes into a duffel with shaking hands—you feel something other than fear trying to take root in you. Hope is a dangerous thing. It makes you picture futures your body isn’t sure are allowed. But it’s there anyway, small and stubborn. You fold the napkin carefully and tuck it into your pocket. “Thank you,” you whisper.
Nora studies you one last time—like she’s taking stock, like she sees all the scars you’re hiding, all the pieces you don’t know how to say out loud. Then she just nods and says, “Eat the rest of that roll. You’ll need the energy.” You do.
Outside, the morning has warmed into a slow gold afternoon. The mountains still sit on the horizon, huge and steady and unconcerned with whatever you’re running from. The town keeps moving at its own gentle pace. You turn toward the motel to grab the rest of your stuff, the napkin heavy in your pocket.
Transit town, you remind yourself.
But as you walk, you catch yourself glancing back once—at the bakery window, at the mountains beyond it, at the road that stretches out past the old highway. And you don’t feel your heart clawing in your chest. You feel it… waiting.
Like maybe, just maybe, something is waiting with it.
You spend exactly ten minutes staring at the motel bed, then you pack your life back into your duffel.
The clerk offers you coffee and a polite smile. You take the coffee, decline the small talk, and step out into the morning sun before you can talk yourself out of any of it—out of the ranch, out of the job hunt, out of the fragile little hope that’s been gnawing at you since Nora drew those crooked lines.
The bus stop looks smaller in daylight. The bench where you sat yesterday is empty now, just a strip of fading paint and gum. There’s no bus coming. Not for hours, maybe not till tomorrow. You’re not checking the schedule.
County Road 4 starts where Main Street ends, a strip of cracked asphalt that bleeds into open land. From there, the mountains look closer, like you could walk straight into them and disappear. You start walking.
The first mile isn’t so bad. The road is mostly flat, the air still cool. Your boots crunch on gravel at the shoulder. Grass rustles quietly in the ditch. Every now and then, a truck passes, slow enough that you can feel the driver’s curious gaze skim over you before they continue on. You keep your eyes forward, shoulders squared, thumbs hooked in your straps so they don’t see your hands shaking. Nora’s directions loop in your head like a mantra. Take County Road 4 till it forks. Left at the windmill. You’ll see their gate before you see the house.
You don’t know how far “till it forks” actually is. The napkin doesn’t have miles on it, only arrows and her cramped handwriting. After the second mile, your legs start to ache. After the third, the sun has climbed higher, and your hoodie feels like a mistake. You keep going. You’re not going back to the motel. You’re not going back, period.
A pickup truck appears behind you sometime after you pass a field of hay bales. You hear it before you see it, the low growl of the engine rolling along the road. Your whole body tenses. Old instinct tells you to dive off the shoulder, to hide, to make yourself small and invisible. You force yourself to breathe. It’s just a truck.
It slows as it comes alongside you, tyres crunching on gravel, and a man’s voice calls out through the open window. “You alright there?” You glance over, ready to fake a smile and a “fine, thanks,” then keep walking. But the driver is old—late sixties, maybe—with a tan that’s more leather than skin, a wide-brimmed hat, and kind eyes crinkled at the corners.
He does not look dangerous. You hate that that’s your metric now. “Road’s long to walk in those boots,” he adds, nodding at your feet. “Where you headed?”
You swallow and adjust your grip on the strap. “Out past the highway,” you say carefully. “A ranch.” His brows go up. “You mean Longview?”
You blink. You didn’t even know it had a name. Nora hadn’t said. “I… I think so,” you murmur. “She just said a big ranch out past the old highway.” He huffs a little laugh. “That’d be them. I’m goin’ that way with feed. Hop in the back, if you want. Save you a few blisters.”
Your gaze jerks to the bed of the truck: dusty, lined with feed sacks and a couple of empty buckets. From there, you’d be in plain sight. No locked doors. No closed windows. The idea of getting into any enclosed space with a stranger makes your stomach clench, but the back… You measure the distance with your eyes. Flat land. Open sky. If you needed to, you could jump. You hesitate long enough that he softens his voice. “Name’s Bud,” he says. “Been drivin’ this road longer than you’ve been breathin’. Figure Nora sent you, from the look of you.”
Your breath catches. “You know Nora?”
“Everybody knows Nora,” he answers. “She’s got a good nose on her. She trusts you enough to send you up to Longview, I trust you enough not to steal my ol’ truck. That seem fair?”
You don’t know what to do with trust said that plainly. You force yourself to nod. “Okay.”
He jerks his thumb toward the back. “Watch your step.”
You climb up carefully, fingers gripping the side of the truck, heart banging more from the decision than the effort. The bed is warm under your palms, dust sticking to your jeans. Bud checks his mirror to be sure you’re settled, then eases back onto the road.
The wind hits you as soon as you’re moving, whipping strands of hair out from under your hat. You sink down between the feed sacks, fingers curled around the metal edge, and let the town slowly unspool behind you. It’s strange, watching it shrink.
You’ve never left somewhere without looking over your shoulder in dread. Now you look back with something else tangled up in it. The bakery sign. The motel roof. The little strip of Main Street you memorised in case you ever had to describe it to… to anyone. Then the last of the houses fall away, and it’s just land.
The road stretches ahead in a narrow strip, bordered by fields and scattered trees. Fence posts march alongside in steady lines, wires glinting in the sun. Cattle dots the distance, dark shapes moving slowly through the green. A hawk circles overhead, its shadow sliding over the ground. You breathe air that smells like dirt and something green and alive and think, wildly, that you could get used to this if given half a chance.
After a while, the truck slows and then stops at a fork in the road, just like Nora said. To the right, the asphalt continues straight toward the mountains. To the left, the road narrows and the old highway sign leans at an angle, half swallowed by weeds. Bud leans out his window and points. “Left’s your turnoff. Gate’s a few miles down. I’ll be goin’ through it myself.”
You blink. “You work there?”
"Nah,” he snorts. "I just take their money for feed. But they’re good folks. Busy. Might be rough around the edges, but they look out for their own.”
The phrase their own makes something twist in you. “Thank you,” you say, voice low but earnest. He waves you off like it’s nothing and starts forward again, taking the left fork. The pavement gives way to a harder, packed-dirt road that jostles you in the back. Dust rises in soft clouds behind the wheels. You clutch the side of the truck and squint ahead.
You see the gate before you see the house, exactly like Nora promised. It appears out of the shimmer of heat: tall wooden posts, heavy metal bars, a sign welded across the top in thick letters: LONGVIEW RANCH
Beyond it, the land seems to roll on forever. Pastures stretch out in every direction, bordered by long runs of fence that gleam in the sun. You see a cluster of buildings farther in—a big house, smaller cabins, barns with open doors. Trucks are parked in wide dirt lots. You spot horses moving along a rise in the distance, riders on their backs just silhouettes against the sky.
The truck slows to a stop beside the gate. There’s a keypad on a post, worn from use. Bud puts the truck in park and twists around to look at you. “End of the line, miss.”
You climb down, legs a little rubbery from the ride. Your boots hit the dirt, kicking up a puff of dust. Up close, the gate’s even bigger, the bars cold under your fingers when you reach out to touch them. You suddenly feel… very, very small. It’s not just the size. It’s the scope. The sense that this place has existed for decades before you and will exist for decades after. That the problems you carry are, to this land, something inconsequential. Bud keys in a code, the kind of sequence his fingers know without his eyes. The gate shudders, then slowly swings open with a low groan. He grins at you over his shoulder. “Good luck to you,” he says. "Remember—work hard and don’t spook easy. They like that.”
“I’ll try.”
He tips his hat and drives on through, following the dirt track up toward the cluster of buildings. You hesitate just outside the gate, watching the path curve away, looking back once down the empty road as a last escape route. Then you tighten your grip on your duffel strap and step forward. Longview Ranch swallows you in.
The road is rutted but solid beneath your boots. On either side, pastures spread out in waves of green and brown. In one, a herd of black cattle moves slowly, tails flicking, heads down. In another, a few horses graze, ears flicking toward you as you pass. Fences crisscross the property, creating a patchwork grid that looks chaotic at first glance and then, the longer you look, perfectly deliberate.
Closer in, you start seeing people. A pair of hands moves along a fence line, hammering in new posts. A woman in a baseball cap and braid leads a horse toward a barn, talking to it under her breath. A guy in a faded tee throws sacks of feed into a wheelbarrow like they weigh nothing. No one stops to stare at you. They glance, note the stranger walking up the drive, then go back to what they’re doing. It unnerves you more than open curiosity would.
Finally, you approach the main cluster: a sprawling two-story house with a wide porch, flanked by outbuildings and a row of smaller cabins. A dog lies in the shade near the steps, tail thumping lazily as you get closer. You don’t know where to go. You’re hovering at the base of the porch steps when a voice calls out from your right. “Hey! You lost?” You turn so fast your duffel swings.
A man is walking toward you from the side of the house, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an open, easy grin that hits you like sunlight. His hair curls a little at his forehead, and there’s dust smudged across his cheek, but it does nothing to dull the brightness of him. He looks like he lives outside and laughs often. Sunshine in human form.
You take a breath. “Uh, maybe,” you admit. "I’m looking for… whoever’s in charge.”
His grin widens. “Well, that depends on who you ask.” He sticks out a hand. "I’m Seokmin.”
You shift your duffel and shake his hand, his palm callused and warm.
You give him your name, the one you’ve been using. It feels less foreign this time. Less like a temporary lie and more like something you might grow into. “Nora at the bakery sent me,” you add quickly, because her name feels like a talisman. "She said you might be looking for help.”
Seokmin’s eyes light up. “Oh, Nora.” He nods approvingly. "If she sent you, that’s a good sign. She doesn’t vouch for just anybody.”
Your shoulders loosen a millimetre. “I don’t… I don’t have ranch experience,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can make them sound better. "But I can work. Anything you need—stables, cleaning, cooking, whatever. I just…” You don’t want to say, I just need somewhere to be. He seems to read it anyway. “Okay, okay,” he says, hands up in mock surrender. "You don’t have to give me your resume out here in the driveway. Come on. We’ll see what the bosses think.” The bosses. Plural.
Seokmin gestures for you to get up the steps and onto the porch. The boards creak under your weight in a familiar, comforting way. Up close, you can see little details—boots lined up by the door, a hat hanging from a hook, a faded horseshoe nailed above the frame. A place people come home to. He knocks once and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer, looking back at you with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispers. "They bark more than they bite.” You aren’t sure that makes you feel better.
The inside of the house smells like coffee, leather, and something savoury from a kitchen you can’t see. The front room is large, with a worn couch, a coffee table covered in magazines and papers, and a big, scarred wooden desk shoved near a window. The desk is currently occupied by a man with a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, one hand flipping through a stack of papers, the other typing on a laptop. He looks up as you come in. Sharp eyes. Dark hair. An energy that crackles quieter than Seokmin’s but no less intense. “Cheol,” Seokmin says. "Got someone for you to meet.” The man—Cheol—holds up a finger, still listening to whoever’s on the line. “No, we need those contracts by Friday or the whole thing falls apart,” he says, voice calm but firm. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send ‘em to my email and to Mingyu’s. Thanks.” He drops the phone back into its cradle and exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose before focusing on you.
“Sorry,” he says. "You’re—?”
You give your name again, feeling suddenly conscious of every wrinkle in your clothes, every smudge of road dust on your skin. Seokmin jumps in before you can stumble over your next sentence. “Nora sent her,” he says. "She’s lookin’ for work. Says she’s not afraid to get dirty.”
Cheol—short for Seungcheol, you assume now—leans back in his chair and gives you a quick once-over. It’s not leering, not assessing in that way. It’s practical, like he’s checking if you’ll fall apart at the first sign of trouble. “You ever worked on a ranch before?” he asks. You shake your head. “No. But I’ve worked… other jobs. Long hours, on my feet. I learn fast.” He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “You got any problem with early mornings?”
"No.”
"You got any problem with bein’ told what to do?” That one makes your jaw tighten, just a little. You’ve had problems with it before. But not like this. Not in a context where what to do meant what to be, what to say, who to see, how to breathe. You swallow. “Not if it’s fair,” you say carefully. "Not if it’s about the job.”
Seokmin’s mouth quirks like he likes that answer. Seungcheol studies you another beat. Then he shrugs, like he’s already halfway moved on to the next problem. “We always need hands,” he says. "But it’s not up to just me. Mingyu’ll want a say.” You latch onto the first part. “So… there might be a place?”
"Maybe,” Seokmin chimes in. "We’ll see.”
Before you can ask who Mingyu is, another presence fills the doorway behind you. “What might we see?”
The voice is deeper than you expected. Calm, low, with a gravel edge that vibrates straight down your spine. You turn, slower this time, like bracing for impact. The man standing in the doorway might as well have stepped out of the mountains. He’s taller than Seokmin and broader through the shoulders, wearing a worn tee and jeans that have seen better days. A baseball cap shadows his eyes, but you can see the line of his jaw—sharp and set—and the dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. There’s dirt on his forearms, a smear of something dark across his shirt. He smells like sweat and dust and sun. He takes you in with one long, unhurried look. It feels like being put under a microscope. Your fingertip goes numb around the strap of your duffel.
Seokmin brightens. “Perfect timing,” he says. "This is—” he glances at you for confirmation, then says your name. "She’s lookin’ for work. Nora sent her up.”
The man—Mingyu—doesn’t look at Seokmin. His gaze stays on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder. “Work,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. You force yourself not to fidget. “I can do whatever you need,” you say, because silence feels worse. "I know I don’t have ranch experience, but I—”
He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. “Have you ever handled livestock?”
"No.”
"Ridden a horse?” Your cheeks heat. “No.”
"Driven a tractor? Worked a fence line? Fixed a busted pipe in the middle of a field in the rain?”
You open your mouth, close it. “No,” you admit, quieter now. He nods once, as if that confirms exactly what he thought. “Then we don’t need her,” he says, speaking to Seungcheol now as if you’re invisible. "We don’t have time to babysit someone who’s never seen a saddle up close.” The words hit hard, colder than you expect. You stand a little straighter.
“I said I can learn,” you insist. "I’m not asking for special treatment, I’m asking for a chance.”
His eyes flick back to you, dark and unreadable. There’s something there under the flat assessment—annoyance, maybe. Or something sharper that flashes and disappears before you can name it. “You got references?” he asks. Your mouth goes dry. References. You could give him names. You could give him numbers. You could also quietly hand him the thread that leads straight back to everything you’re running from. You shake your head. “Not… not ones you can call,” you say.
His jaw ticks. “So no references, no ranch experience, no idea what this job is actually like.” He clicks his tongue softly. "We’re not a charity.” You feel your throat close around a surge of panic. This was a bad idea. You were stupid to come. You were foolish to hope. You should’ve just kept walking to the next town, the next bus, the next—No. You are so tired of running on empty and calling it safety. You plant your feet.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” you say, voice shaky but louder. "But I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m not picky, I’m not scared of hard work, and I will do whatever you tell me to do if it keeps a roof over my head.”
Somewhere behind you, Seokmin shifts. “We are short-handed,” he offers. "Since Hana started doin’ more horse work and Tess cut her hours, the bunkhouse chores have been a mess. She could at least help around there while she learns the rest.”
Seungcheol nods, eyes back on a page he’s pretending he’s not reading. “And Nora doesn’t send us dead weight,” he adds. "Last one she sent stuck around three years.”
Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. He’s not cruel, exactly. But he’s not kind either. He looks at you like you’re a problem he doesn’t have time for. A complication he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want. You see it in the way his eyes snag on the bruise half-hidden by your collar. Or how his throat moves when you say you have nowhere else to go. He sees more than he wants to. You don’t know it for sure, but you feel it.
“We don’t know anything about you,” he says finally. "You say you’ll work hard? So does everybody who walks up that road.”
"How many walk?” you ask before you can stop yourself. "It’s a long road.” The corner of Seokmin’s mouth kicks up. Seungcheol lets out what might be an amused breath. Mingyu’s eyes narrow, just a little. “You think mouthing off is gonna help your case?”
"I think being honest will,” you shoot back, then wince because that sounded sharper than you meant. You take a breath, try again. "Look. I know I’m not ideal. If you had a line of people with more experience and clean resumes and references, you’d pick them. I get that. But you don’t.”
You gesture vaguely toward the window, toward the endless pastures and fences and animals you don’t know how to handle yet.
“You said you’re not a charity,” you say. "I’m not asking you to be. I’m offering you my time, my effort, my everything in exchange for a paycheck and a bed. If I screw up, you can fire me. If I can’t learn fast enough, you can send me away. But if you don’t give me a chance, I’ve got… nothing.” The last word lands too heavy. You hear the wobble in your voice, hate it, but can’t pull it back.
The room goes quiet. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks. Outside, a truck door slams. The ordinary sounds of a life you’re not part of yet. Seokmin is watching Mingyu now, not you. So is Seungcheol. It occurs to you that, for all his talk about not being the only one who decides, Mingyu’s opinion clearly carries weight here. He looks pissed about it. He drags a hand down his face, like he’s trying to wipe away the argument.
“Cheol,” he says finally, not taking his eyes off you, “you really want someone green as spring grass out there? She’ll slow us down. She’ll get hurt.”
"Then don’t put her on a bull,” Seungcheol replies dryly. "Start her with bunkhouse work. Stables. She can learn. We did.”
Mingyu snorts. “We grew up on this land.”
"You weren’t born knowing which end of a cow is which,” Seokmin chirps. "Remember when you tried to milk the bull?”
Mingyu shoots him a look that could cut wire. “I was six.”
"Still counts.”
The banter loosens something in the air, a pattern older than you, older than this argument. You stand there, heart pounding, trying not to sway on your feet. Mingyu exhales, long and slow, like the fight is leaking out of him whether he wants it to or not. He looks at you again. Really looks.
You know what he sees: road-worn clothes, worn-out boots, a duffel that’s too light for someone who plans to stay, eyes that haven’t slept well in longer than you can remember. You don’t know what he makes of it.
“Two weeks,” he says abruptly.
You blink. “What?”
"You get two weeks,” he repeats, voice clipped. "Trial basis. You do what you’re told, you listen more than you talk, and you don’t touch a damn horse without someone watching you. You show up late, you slack off, you cause problems, you’re gone. Got it?”
Your knees go weak with relief so fast you’re glad you’re already standing near a chair. “I won’t let you down,” you say, the words rushing out. "I promise, I—”
He holds up a hand. “Promises don’t mean much out here,” he says flatly. "Work does.”
"I’ll work,” you say. You wish you could show him your hands, all the small scars they already carry from other lives. "I’ll prove it.”
He studies you for another heartbeat, then turns away, already heading for the door. “Seok,” he calls over his shoulder. "Show her where she’s stayin’. Get her a list of chores from Tess.”
"On it,” Seokmin replies gleefully.
Mingyu reaches the doorway and pauses just long enough to glance back, eyes skimming over you one more time. His mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Welcome to Longview, Rookie. Don’t fuck up.” Then he disappears through the door and out onto the porch, leaving the taste of the nickname in the air. Rookie.
You’re not sure if it stings more because of how he said it… or because part of you desperately, stubbornly wants to prove you can be more than that.
Seokmin moves like he’s already decided you’re staying.
He walks you off the porch with a light clap of his hands, the kind people do when they’re excited about the shape of the day. The house falls behind you. The yard opens into dirt paths packed down by years of boots and hooves. You keep your duffel close, still half expecting someone to stop you and say, Actually, no, sorry, we changed our minds. But no one says that.
Seokmin points things out as you go, narrating the world like a tour guide who’s too enthusiastic for the size of his audience. “Barn’s over there—big red one. Tack room attached on the left. Don’t go in the tack room without one of us for the first week, okay? Horses can be… opinionated.” He says it with a grin, like horses are just moody roommates. Like being afraid of them isn’t something that could live in a person.
“Bunkhouses are past the corrals. Main bunkhouse for the guys on the right, girls on the left. You’ll be with the women.”
The path curves between two low buildings. The men’s bunkhouse has a porch crowded with boots, a couple of shirts hanging off a railing like someone abandoned them mid-laugh. The women’s bunkhouse is smaller, neater, with a pot of something green struggling to live in a cracked terracotta planter. A place to sleep. A door that isn’t a motel door. A roof that isn’t temporary by default.
Seokmin knocks once and swings the women’s bunkhouse door open. “Alright, ladies!” he calls, voice bright. “We got a new face!”
The room inside is warm, cluttered, lived-in. It smells like detergent and coffee and something citrusy—somebody’s lotion, probably. Four bunks line the walls in tidy pairs, with curtains pulled halfway around some of them. There are posters taped up, boots lined neatly by the door, a table crowded with mugs and a half-finished deck of cards. Three women look up at once.
The first one is sitting cross-legged on her bunk, hair in a braid that looks like it could survive a hurricane, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She has the kind of face that wears mischief like a crown.
The second one is leaning over the table, folding shirts, calm as a lake. She looks older—late twenties maybe, early thirties—and there’s a quiet steadiness to her, a groundedness you feel immediately.
The third one is perched on the edge of a bunk with one boot half on, chewing gum and looking like she was born with a smirk.
Your nerves flare. New places usually mean new rules. New people mean the urge to shrink, to make yourself smaller so you don’t trigger anything unpredictable. But the women don’t look at you like a threat. They look at you like something interesting just walked in on a Tuesday.
“Ohhh,” the braided one says, pushing to her feet. She’s shorter than you expected, compact muscles and sharp eyes. “Is this the stray Nora sent up the road?”
Seokmin laughs. “Don’t call her a stray, Hana.”
Hana. She steps closer and sticks out a hand without hesitation. “I’m Hana,” she says. “Welcome to Longview.” You take her hand. Her grip is firm, warm. Hana studies your face for about half a second, then nods like she’s already decided you’re fine. “You’re cute,” she announces. “We’ll keep you.”
The woman at the table snorts softly. “Don’t scare the poor girl. She just got here.” She wipes her hands on her jeans and walks over, offering you a smile that makes your shoulders loosen a fraction. “I’m Tess,” she says. “Bunkhouse mom, whether I like it or not.”
You almost laugh. The title fits her immediately. There’s a sense of I will make sure you eat and sleep and don’t break yourself in half rolling off her like warmth.
“Riley,” the gum-chewer announces, hopping down from her bunk. She doesn’t offer a hand—she offers a shoulder bump, like you’re already friends. “You like trouble? Because I’m trouble. That means we’re probably gonna get along.” You blink at her. Riley grins wider. “Kidding,” she says, not kidding at all. “Mostly.”
Seokmin claps again, as if to reset the room’s energy. “She’s on a two-week trial. Mingyu’s rules. Be nice.” Riley rolls her eyes so hard you think she might see her own brain. “Of course it’s Mingyu’s rules.”
Hana groans dramatically. “He’s in one of his moods again, huh?” You hesitate, still not sure what is safe to say. “He… wasn’t thrilled.”
The way Riley’s face softens for a split second is so fast you almost doubt you saw it. “He never is with new people,” Tess says gently. “Don’t take it personal. It’s a him thing.” Hana jerks her thumb at herself. “Also, he hates when Seok brings home strays. Ugly side effect of being the middle brother with stress issues.”
"Hey!” Seokmin protests.
“You literally brought home a goat once,” Hana says.
“It was lonely!”
Riley bursts out laughing. You don’t mean to, but a sound sneaks out of you. It feels strange in your throat, like using a muscle you forgot existed. Hana catches it and smirks. “See? Already improving the vibe.”
Seokmin points around the room. “Okay. Rookie—” He winces at his own word like he remembers Mingyu said it. “—uh, okay, you. Pick a bunk. Tess’ll show you the rules. I gotta go back out.” He starts toward the door, then pauses, looking back at you with that bright, earnest face. “Seriously,” he says quietly enough that only you hear. “You’re gonna be fine.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just nod.
He leaves. The door shuts behind him. For a breath, it’s just you and the girls. Then Hana snaps her fingers. “Alright. First things first. Boots.” She crouches by one of the bunks and pulls out a spare pair—worn but clean, a little scuffed, loved hard. “These should fit close enough. If not, we’ll swap. You can’t work in those flimsy city shoes. Horses will eat you alive.” You stare at the boots, then at her. “I don’t want to take—”
"You’re not taking,” Tess cuts in gently. “You’re borrowing. We keep spares for anyone who needs them.”
Riley pops her gum. “Plus, if you don’t take them, Hana’s gonna whine about it all day. And I like peace.” Hana flicks Riley’s forehead. “Liar.”
The air feels… easy. Ordinary. Like your arrival isn’t a disruption, but a continuation of something they’ve done before. You accept the boots.
Tess leads you through the bunkhouse like it’s sacred ground. “Showers are in the back,” she says. “Hot water lasts about twenty minutes if you don’t hog it. We do a loose rotation. If you’re about to pass out, say it. We’ll bump you up.”
"Laundry room’s behind the shed. We take turns. Don’t leave your stuff in the washer unless you wanna find it folded on your bed by a mildly annoyed Hana.” Hana makes a face like she is deeply offended by the accuracy.
“Curfew’s not strict,” Tess adds. “But dawn work is. You wanna go into town at night, fine. Just don’t miss morning feed.”
Riley leans against a bunk, grin sharp. “And if you go into town with me, you won’t miss morning feed because I won’t let you sleep in anyway.” You don’t know if she’s joking, but the confidence of it makes your chest feel less hollow. Hana points to an empty top bunk near the window. “That one’s open. Right by the vent. Warm in winter, cool in summer.”
You set your duffel down carefully at the foot of it. It feels surreal to claim space. Like a trespass. Like permission. Tess watches you with something kind in her eyes. “You hungry?” The word itself almost knocks you over. Hungry. Like you’re allowed to be a body with needs instead of a survival strategy. “I—”
Your instinct is to say no. Always no. No need, no burden, no footprint. But the roll from Nora is still warm in your memory. And Tess is already reaching for a loaf of bread on the table, cutting thick slices without waiting for your answer.
“Sit,” she says. Not a command in the way you fear. A command in the way someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders without asking. “Eat. We’re doing lunch anyway.”
Riley slides a jar of peanut butter toward you. “Trust me, bunkhouse rule: you don’t turn down food unless you want Tess to stare you into compliance.” Tess gives her a look. “It’s a gift.”
"It’s a weapon.”
You sit. They talk while you eat. Not interrogating. Not prying. Just talking like people who live together and fill the silence with stories because it’s comfortable, not because they’re trying to trap you. Hana tells you about a horse that kicked Vernon in the shin last week and how Mingyu didn’t even flinch, just muttered “deserved” and kept saddling. Tess mentions the next cattle shipment coming in and how Seungcheol’s been stressed because of contracts. Riley tells you there’s a coffee shop in town that makes a latte so strong it could wake the dead, and how she intends to prove that to you personally when your feet stop wobbling. You laugh more than you mean to.
At some point, Hana tosses a casual line like she’s discussing the weather. “Cheol’s gonna hate that Seokmin brought somebody home again. He pretends he doesn’t care, but he does. Big brother stuff.”
You blink, coffee halfway to your mouth. “Cheol is your brother?" “Yep. Unfortunately.” Riley whistles. “Don’t tell her unfortunately. Tell her your brother runs this place like a mob boss who also cries at dog commercials.”
Hana throws a napkin at her. “Shut up.”
You stare. Hana’s eyes narrow, amused. “What?"
"Nothing. I just… didn’t realise.” Tess smiles at your expression.
“Yeah. Blood ties here are messy but good. And if you’re wondering: Mingyu’s not related to them by blood. The three of them grew up together. Seokmin’s like Cheol’s right hand. Mingyu’s… Mingyu.”
The pause is affectionate enough to make you brave. “What does that mean?” Riley leans forward like she’s sharing a secret. “That means he’s grumpy and hot and thinks feelings are a conspiracy.” You choke on your coffee. Hana cackles. Tess sighs with the patience of a saint. “Ignore her. He’s just protective of the ranch. New people make him prickly. He’ll thaw.”
You don’t say what you’re thinking—that the way Mingyu looked at you felt different than “prickly.” Like he’d already pinned you to the wall in his mind and measured every part of you. You just nod.
The afternoon passes in a blur of small kindnesses. They show you where to keep your toiletries. Hana gives you an extra hoodie because yours is thin, and the mornings get cold. Riley digs through a drawer and hands you a pair of gloves with a grin. “You can’t blister up on day one. That’s illegal.” You try to protest. They ignore you.
By the time the door opens again and Seokmin sticks his head in, you’re already sitting on your bunk with your boots on, feeling like a person who belongs in a room full of women laughing. “Ready for your grand tour?” he asks, eyes bright.
“Yeah.” You follow him back outside.
The ranch isn’t just big. It’s a kingdom.
Seokmin takes you through it with a kind of casual pride that makes the scale hit harder. You pass the main barn and he points out the stalls, the tack room, the feed storage, the medicine cabinet. He shows you the corrals, the hay shed, the equipment yard where tractors sit like sleeping beasts. Your head spins trying to take it all in.
“Okay, so feeding schedule,” he says, handing you a clipboard already marked with neat lines. “Morning feed is 5:30. Evenings at 5. It’s rotation-based. This week, you’re with Tess and me. Mostly basic stuff. I’ll show you.” He walks you to a row of feed bins, explains which scoop goes where, which animals get what. He doesn’t slow down to coddle you, but he doesn’t rush you either. You like that. He treats you like someone who can learn. Like someone who won’t break if the world is too fast.
The first stall you muck, your back protests immediately. You’re awkward with the pitchfork, clumsy with the wheelbarrow. You lose your grip twice. Your boots sink into the straw and manure in ways that send a ridiculous thrill of horror through you. Seokmin just laughs. “Welcome to the glamorous life.”
You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. “How do you… Do this every day?”
"We’re all a little insane.”
He’s not condescending. He doesn’t sigh when you mess up. He doesn’t take the tools out of your hands. He just shows you again. And again. And again.
By mid-morning the next day, you’re sweating through your shirt and your arms feel like rubber. But… you’re still standing. Still working. Still pushing through the unfamiliar. Every time you glance up, you feel eyes on you. Not Seokmin’s. Not the girls’. Mingyu’s.
He isn’t close enough for you to talk to. He isn’t close enough to even count as “hovering.” Half the time, he’s a shadow leaning on a fence line beyond the corrals. Another time, he’s in the driver’s seat of a truck, window down, gaze pinned somewhere that you can feel even when you’re not looking. Later, you spot him on the porch of the big house, arms folded, watching the barn like it’s an old habit. It unnerves you. The constant inspection. The way he looks like he’s waiting for you to trip, to fail, to prove him right. You don’t let it show. You don’t shrink. If anything, it lights something stubborn in your spine. You straighten your shoulders, adjust your grip, and push harder. Let him watch. Let him see. You’ve been watched by worse. You swallow the thought before it can bloom into something messy.
By the time lunch comes, your hands are tingling, and your thighs ache from crouching and lifting, but there’s also a dull kind of pride sitting in your chest like a coal that hasn’t decided whether to catch fire. You did work you didn’t know how to do yesterday. You’re doing it today.
Seokmin walks you toward the shade of the barn overhang where a cooler sits. “You okay?” he asks, and you realise he’s not asking to be polite. He’s asking like he means it.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m just… tired.”
He grins. “Good tired or bad tired?”
"Good tired.”
"Then you’re doing it right.” He hands you a water bottle and a sandwich. “Eat. Tess will kill me if she finds out I didn’t feed you.”
You bite into the sandwich like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Across the yard, Mingyu is tightening a saddle girth. He doesn’t look up. But you feel him.
The next couple days only get fuller.
Seokmin takes you through the rest of the essentials in quick, careful layers: how to carry hay bales without blowing out your back, how to open gates so cattle don’t spook, how to check water lines, how to clean tack without ruining leather.
You mess up. You drop things. You fumble knots. You forget which bin is which and have to correct yourself. You keep trying anyway.
By the third morning, your body is running on sore muscles and overcaffeinated determination. Hana shows up halfway through feeding rounds, braid swinging, and takes over part of the line with ease. “So you’re who the guys call Rookie,” she says, voice teasing.
Your ears heat. “I didn’t pick the nickname.”
She snorts. “None of us do. Mingyu thinks he’s funny.”
You glance toward the paddock like he might magically be standing there. Hana catches it. “He’s around. Always. Like a ghost with opinions.” You can’t stop the laugh that escapes. Hana pauses, looks at you like she’s checking something. Then her face softens a fraction. “You’re doing good.” You blink. The simple praise hits strange. It makes your throat tight. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t linger, just tosses you a carrot for the horse she’s leading and disappears into the next stall with the confidence of someone born into the rhythm. You’re slowly becoming part of that rhythm.
At night, the bunkhouse is noisy in the best way. Riley tells stories that get wilder with every retelling. Hana makes fun of Seokmin for being incapable of subtlety. Tess reminds everyone to drink water, eats in slow deliberate bites like she’s teaching you that meals don’t have to be rushed. You listen more than you talk. Not because they demand it. Because it feels good to just… be near people. People who aren’t waiting for you to slip. That night, you lie in your bunk, muscles aching, listening to crickets outside the window. The walls creak softly in the wind. Someone snores two bunks down. Riley laughs in her sleep like she’s in the middle of a dream that doesn’t care about anyone’s dignity. You stare at the ceiling in the dark. For the first time in longer than you can remember, your body isn’t braced to make itself invisible if footsteps come in the hall.
There is no hall. There is no chair shoved under your door. There is no listen, listen, listen for the moment something goes wrong. Your heartbeat stays slow. You let it. You drift to sleep with that faint buzz of belonging humming under your ribs like a new muscle learning how to exist.
On the fourth day, Seokmin throws you into the deep end of “town.” “We’re out of a few supplies,” he says that morning, flipping keys around his finger. “Feed supplements, some gloves, maybe a new hose. You wanna ride into town with me?”
Ride. The word makes you flinch before you interpret it. Then you remember. Truck ride. Not horse. You nod quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”
Riley wolf-whistles from the bunkhouse porch. “Don’t bring her back with a Seokmin tattoo, okay?”
Seokmin turns pink. “Riley!”
"I’m helping you flirt.”
"I don’t need help flirting!”
Hana lifts a brow. “You absolutely do.”
Tess waves a hand. “Leave him alone. Go get what you need.”
You climb into the passenger side of Seokmin’s dusty truck and try not to look too overwhelmed by the interior. There are empty coffee cups in the console, a pair of work gloves on the dash, and a tiny plastic dinosaur wedged into the air vent like it lives there. Seokmin catches you looking. “Vernon put that in here. Says it’s for ‘emotional support.’” You laugh softly.
The ranch fades behind you as the truck rolls down the dirt drive. It’s weird to see the gate from the inside now. Like it’s not a boundary keeping you out, but a threshold you’re allowed to cross.
Town is the same as it was in your first loop when you arrived, but it feels different now that you’re coming from somewhere. You’re not wandering anymore. You’re not drifting, looking for a crack in the world. You have a purpose. Seokmin keeps the windows rolled down, elbow hanging out like he belongs to the road. He greets everyone with easy familiarity: a wave at the hardware store guy, a shout to someone loading hay, a grin at a woman outside the diner. People wave back. They look at you, too. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. With the quiet acceptance of small towns that notice everything and still decide a person might be worth letting in. You end up at the feed store first. You follow Seokmin inside, clipboard in hand, trying to look like you know what you’re doing.
The bell jingles as you enter. It makes you smile a little now, because you’re starting to understand bells here are not warnings. They’re welcomes.
While Seokmin cheerfully argues with the store owner about prices, you wander toward the shelves of gloves, comparing sizes with no real metric besides what feels right. You pick out two pairs and turn—And stop. Because there’s a girl behind the counter at the far end of the store, you don’t recognise her from your first visit through town. She’s leaning against the register with her hair up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a bored look on her face like she’s already done twelve hours here and is planning to do twelve more. She’s pretty in a quiet, tough way. Not trying for it. Not needing to. Seokmin sees her at the same moment and goes a little… louder. Not by much. Just enough that you notice.
“Mae!” he calls. Mae’s eyes flick up. She takes one look at him and lets out a slow, unimpressed breath. “Seokmin.”
"How’s your day?” he asks, sliding into his brightest grin. Mae deadpans. “Longer now.”
You bite your lip so you don’t laugh out loud. Seokmin doesn’t seem deterred. If anything, he shines harder. “I brought backup this time.” He gestures to you. “This is—” he says your name. “She’s new at the ranch.” Mae looks you over with a steadier, sharper gaze than most people in town have given you. It’s not unkind. It’s… measuring. Then she nods once. “Hey.”
"Hi,” you say. Mae’s eyes return to Seokmin like a magnet. “What do you want, Seok?”
"Just supplies.” He leans an elbow on the counter like he’s trying to look casual. It comes off adorable. “And maybe—” he lowers his voice slightly, grinning—“maybe you could come by tonight? We’re doing a thing. Little welcome dinner. You could—”
"No.”
The flatness of it makes you blink. Seokmin pretends he doesn’t flinch. “Not even for five minutes?” Mae sets a receipt stack down with a soft click, expression unmoved. “Seokmin.” He blinks at her, hopeful anyway. She sighs. “You’re sweet. But no.”
And then she goes back to her register like that’s the end of the conversation. Seokmin stands there for a second, still smiling, but it falters at the corners. You step in gently before the awkwardness grows teeth. “Do you still carry those electrolyte blocks for the calves?” you ask, holding up a box in your hand. “He said you might.” Mae’s expression shifts. Not much. But enough to show she appreciates competence. “Third aisle. Bottom shelf.”
"Thanks.” You turn and walk away before Seokmin can spiral. In the aisle, you let yourself grin. Seokmin appears beside you a moment later, still pretending he’s not wounded. “She hates me,” he mutters. “She doesn’t hate you,” you say, low enough he’s the only one who hears. “She just doesn’t play along.”
He glances at you, surprised. “Yeah?”
"Yeah.”
That makes him laugh a little. “You sound like you know her already.” You shrug lightly. “I sound like someone who sees you trying your best.”
He looks at you for a second longer than the joke deserves, like he’s clocking the sincerity. Then he rubs the back of his neck and says, “I am trying my best.” The words are so honest you almost choke on your own tenderness. You hand him the electrolyte blocks. “Then keep trying.” He grins again, real this time. “Okay.”
On the way back out of the feed store, Mae gives you a nod—tiny, almost imperceptible. It feels like a second sliver of hope, different from the first. You climb back into the truck with Seokmin, bags in your lap, and watch town slip past the windows. On the way out, you pass the bakery. Nora is out front in her apron, sweeping flour off the steps. When she spots you in the passenger seat, she pauses. She smiles. You can’t stop yourself from lifting a hand in a small wave. She waves back in a way that feels like I knew you’d find your way. You look forward quickly, blinking too hard.
Seokmin doesn’t comment. He just drives. When the ranch comes back into view, it doesn’t feel as impossible anymore. It still makes you small in the face of it. But now that smallness doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like beginnings. As you roll back through the gate, a familiar figure stands near the corrals, arms folded, cap low. Mingyu. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t speak. But his gaze finds the truck, finds you through the windshield, tracks you all the way as Seokmin parks near the barn. The attention prickles your skin. Seokmin hops out, slamming the door with his hip, oblivious to the silent exchange. You clutch your bags and follow him around the hood.
Mingyu is still there, talking to one of the guys—Wonwoo, maybe—while keeping half his focus on you like you’re a slow-moving variable he hasn’t accounted for yet. You set your jaw. You’re not here to be a variable. You’re here to be useful. You head toward Tess, who’s waiting by the shed with a list, and you don’t look at Mingyu again.
When you walk into the women’s bunkhouse that night with Riley’s shoulder bumping yours and Hana yelling about showers and Tess asking if you ate enough, the place feels a little less like shelter—and a little more like home.
You wake up before your alarm, heart already pounding against your ribs. For a second, in the dark, you don’t remember why.
Then your eyes find the faint glow of your phone screen on the crate by your bunk. Sunday. Two weeks to the day since you stepped off a dusty old truck in front of Longview’s gate with a napkin in your pocket and nothing else that looked like a plan. Two weeks. Trial’s up. You stare at the ceiling, listening to the soft chorus of the bunkhouse: Riley’s little sleep-hum, Tess’s slow, even breathing, the occasional rustle from Hana’s bunk as she rolls over. Outside, the crickets are still singing, stubbornly ignoring the human concept of weekends.
If they tell you to go today, you have nowhere else to run. You picture yourself walking back down that long dirt road with your duffel, through the gate, past Nora’s bakery, all the way to the bus stop. You picture the bus carrying you away from the mountains and back into the haze of nowhere, new town after new town, until something catches up or you run out of money again. You can’t do that again.
You roll onto your side and stare at the outline of your boots under the bunk. You worked. You did everything you could. You woke up before dawn, stayed out after sunset, learned to shovel shit and haul hay and read the moods of horses you’re still half afraid of. You’ve got bruises on your knees and blisters turning into calluses on your palms. You’ve fallen in the mud twice, gotten kicked in the thigh by a gate, nearly lost your hat to the wind, and still showed up the next morning. If that’s not enough, you’re not sure what else you have to give. The alarm buzzes softly against the floor. You slap it off quickly before it can wake anyone else. Tess’s voice comes from across the room, low and sleepy. “You up?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” You wish people around here would stop asking that. It makes lying feel worse. “Just… thinking.” Tess hums, a soft, knowing sound. “Don’t overthink it. Do the work. Same as you’ve been doing.” Easy for her to say. Tess isn’t on trial. You take a breath. “Right.”
You climb down the ladder, the wood flooring cool under your bare feet. Your muscles protest the movement, little stabs of soreness up your legs and across your shoulders, but it’s a familiar ache now. One that feels like proof. Riley rolls over as you lace your boots, hair sticking out in every direction. “Is it Judgement Day?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You snort despite yourself. “Something like that.” She cracks one eye open. “You’re fine,” she mutters. “If they try to fire you, I’ll steal the truck. They’ll forgive you to get it back.”
“You can’t drive a stick,” Hana’s muffled voice comes from somewhere under a pillow. “Not with that attitude,” Riley fires back. Tess laughs softly as she slides off her bunk. “See? You’ve got backup.” It’s not backup in any legal way. But it’s the kind that matters.
Dawn spills pale light across the yard as you and Hana make your way to the barn, breath puffing in the chilled air. “So,” Hana says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Big day.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“He’s gonna make a show of it,” she warns. “He always does. Don’t let the grunting get to you.”
“The grunting?” She nods solemnly. “Mingyu’s native language is ‘hmm.’ You’ll see.” You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.
The barn is still shadowed, dust motes caught in the first rays pushing through the gaps in the boards. You fall into the feed routine on muscle memory: scoops measured, bins marked, paths walked. Tess joins you midway through, tying her hair up as she moves. When you step out of the feed room, balancing a sack on your shoulder, you almost collide with a wall. Not a wall. A chest. Mingyu.
He’s blocking the doorway, hat low, arms loose at his sides. The early light catches the edge of his jaw, the stubble dark there, the line of his throat. There’s mud on his jeans and a faint smear of something across his sleeve, like he’s already been up for hours. Of course he has. He glances down at you, then at the feed sack. “Heavy?” he asks. You tighten your grip. “No.”
He grunts. A soft, uninterpretable sound. Hana passes behind you with her own sack, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Mingyu steps aside. Not enough that you can pretend he isn’t watching, but enough that you don’t have to brush against him as you pass. “I’ll be with you today,” he says. You almost drop the feed. “What?”
“Your trial’s up.” He says it like you could’ve forgotten. “I wanna see what you’ve actually learned.” So this is the evaluation. Not a meeting. Not a sit-down. No clipboard. Just him. In your shadow. All day. You nod, trying not to let your nerves show. “Okay.”
He eyes you for another long beat, then jerks his chin toward the stalls. “Well? Don’t stand there. You’re burning daylight.” You move.
You fall into the rhythm because you have to. Because stopping will only make it worse. You muck stalls with more focus than you’ve ever had in your life, trying to remember everything Tess and Seokmin showed you: how to angle the fork, where to pile the dirty straw for the wheelbarrow, when to swap tools so your hands don’t cramp. Mingyu follows. He doesn’t hover close enough to trip you. He doesn’t give you instructions. He leans against the stall doors, crosses his arms, and watches. Sometimes he nods once, barely perceptible. Sometimes he grunts—a short, sceptical hmm that Hana warned you about. Once, when you nearly step too close to a horse’s hindquarters, he snaps, “Watch his back leg,” and your whole body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted.
You didn’t see the twitch of his muscle. You adjust. You apologise to the horse under your breath. Mingyu doesn’t comment.
As the morning wears on, other people drift in and out. Wonwoo appears with a coil of rope over his shoulder. “Hey, Rookie,” he says, easy. “You done with that rake?” You hand it over automatically, the nickname sliding over you less like a bruise and more like a glove. You don’t realise it at first. Not until Hana snickers from two stalls down. “Look at you,” she calls. “Already part of the furniture.”
Later, Vernon whistles low when he sees you haul a bale of hay with less struggling than last week. “Damn, Rookie,” he says. “They ship you here pre-built?”
“No,” you grunt, adjusting your grip and shoving the bale into place. “They just keep making me lift things.”
Dino wanders by while you’re scrubbing buckets and kicks one gently with his boot. “You got the short straw, huh?”
“I like clean things,” you say, only half lying. He grins. “Then you and Tess are gonna get along just fine.”
All the while, Mingyu shadows you. He doesn’t talk much to the others. When they joke, he huffs a sound that might be amusement, might just be breath. At one point, he reaches past you to adjust a halter you’ve buckled wrong, his fingers brushing yours. “You don’t want this slipping,” he mutters. “They spook easily enough as it is.” His hand is warm, callused. You pull yours back, nodding quickly. “Got it.” He steps away without looking at you, like the contact didn’t register. It registered for you.
By lunchtime, you’re sweating, sore, and halfway convinced you’ve blown it six times already. Tess corners you by the water trough while you fill buckets. “You’re fine,” she says, not a question.
“You don’t know that.” She glances over your shoulder toward where Mingyu stands by the fence, talking low with Seungcheol. The two men are a mirror of each other’s focus: one slightly looser, one wound tight. “He wouldn’t be spending his whole day on you if he’d already decided to cut you,” she says. “He’d let you finish the trial and then tell Seok to handle it.”
You follow her gaze. Mingyu’s expression is hard to read from this distance, but his posture is all contained energy. He listens to whatever Seungcheol is saying, then shakes his head once, slowly. Seungcheol claps a hand on his shoulder, says something you can’t hear. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you. You look away first.
Afternoon takes you out of the barn and into the fields. Mingyu tosses you a pair of work gloves and jerks his head toward the fence line. “Come on.”
You jog to catch up, your shorter stride half-running to keep up with his. The sun has climbed higher, the cold edge gone from the air. Dust curls around your boots with each step. He hands you a bucket of metal tools—pliers, staples, odd little pieces of wire. “You know what we’re doing?” he asks. “Fixing the fence?”
“You think it’s broken?” You blink, adjust your grip on the bucket. “I… don’t know.”
He stops, plants the heel of his boot against the bottom of a fence post, and gives it a shove. It holds firm. “You don’t just fix things because they might be broken,” he says. “You look. You listen. You check.” He nods toward the run of wire. “Walk it. Tell me what you see.” Your anxiety spikes. You’re not used to being asked to assess anything. You’re used to being told what’s wrong and how it’s your fault. You swallow. “Okay.”
You walk the fence, eyes scanning the posts, the wire, the ground. You look for things that feel off. Disturbed soil. Sagging sections. Places where the wire is bent or loose. Three posts down, you find a stretch where the wire is pulled away from the post, the staple half-rusted, the tension off. You point. “Here.” Mingyu joins you, following your gaze. He grunts. “Staple’s loose,” he says. “Good.” Good. You try not to glow at the word.
He shows you how to pull the wire tight and set a new staple without snapping it. Your hands fumble at first, but you find the rhythm. He doesn’t grab the tools away when you struggle. He waits. He corrects your grip once, twice, tapping your wrist with a fingertip. “There. Again.”
You do it again. You work your way down the fence line like that, side-by-side, you finding the weak spots, him watching. Occasionally, he asks, “Why that one?” and you force yourself to explain your thinking instead of shrugging. By the time you circle back toward the main yard, your shoulders ache in new places, and your brain feels wrung out.
Mingyu stops near the gate and looks around, taking in the unfixed fence, the barn, the pens, and the yard. You wonder if you’re part of that inventory now. “Go wash up,” he says. “Family dinner’s at six.” Family dinner. Tess mentioned something about it in passing—Sunday nights at the big house, everyone cramming around whatever table space there is, food loud and plentiful. You didn’t let yourself imagine sitting at that table. Not when you might be gone by morning. You hesitate. “Is this…?”
“Your evaluation’s done,” he says flatly. The words hang there between you, heavy.
“And?” you push, because apparently you’ve lost your survival instinct somewhere between stall mucking and fence inspection. His mouth twitches at the corner, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and walks toward the house, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering.
You shower in record time, scrubbing dirt off your skin until the water runs mostly clear. You drag on clean jeans and a soft shirt Tess handed you last week with a brusque, “It doesn’t fit me anymore. Take it.” You leave your hair down for once, damp around your shoulders, because your fingers are too unsteady to wrestle it up.
In the bunkhouse, Hana is pulling on a sundress over leggings, muttering about the weather. Riley is trying to decide between two pairs of earrings, neither of which are remotely practical for ranch work. Tess eyes you as you stumble in. “Breathe,” she says, folding her own hair back. “It’s dinner, not a firing squad.” You wish you believed her.
The three of them flank you on the walk to the big house, talking about something else entirely—a calf that tried to eat Hana’s braid, Vernon’s terrible country playlist. You float beside them, heart trapped somewhere in your throat. The porch is already crowded when you get there.
Wonwoo sits on the steps, elbows on his knees, talking quietly with Dino. Vernon leans against a post, scrolling through something on his phone. Seokmin hovers by the door, running a hand through his hair every thirty seconds like that might tame it. When he sees you, his whole face brightens. “There she is!” he announces. “Our maybe-long-term-roommate.”
“Stop calling her that,” Hana says, smacking his arm. “It’s bad luck.” Seokmin grimaces. “Right. Sorry.” Your palms dampen.
Inside, the house smells amazing. Something roasted, something baked, the warm, yeasty scent of bread, the faint sweetness of a dessert you can’t identify. The big dining table in the main room is extended to its full length, chairs pulled from everywhere to circle it. The sideboard is already lined with dishes—bowls of potatoes, platters of meat, salad, and cornbread.
You hover by the doorway, uncertain where to stand. Seungcheol moves around the table, setting out extra plates with an efficiency that speaks of years of doing this. He’s out of his usual work shirts, wearing a clean button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks up, catches sight of you, and gives a short nod. It feels like approval. Or at least acceptance. “Alright,” he says, voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Grab a seat. Mingyu?” You turn.
Mingyu is standing near the head of the table, chair pulled back but not yet taken. His hat is off, dark hair a little mussed. He looks more tired than usual, a faint line between his brows. He scans the room, eyes briefly skimming over each face. When his gaze lands on you, it sticks. Your pulse jumps.
The room quiets, the way rooms do when people sense something about to happen. You feel every eye shift to you, then to him, then back again. He exhales through his nose, like he resents having to speak this much. “Two weeks ago,” he says, “Seok dragged someone off the road and into our mess.” A few people chuckle. Seokmin makes an offended noise. “Hey!” Mingyu ignores him. “No ranch experience. No references. Didn’t know which end of a pitchfork was up.” His eyes stay on you, giving the words weight. “Said she’d work harder than anyone if we gave her a chance.”
“We don’t do charity,” he continues. “We don’t have the time. Out here, you pull your weight, or someone else has to carry it for you. And I don’t like carrying more than I have to.” A ripple of amusement moves around the table. You want to disappear. He lets the silence stretch just long enough that your stomach flips. Then he shrugs, one shoulder sharp and deliberate. “Rookie can stay,” he says. “She pulls her weight.”
For a second, the words don’t register. Then the meaning hits you all at once. Stay. You can stay. The rush of relief is so intense you sway where you stand. Hana’s hand comes to the small of your back, steadying. Riley whoops loud enough to rattle the windows. “Hell yeah!”
Seokmin throws both arms in the air like his team just won the championship. “I told you!” he yells at no one in particular. “I told all of you! You owe me five bucks, Vernon!”
Vernon groans. “We weren’t actually betting!”
“We were in my heart.”
Dino thumps you on the shoulder. “Congrats, Rookie.”
There it is again, the nickname. This time, it doesn’t sting. It lands somewhere softer. The way they say it now—it’s not a jab at what you don’t know. It’s a marker of where you started and how far you’ve come. A way of pulling you into the circle without demanding you forget you’re new. Even Tess smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Told you,” she murmurs. “Work counts here.”
Seungcheol steps closer, plate still in his hand. “Glad you’re staying,” he says simply. You blink. “You are?” He nods, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “You keep the others in line. That’s worth a lot.”
Hana snorts. “Nobody keeps Riley in line.”
“She tries,” Riley says, flinging an arm around your shoulders. “That’s what counts.”
Someone claps. Someone else pounds on the table. Mingyu just sits down at the head of the table and reaches for a serving spoon like he didn’t just change your entire life with one sentence. The nerve of him.
The impromptu celebration folds itself into the existing tradition of Sunday family dinner. It’s not fancy. It’s not planned. But it feels like more than any birthday or anniversary you’ve ever had. People cram into every available chair, and some end up perched on the arms or sitting on the floor near the coffee table with plates balanced on their knees. The noise level rises with every minute: laughter, overlapping conversations, cutlery clinking. You end up wedged between Riley and Tess on one side of the table. Across from you, Seokmin has somehow wound up directly opposite an empty chair that stays empty for an uncomfortably long time.
Until the front door opens again. You glance up automatically. Mae steps into the room, hair loose from its bun, a simple dress softening her sharp lines. She looks… different away from town. Less guarded. But her eyes are the same, scanning the room, taking in the chaos with a single raised brow. Seokmin almost drops his fork. “Mae,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. She gives him a flat look. “You sound surprised. You invited me.”
Hana leans toward you, whispering behind her hand. “Riley and I cornered her at the coffee shop and told her she’d be a coward if she didn’t come. You’re welcome.”
“She used the word ‘coward’ like, twelve times,” Riley adds. Mae rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “I said I’d stop by,” she says. “I never promised to stay.”
She slides into the empty seat opposite him with a grace that suggests she’s more in control than anyone else in the room. He immediately straightens his shirt, suddenly aware of himself in a way that makes you bite back a grin. You catch Mae’s eye for a moment. She inclines her head slightly. “Hey,” she says. “Heard you made the cut.” You flush. “Apparently.”
“Nora said you would.” The warmth that blooms in your chest at that is ridiculous. Before you can respond, another voice cuts through the noise. “Who left their truck halfway across the driveway?”
The room parts a little to make way for a woman carrying a tote bag stuffed with colored folders. She’s in black jeans and boots, a soft T-shirt under an open flannel, hair scraped up into a messy twist that’s already slipping loose. There’s chalk dust on her sleeve and crayon marks on the side of her hand. You don’t need an introduction to guess what she does. “Evie,” Hana crows. “You’re late.” Evie huffs, dropping her bag near the couch. “I was grading spelling tests. Apparently, ‘hippopotamus’ is everyone’s favourite word to ruin this week.”
Tess stands to grab another plate. “You made it just in time,” she says. Evie steps toward the table, then stops when she catches sight of Seungcheol coming in from the kitchen with a dish of roasted vegetables. Her spine straightens. His jaw sets. The temperature in the room drops two degrees. “You’re blocking the doorway,” she says, chin lifting.
“It’s my house,” he shoots back.
“It’s also my shin you’re going to bruise if you drop that pan,” she replies. “Move, Cheol.”
He shifts sideways with a put-upon sigh. “You could say ‘please,’ you know.”
“You could not park like an idiot,” she tosses over her shoulder as she squeezes past him. A few ranch hands exchange looks that scream, “Here we go.”
Hana smirks. “Children,” she mutters to you, pleased. Evie drops into a chair near Hana, across from Vernon. “Who’s the new one?” she asks immediately, looking at you. You wipe your palms on your thighs. “I’m—” Hana finishes before you can. “This is Rookie.”
Evie’s eyes sparkle. “Already got a nickname, huh? Brave of you to stick around.”
“She’s staying,” Riley announces. “Officially. Mingyu said so. We’re celebrating.” Evie raises her glass of water. “To Rookie, then,” she says. “May the kids at school never learn from my example of stubbornness.” Across the table, Seungcheol snorts. “Too late for that,” he mutters. Evie glares at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Despite the bite to their words, there’s a thread under it—familiarity, history. They know exactly which buttons to press and exactly how far they can push them. You tuck that away, curious. Seokmin leans over, stage-whispering. “Evie teaches at the school. Third grade. She thinks she runs this town.” Evie points her fork at him without looking. “I heard that.”
“See?” he whispers, eyes wide. “Psychic.”
Laughter ripples around the table. Mingyu doesn’t join in, exactly. But you catch him watching the scene with his head slightly tilted, like he’s cataloguing it. The noise. The teasing. You, bracketed by Riley and Tess, cheeks pink from attention. At one point, his gaze meets yours. You look away too quickly, staring hard at your mashed potatoes.
The food is better than anything you’ve eaten in months. Maybe years. Roast chicken, potatoes mashed with butter and cream, green beans with almonds, fresh bread still warm from the oven. Someone made a peach cobbler that sits on the counter like a promise for later. You eat until your stomach protests, and still Tess nudges another roll toward your plate. “One more,” she says. “You’ll burn it all off tomorrow anyway.”
People keep toasting you in small, silly ways:
“To Rookie not quitting after Vernon almost ran her over with the four-wheeler.”
“To Rookie for not crying when the calf peed on her.”
“To Rookie for figuring out which faucet doesn’t scream in the bunkhouse.”
Each one is ridiculous and true in its own small way. You laugh until your cheeks hurt. There’s a moment where you catch yourself leaning back in your chair, a full plate in front of you, chatter on all sides, warmth tucked into the corners of the room like extra blankets. You realise you’re not worrying about who’s coming up the driveway. You’re not listening for footsteps in the hall. You’re… here. In this house. At this table. A place set for you like it was assumed from the start. Your throat tightens suddenly. You take a sip of water to hide it.
Across the table, Mae watches you with an expression that’s hard to read. Then she glances at Seokmin and sighs. “You picked a good one,” she says to him quietly, like maybe she didn’t mean to let it out loud. Seokmin freezes. “What?”
“Don’t make it weird,” she warns, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with that and ends up laughing too loudly, which of course makes it weird anyway.
Evie and Seungcheol start bickering over the correct way to teach fractions. Riley and Dino argue about which movie they’re going to force everyone to watch later. Hana gets into a heated discussion with Vernon about whose music taste is worse. Tess shakes her head fondly, collecting empty plates as she can reach them. At the head of the table, Mingyu has gone mostly quiet again, chewing slowly, listening more than he speaks. He doesn’t add to the toasts. He doesn’t tease. But when you glance his way, you catch the smallest shift in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or relief.
Later, when the dishes are stacked, and the cobbler is half demolished, and people have drifted into smaller clusters—some to the porch, some to the living room, some to the yard—you slip outside alone for a breath of air.
The sky is a deep velvet, pinpricked with stars. The mountains are dark shapes on the horizon, familiar now instead of looming. The yard hums with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the porch. You sit on the steps of the big house, elbows on your knees, hands clasped. The word stay rolls around your brain like a new language. You can stay. Not forever. You don’t let your mind go that far. But longer than two weeks. Long enough to unpack your duffel without feeling superstitious. Long enough to learn the names of every horse and calf. Long enough that maybe the shadows at your back start to loosen.
The front door opens behind you with a soft creak. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Mingyu steps out onto the porch, footsteps slow. He pauses for a moment, like he might turn back, then walks to stand at the rail beside you. You keep your gaze on the dirt. He leans his forearms on the wooden railing, staring out at the dark yard, shoulders loose for once.
For a long time, neither of you says anything. Crickets sing. Someone laughs in the bunkhouse yard. The air smells like dust and the last traces of dinner. Finally, he says, “You did good today.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in promises,” you say softly. He huffs, just a breath. “I don’t.” You wait. “But I believe in what I see,” he adds. You turn your head, watching him in the dim porch light. His profile is sharp, eyes on the horizon. “And what do you see?” you ask before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t look at you.
“Someone who didn’t quit when it got hard,” he says. “Someone who learned. Who listened. Who didn’t ask for special treatment.”
“You made it sound like you didn’t want me here,” you say. It’s not an accusation. Just a truth. He finally does look at you then. His gaze is steady, dark. “I didn’t,” he says honestly.
The bluntness makes you flinch. He sees it. “New people are trouble,” he continues, voice low. “They change things. They leave.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t like change much these days.” You don’t know what to do with that, so you just sit with it.
“But,” he says after a moment, the word dragged out of him, “you’re here. And you’re staying. So… we’ll deal with it.”
Somehow, that’s the closest you’re going to get to I’m glad you stayed tonight. You nod. “Okay.”
He studies you one last time, then straightens. “Don’t let Riley keep you up all night,” he mutters. “You still work in the morning.”
You almost smile. “Yes, boss.” He grunts. “Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you then?” He hesitates. “Mingyu,” he says. Then, with a small, reluctant twitch of his mouth, “And you’re Rookie.” It settles into your skin like something claimed. “Rookie,” you echo.
He nods once, satisfied, and steps back through the front door, letting it swing shut behind him. You sit there on the steps for another minute, feeling the word settle in your bones.
Rookie. Not runaway. Not trouble. Not fraud. Rookie.
When you finally head back to the bunkhouse, the crickets are still singing, the mountains still watching. The chair is still by the bunkhouse door, but it’s there to hold boots, not to wedge under a handle. You crawl into your bunk, Riley’s soft snoring above you, Hana muttering in her sleep, Tess’s silhouette a calm shadow in the dim. You close your eyes.
For the first time, you don’t count the days until you have to leave. You count the chores you’ll do tomorrow. And the days after that.
You can stack hay now without almost passing out.
You can haul feed without losing your grip, muck two rows of stalls before the sun clears the barn roof, and find a loose fence staple in a run of a hundred posts in half the time it took you before. Your palms are callused, your back strong, your body different in ways that don’t show in a mirror, but you feel every time you bend, lift, breathe.
Chores, you’re getting the hang of. It’s the horses that are the problem. You remind yourself they are just animals. Just big, muscled, flighty, thousand-pound animals with hooves that could break bones and eyes that see everything.
The first time one of them snorts behind you, you nearly jump out of your skin. “Easy,” Tess says, hand closing around your elbow. “He’s just saying hi.” You eye the gelding in question—broad chest, dark mane, ears flicking. He eyes you back, unimpressed. “He’s huge,” you mutter.
“You’ll get used to it,” she assures you.
You’re not. You can curry comb with only mild terror now. You can lead a calm horse by the halter if someone else is close enough to grab the rope if you mess up. You know to watch ears and tails, to listen for the shift in weight that means a kick is coming. But riding? You’ve been avoiding that like it’s a cliff edge.
You’re good at avoidance. You used to avoid whole days, whole conversations, whole truths. It works for a while. There’s enough to learn on the ground that no one pushes it. Mingyu doesn’t mention it, at least not to you. Hana handles anything that involves actual saddles and reins. Seokmin focuses on your strengths—feeding, mucking, fence work, inventory. You tell yourself maybe they’ll just forget you don’t ride. It’s a stupid thought. Everyone here rides.
It catches up to you one afternoon. You’re in the smaller corral, helping Hana brush down a bay mare named Juniper. The horse is patient, tolerant, only swishing her tail occasionally as flies buzz near her flanks. You’re starting to relax, your strokes longer, smoother, your mind drifting.
The gate creaks. Something in you goes rigid before you even look. The mare feels it. Her ears flick back, muscles tensing under your hand. Your brush catches on a knot. You stumble a step, foot landing too close to her back leg. In the same instant, a shadow moves at the fence line—a hand on the rail, a weight shifting. You realise you’ve turned your back on her, and panic spikes. You freeze. Actually freeze. Your body goes tight as if locking in place can keep everything from shattering. Your breath stutters, lungs refusing to pull in air.
The mare’s head jerks. She dances sideways, hooves clattering against packed dirt. Not a full-on spook, nothing dramatic by ranch standards, but to you it feels like the ground just dropped out from under your feet. Hana moves fast, hand firm on the halter, voice low and soothing. “Hey, hey, easy, June. You’re okay. She’s okay.”
You backpedal too quickly, heel catching on uneven ground. You go down on your ass, the shock of impact rattling up your spine. Dust puffs up around you. For a second, you can’t breathe at all. Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Hana glances back at you. “You alright?”
You nod too fast. “Yeah. I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she says, calm. “You stepped where she couldn’t see you. She got startled. You’re not hurt?” You flex your ankle, your wrist, and check yourself automatically. “I’m okay.” Emotion sits high and hot in your throat anyway. Embarrassment. Fear. A tiny shard of something older—memories of being too close to something unpredictable and bigger than you, no exit, no control.
You push to your feet, dusting off your jeans with hands that still tremble. “I’m okay,” you repeat. Like saying it louder will make it true.
Hana studies you for a heartbeat longer, then nods. “Take five,” she says. “Get water. I’ll finish up with June.”
You want to argue. You want to prove you can bounce back. But your chest is tight, and your head is spinning, and for once you don’t push through. You duck under the fence, step out of the corral, and head for the nearest trough, breathing hard. You’re halfway across the yard when a familiar voice calls out. “Rookie.”
You stop. Of course he saw. Mingyu is leaning against the fence that borders the main arena, arms folded, expression unreadable. His hat shades his eyes, but you can see the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth. “I’m fine,” you say automatically, before he can ask. He doesn’t. “You scared her,” he says instead. You bristle. “I know. I didn’t mean to—”
“Doesn’t matter if you meant to or not,” he cuts in. “Intent doesn’t change where her hooves land. You don’t walk up behind them like that if you can’t read ‘em yet.”
Shame burns hot in your chest. “I thought she was calm.”
“She was.” His tone isn’t cruel, just blunt. “Until you got tense enough to make a stone nervous.”
You flinch. He sighs quietly. “You alright?” he asks, softer. There it is. The question everyone here keeps asking. You look past him, toward the mountains, eyes stinging. “I’m trying,” you say.
It’s not an answer. It’s the only one you have. He watches you for a long beat, then pushes off the fence. “We’ll fix it,” he says, like it’s simple. Like fear is a broken board or a loose staple. “You can’t work here and be afraid of horses forever.”
You stiffen. “I’m not afraid.” He raises a brow. You sigh. “I’m… working on it.” He gives a noncommittal grunt.
You turn away before you say something stupid. Your feet carry you toward the water trough, toward the bunkhouse, toward anywhere that isn’t under his steady gaze. You don’t see Seokmin watching from the barn door, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu, wheels turning.
The next morning dawns as usual: dark, cold, full of chores.
By mid-morning, you’ve fallen into the familiar rhythm—feed, muck, scrub, repeat—and your heart rate has mostly returned to its new normal. You’re hauling a stack of folded saddle pads out of the tack room when Seokmin appears in the doorway, blocking your way with an exaggerated flail. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “Perfect. I need you.”
You blink around the stack. “For what? I still have stalls left.”
“Hana can finish,” he says breezily over his shoulder. “Hana, you can finish, right?” From somewhere in the barn, Hana calls back, “Depends. Do I get to watch her suffer?”
Seokmin grins. “Yes.”
“Then yeah.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s ominous.”
He plucks the pads from your arms and tosses them onto a nearby bale. “Come on.” You follow him, suspicion growing with each step. He leads you out to the main arena: a wide, oval pen of packed dirt, bordered by a sturdy fence. A couple of riders are working a pair of horses at the far end, but Seokmin steers you to the quieter side, where a chestnut gelding stands tied to the rail, saddle already on, reins looped neatly. The gelding flicks an ear toward you, chewing absently on his bit.
Your stomach drops. “Nope,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.” Seokmin bites back a smile. “Meet Milo,” he says. “He’s the chillest thing on four legs. We put kids on him at the fall festival.”
“You put children on that?” you demand, pointing.
“Everyone loves Milo.” Milo blinks slowly, unbothered. The ground under your feet feels suddenly very far away from anywhere safe. “Seok—”
He steps closer, hands up in the universal trust me gesture. “Listen. We’ve been putting this off. You’re doing great on the ground. But we can’t keep you in the kiddie pool forever. You’re part of this ranch now. That means at some point, you’re gonna need to sit on a horse.”
“Sit on a horse,” you echo faintly. “You make it sound like sitting on a couch.” He grins. “Okay, fair. It’s like sitting on a couch that moves. But Milo’s basically a couch.” You stare at him.
Your chest tightens the way it did yesterday in the corral—only this time there’s no spook, no horse dancing sideways, no concrete trigger. Just the possibility. Just the thought of your feet leaving the ground and trusting something else to hold you. No. Your mind flashes images out of order: hands on your shoulders pressing you somewhere you don’t want to go, a locked door, no way out. Your heart spikes. Seokmin’s face shifts instantly, all joking wiped clean. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”
You drag your eyes up to his. They’re soft. Steady.
“You’re safe,” he says. “You can say no if you really want to. I’m not gonna make you do anything. But I think you can do this. And I think you’ll feel better when you’re not afraid of it anymore.”
You swallow hard. Those words land too true. You’ve spent so long being forced, you forgot what it feels like to choose something scary. You glance at Milo again. He blinks. You exhale shakily. “Okay,” you say. “Okay. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
Seokmin beams. “Deal.”
He leads you to the mounting block—a sturdy wooden step that helps riders mount. Standing beside it, he pats Milo’s shoulder. “First things first,” he says. “We’re not even getting on yet. Just touch him. Get used to how high he is.” You place a tentative hand on Milo’s shoulder. His coat is warm under your palm, the muscle beneath solid but not tense. His skin shivers once in response to a fly, but otherwise he stands still. Seokmin moves behind you, close but not crowding. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now step up.” You hesitate, then climb onto the mounting block. Milo seems even taller from here. The ground feels farther away than it has any right to. Your hand tightens on the saddle horn. Your legs want to lock.
Seokmin steps closer, one hand hovering near your hip like a safety rail. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’m right here. We’re just gonna swing your leg over. I’m not letting you fall.” Your throat is dry. You nod.
“On three,” he says. "One… two…" You move on two. You grab the horn and swing your right leg over the saddle, scrambling a little, your boot catching for a second before going over. For a brief, terrifying moment, you feel off balance, weight tipped too far. Panic claws at your ribs.
Seokmin’s hand lands solidly on your hip, steadying you. “Easy,” he says. “Breathe. You’re up. Look at that.” You settle, both legs on either side of Milo, boots in the stirrups. Your hands clutch the horn like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the planet.
The world looks… different from up here. Wider. More exposed. If Milo moved right now, you’re not sure you wouldn’t just fall straight off.
Your breathing comes in short, sharp pulls. “I don’t like this,” you say, voice thin.
“I know,” Seokmin says. He moves in front of Milo, taking the reins lightly, his other hand reaching back toward your knee. “Hey. Hey, Rookie. Look at me.” You drag your eyes away from the ground and up to his face. He smiles, gentle. “You’re doing great,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. Milo’s not going anywhere. We’re just gonna stand here. That’s it. You’re allowed to just… sit.”
The pounding in your chest eases a fraction. Seokmin keeps his hand on your hip for balance, thumb resting lightly, not moving. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Now, heels down a bit. Yeah. Like that. If you lock your legs, you’ll bounce. Let your knees be soft. Trust the saddle. It’s not going anywhere.” The instructions come in a calm stream. You latch onto them.
He takes a small step back, then forward, leading Milo in a slow, tiny circle. The horse plods obediently, unhurried. You cling to the horn and the idea of not dying. You barely notice you’re moving at first. Then you feel the shift under you—the sway of Milo’s shoulders, the rocking motion of his walk. Your instinct is to stiffen, but Seokmin’s hand on your hip reminds you of the earlier instruction. Soft knees. Trust.
“You’re okay,” he says again. “You’re doing it.”
You are. You’re riding a horse. Sort of.
Your whole body is tense, but you’re not falling. Milo chews his bit lazily, unimpressed by your internal crisis. You almost start to believe you can do this. And then Seokmin steps closer to adjust your posture. “Here,” he says, moving behind your leg. “You’re tipping forward. Think chest up. Hips under you.” His hand slides from your knee up to your hip, gentle but firm, guiding your pelvis back a fraction. The motion is surprisingly intimate—not in a way that feels wrong, but in a way that sends a weird little shock up your spine. He’s all business, focused on your balance.
“There,” he murmurs. “Feel the difference?”
You do. You feel more secure. Less like you’re about to topple face-first into the dirt. You also feel eyes burning into your back. You glance toward the fence—and nearly jump out of the saddle. Mingyu is standing at the gate to the arena, one hand curled around the top rail. He must have been there longer than you realised, because his hat is pushed back slightly and his expression isn’t neutral. His jaw is locked. His gaze is pinned on Seokmin’s hand on your hip.
Heat floods your face. You hadn’t thought about what this looks like. You hadn’t thought about anything but not falling. But seeing Mingyu see you like this—perched awkwardly on a horse, Seokmin’s body close to yours, his hand holding you steady—sends a flush of something sharp through your chest. Something that feels suspiciously like guilt even though you’ve done nothing wrong. Seokmin notices your distraction and follows your line of sight. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, Mingyu.”
Mingyu doesn’t answer. He pushes off the fence and strides into the arena, boots kicking up small puffs of dust. Up close, he looks bigger somehow. Broader. The line of his mouth is thin, his eyes darker than usual. You swallow, fingers gripping the horn tighter. Milo flicks an ear, sensing the shift in energy. Mingyu stops a few feet away, gaze flicking briefly to your face, then back to where Seokmin’s hand still rests on your hip. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice flat. Seokmin blinks. “Teaching Rookie to ride,” he says, like it’s obvious. “She did good until you walked in. Now she looks like she’s gonna faint.”
"I’m not gonna faint,” you mutter, even as your vision feels a little hazy. Mingyu ignores you. “You don’t have time for this,” he says to Seokmin. “You’re supposed to be helping Vernon with the feed delivery.” Seokmin looks momentarily guilty, then defensive. “He’s got Wonwoo. They’ll be fine. She needs to learn sometime.”
"Not from you,” Mingyu says. The words are sharp enough that even Milo flicks his tail. Silence folds around the three of you. Seokmin frowns. “What’s your problem?” Mingyu’s jaw works, like he’s biting back about ten things he wants to say.
“You’re not watching her feet,” he says finally. “If Milo shifts, she’s gonna lose her balance and eat dirt. And you’re standing on the wrong side to catch her.”
"I’m fine,” you protest, though you’re suddenly very aware of how high up you really are. Mingyu steps closer to Milo’s other side, hand coming up to rest on the gelding’s neck. His presence is steadier than the fence. His eyes flick to yours, holding. “Take your foot out of the stirrup,” he says.
“Why?”
"Just do it.” You do. Your boot slips free. Immediately, you feel less anchored. Panic flares. Mingyu’s hand flashes out to your calf, fingers circling firm, stabilising you. “See?” he says to Seokmin, not looking away from you. “She’s not ready for you to half-ass this while you crack jokes. You step away for one second and she goes down.”
The unfairness of that hits you. “I wouldn’t—”
"You don’t know what you’d do,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ve been on a horse for ten minutes.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows he’s right. You hate that his hand on your leg makes you feel… safer, somehow. Seokmin’s cheeks flush, whether from the criticism or something else. “I wasn’t half-assing it,” he says, defensive. “I’m just trying to help.” Mingyu’s jaw clenches. “And I said I’ve got it.”
There’s a beat where Seokmin looks between the two of you—your white-knuckled grip on the horn, Mingyu’s steady hand on your calf, the way your whole body is vibrating with barely controlled nerves. His shoulders drop a fraction. “Fine,” he says, stepping back, hands up. “You want to play horse whisperer, knock yourself out.”
He pats Milo’s shoulder lightly. “You’re in good hands, Rookie,” he says to you, softer, then tosses Mingyu a look that’s equal parts fond and annoyed. “Try not to scare her more than the horse already does.”
He leaves the arena, dust swirling in his wake. You watch him go, guilt and gratitude tangled up in your chest. Mingyu waits until the gate clicks shut behind Seokmin before he shifts his grip, hand sliding from your calf to your ankle, then letting go once your foot is securely back in the stirrup. “He was helping,” you say quietly.
“He was distracting,” Mingyu counters. You bristle. “Distracting who?” His gaze flicks to you, heavy. You feel the answer in the way he looks away just as quickly. He clears his throat.
“If you’re gonna ride,” he says, voice a little rougher, “you’re gonna do it right. And you’re gonna do it with someone who actually knows how to keep you on the damn horse.”
"Seokmin knows how to ride,” you protest. “He knows how to ride,” Mingyu agrees. “He doesn’t know how to teach you.” He nods toward Milo’s ears. “He didn’t see when June almost kicked you yesterday. I did.” You blink. “Okay, so what, you’re just gonna—”
"Yes,” he interrupts. “From now on, if you’re on a horse, I’m there.”
The absolute certainty in his tone makes something in you bristle and something else relax at the same time. You’ve had men lay down rules before. You’ve had them use I’m there as a threat, a leash. This feels… different. Like a promise he’s making to himself as much as to you. You chew your bottom lip. “You don’t have to—”
"I’m not arguing with you about this,” he says. “You wanna stay here, you learn to ride. You wanna learn to ride, you do it my way. Or you stay on the ground and never ask to be out in a storm or on a drive.” The thought of being left behind when everyone else rides out—of standing at the fence, watching them go, useless—makes something twist in your gut. You don’t want that. You don’t want to be dead weight. You want to belong to the whole picture, not just the parts that keep your boots on the dirt. “Okay,” you say. “Teach me, then.”
For a moment, something unspoken passes between you: his stubbornness, your fear, his guilt for wanting to keep you off the back of any horse that could throw you, your determination to prove you won’t shatter. Then he nods once.
“Sit up,” he says, slipping instantly into instruction. “You’re slouching. Heels down. Don’t choke the horn. It’s not going anywhere.” You adjust. He steps back, but not far, his hand still hovering near your knee. “We’re gonna walk the rail,” he says. “Just like you did with Seok. But this time, you’re gonna feel what Milo’s doing instead of clenching like you’re on a rollercoaster.”
"I hate rollercoasters,” you mutter.
“Then good thing this isn’t one.”
He clicks his tongue softly and Milo steps forward. You tense automatically. “Breathe,” Mingyu says. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Match him.”
You focus on the rhythm of Milo’s walk: the gentle sway, the steady four-beat pattern. You let your knees move with it instead of fighting. Dust swirls lazily around his hooves. Mingyu walks at his shoulder, close enough that if you pitched forward, he could catch you. You can feel his presence like a second gravity. “Better,” he murmurs after a lap. “You’re not a statue anymore.”
"Feels like it,” you say. “You’ll get there.”
You circle the arena again. And again. Each time, the panic spikes a little less at the first step. Each time, Milo feels less like a looming threat and more like… a big, moving couch, just like Seokmin said. A couch with opinions, but still. Mingyu corrects you in small ways:
“Don’t stare at his neck. Look where you’re going.”
"Relax your hands. You’re not trying to strangle the reins.”
"If you feel him tense, don’t freak out. Ask him what’s wrong. Shift your weight. Be ready, but don’t freeze.”
You want to roll your eyes at ask him what’s wrong—like horses can answer—but then Milo’s ears flick at a sudden shout from the other end of the arena and his stride shortens for a second. You remember the instruction, bring your heels down, steady your hands, breathe out. He settles. Mingyu makes a low sound that, this time, you recognise as approval. By the time he tells you to halt, your thighs are trembling and your butt hurts in ways you didn’t know it could, but you’re… okay. Still in the saddle. Still breathing. Alive.
He steps closer, hand coming up to the horn for a moment as you ease your foot out of the stirrup and swing your leg over. This time, you don’t wobble as much. When your boots hit the dirt, the ground feels weirdly solid and strange all at once. You pat Milo’s neck with a shaky laugh. “Thank you for not murdering me,” you whisper. He snorts, as if offended you ever doubted him. Mingyu watches you, expression unreadable. “Again tomorrow,” he says.
“Tomorrow?”
"You think you’re done after one lap around the arena?” His mouth quirks. “That was lesson one. You’ve got a long way to go, Rookie.” The nickname, spoken here—inside the arena, with your boots dusty and your heartbeat finally slowing—feels like something new all over again. Not a jab at your lack of experience. A marker of this new achievement, too. You swallow, nodding. “Okay.”
He nods once more, satisfied, then slaps Milo’s shoulder affectionately. “Good boy,” he mutters to the horse. Then, to you, “Go cool off. Drink some water. Don’t let Riley talk you into anything stupid tonight. Your legs are gonna hate you in the morning.”
"They already hate me,” you say.
“That’s how you know you’re learning.”
As you walk out of the arena, leading Milo beside you, you glance back over your shoulder. Mingyu is standing in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, watching you go with that same intent focus he’s had since the day you arrived.
Only now, under the scrutiny, there’s a glint of something else. Responsibility. Reluctant pride. A claim he made out loud: If you’re on a horse, I’ve got you.
Riding becomes part of your days the way early mornings and coffee already are.
You don’t know exactly when it shifts from extra thing Mingyu is forcing you to do to something with a slot in the rhythm of the ranch. It just… happens. Somewhere between the third and tenth morning you find yourself tugging on your boots and automatically wondering which horse he’ll pick today. He never makes a big announcement. He just appears.
Sometimes it’s at dawn, leaning in the doorway of the barn, nodding toward the arena before the others are even fully awake. “Ten minutes,” he says. “Finish your coffee.” Sometimes it’s mid-afternoon, when chores quiet down and the sun hangs heavy over the pens. “You done with that?” he asks, nodding at your pitchfork or your coiled hose. “Arena. Now.”
He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. He assumes. You’re not sure if that annoys you or steadies you. Maybe both.
Milo becomes your usual partner in crime. Occasionally he swaps you onto another horse—June, when she’s in a good mood, or an older gelding named Scout—but it’s mostly Milo’s sturdy shoulders under your saddle as you learn what your body is supposed to be doing.
Mingyu is strict. He doesn’t coo or coddle. He doesn’t give you gold stars for trying. “You’re leaning too far forward,” he says. “You’re telling him to hurry and you don’t even mean to.”
"You’re clenching your thighs like you’re trying to crack a walnut. Relax or you’re gonna be sore for a week.”
"If you keep staring down, you’re gonna steer him into the fence. Look where you’re going, Rookie.”
But he is patient. Painfully, stubbornly patient. He repeats the same corrections day after day, never sounding surprised that you need them again, only mildly annoyed at gravity and probably your center of balance. “Heels down,” he says for the thousandth time. You let your heels drop. “Good. Now shoulders back, not rigid. You’re not on trial. You’re just sitting.”
"Feels like a trial,” you mutter. He snorts. “Jury’s still out.”
He walks beside you most days, hand sometimes on Milo’s neck, sometimes hovering near your knee. When he does ride alongside you, he’s a steady presence at your flank, posture so natural it makes you want to scream. How is it possible for someone to look like they were born on a horse? You struggle not to stare. You struggle not to stare at him more than you struggle with the reins most days.
The touches start small and necessary. A hand on your calf when your foot slips in the stirrup. Fingers brushing your wrist as he adjusts where you’re holding the reins. The flat, warm weight of his palm against your knee when he stops Milo with a quiet “whoa” and keeps you from pitching forward. You tell yourself they don’t mean anything. They don’t, to him. They’re corrections, tools. He’s not thinking about your pulse tripping along under your skin. You are.
Then there are the bigger touches.
“You’re crooked,” he says one afternoon, squinting up at you from the ground. “I am not crooked.”
"You absolutely are. Your left hip’s ahead of your right. Scoot back.” You try. You wiggle in the saddle, trying to reset yourself, but end up feeling more off-balance. He sighs, steps closer. “Stop. You’ll just throw yourself more out of line.”
He plants a boot on the lowest rail of the fence and hauls himself up so he’s almost level with the saddle. His height does the rest. Suddenly he’s right beside you, chest nearly level with your shoulder, one hand braced on the pommel. The other finds your hip. His fingers spread over bone and muscle, firm and sure as he nudges your pelvis back an inch, then another. Your breath catches. He’s not rough, but he’s not tentative either. He moves you like he moves tack—confident he knows what he’s doing. “There,” he murmurs, voice close to your cheek. “Feel that? Your seat’s under you now, not sliding.” You feel something, alright.
You nod, words lost somewhere between your sternum and your throat. He doesn’t seem to notice the way your heartbeat has kicked into a sprint. Or if he does, he doesn’t comment. He just adjusts your other hip to match, thumbs pressing gently, and then slips back down to the ground like nothing happened. You spend the next five minutes trying to remember how reins work.
You fall on a Wednesday. It’s your own fault, technically.
The air is sharp with the promise of changing weather, wind gusting across the arena and rattling the boards. Milo is a little livelier than usual, ears flicking at every new sound. “He feels different,” you say, nerves prickling. “He’s just reading the wind,” Mingyu replies. “You’re fine. If he speeds up, don’t yank his mouth. Sit deep. Ask him to come back to you.”
Ask him. Like that isn’t the most abstract instruction on the planet. But you try. You circle the ring, heels down, shoulders back, remembering every bullet point he’s drilled into you. Milo’s walk turns into a jog for a few strides, but you manage to breathe through it, steady your hands, bring him back. You’re proud of yourself. Too proud. You’re thinking I’m getting this when a tarp next to the arena snaps loud in the wind. Milo startles. Not a huge spook. Not a rear. Just a sudden leap sideways, a jump forward, his body tensing under you like a spring. You do exactly what you’re not supposed to do. You tense up, lean forward, and grab for the horn. Your weight shifts too far over his shoulder. Your right foot pops out of the stirrup. The world tilts. You slide. For a second, everything slows.
You see dirt rushing up toward you, feel the empty swing of your leg, hear Milo’s quickened breathing. Panic spikes white-hot in your veins. Someone shouts your name. Strong arms clamp around your waist. The impact you braced for doesn’t come. You hit something else instead—someone else—and it knocks the breath out of you. You and Mingyu go down together in a messy tangle of limbs, but he takes the hit, rolling under you, his body absorbing the worst of it. You end up sprawled half on his chest, half beside him in the dirt, hat askew, heart beating so loud you can taste it. Milo trots a few steps away, then stops, snorting indignantly.
For a moment, there is no wind, no ranch, no sky. There is only the solid thump of Mingyu’s heart under your palms and the heat of his body pressed along yours. Your fingers are curled in his shirt. His arm is banded tight around your middle, having pulled you close on instinct. His other hand is braced in the dirt behind your shoulders, keeping you from smacking your head. His cap has flown off somewhere, dark hair mussed. His face is inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. The small scar near his brow. The way his pupils are blown wide, adrenaline turning his gaze almost black. You try to breathe. You get something like a gasp instead. His chest rises under you, fast, then slower as he forces his lungs to cooperate.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, like he’s been yelling even though he hasn’t. The world narrows down to the question. Are you? You do a quick inventory. Bruised knees, maybe. Scraped palms. Pride in tatters on the arena floor. But alive. Held. “Yeah,” you manage. “I—yeah. I’m okay.”
You realise you’re still lying on him. You realise he realises it at the exact same moment. The air between you shifts. His gaze flicks to your mouth for the tiniest, traitorous second, then back up. You feel your own eyes do the same to his without permission, landing on his lips, on the breath you can feel against your cheek. For one dizzy, impossible heartbeat, you imagine closing the distance. His fingers flex on your waist.
Then he lets go like he’s been burned. “Get up,” he mutters, already moving you off him. The loss of contact is a shock in itself. He rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, brushes dirt off his jeans with hands that aren’t quite steady. You push yourself upright more slowly, dust clinging to your palms, your knees. Mingyu retrieves his hat, slaps it against his thigh, and jams it back on his head like he can hide under the brim. “You good?” he asks again, but the edge is back in his voice now. You nod, cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry,” you say. The apology feels too big for the situation and not big enough at the same time. “I panicked.” He exhales sharply. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.” The bluntness stings. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.
“You said he’d be fine,” you add, immediately regretting how accusing it sounds. Mingyu scrubs a hand over his face. “He was fine,” he says, calmer. He nods toward Milo. “He just hopped. You turned a hop into a disaster because you locked up.” You flinch.
“Congratulations,” he says, “that makes you normal. Everybody eats dirt at some point.”
“You’ve fallen?” He snorts. “Rookie, if you ride long enough, the question’s not ‘have you fallen,’ it’s ‘how many times and did anyone see.’” His mouth twitches. “Unfortunately for you, I did.”
You stare at him. The tension in your chest loosens by a thread. “You saved me,” you say quietly. He shrugs, looking away. “You were falling in front of me,” he mutters. “I wasn’t gonna let you snap your neck on my watch.”
Maybe it’s the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Maybe it’s the memory of his arms locked around you, the solid certainty of his grip. But something in you responds to the my in that sentence. “Thank you,” you say. He nods once, still not meeting your eyes. “You done for today?” he asks.
You should be. You’re shaken, humiliated, your brain ping-ponging between near-fall and near-something-else on the ground. You look at Milo, at the saddle, at the dirt. You think about fear, about running, about all the times you’ve taken one bad moment as proof you should never try again. “No,” you say, surprising both of you. “I want to get back on.” His head snaps up. “Now?”
"If I don’t, I’ll think about it all night,” you admit. “And then I won’t get back on at all.” He stares at you for a long, unreadable moment. Pride flickers across his face before he can kill it. “Alright,” he says. “Back on, then.”
His hands are all business as he brings Milo back, checks the girth, reins the horse in closer. When he helps you mount this time, his touch is still steady, but he keeps more distance between your bodies—like getting that close to you again is a nuisance he doesn’t want to repeat. You notice. You file it away.
You ride three more slow circles without falling. It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. But it’s you, on a horse, after hitting the ground, and it feels like some quiet miracle.
Everyone else seems to notice something you don’t. They’re not subtle about it. At dinner that night, you squeeze onto the bench between Tess and Riley, legs pleasantly aching, adrenaline finally worn down to a hum. Your hair is still damp from your shower, curling slightly around your face. There’s a dull bruise already staining your knee under your jeans. “Heard you had a date with the dirt,” Vernon says as he passes you the mashed potatoes. You groan. “Who told you?”
"We have eyes,” Hana says. “And also Dino was pretending to practice his roping and watched the whole thing.” Dino raises a hand from the other end of the table. “You bounced,” he says cheerfully. “But like, in a tough way.”
"Thanks,” you mutter. Riley nudges your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “More importantly,” she says. “We heard about the catch.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What catch?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “The Mingyu-shaped crash pad.” Your ears go hot. “Nothing happened.” Tess gives you a look. “You’re bright red,” she says mildly. “So something happened.”
"He just… didn’t let me die,” you sputter. “That’s his job.”
"Yes, but did he have to roll with you?” Riley asks. “Did he have to cradle you?” Hana adds, hand over her heart. “Did he have to look like a romance novel cover while doing it?” Riley finishes.
“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off, stabbing your potato with unnecessary violence. Down the table, Seokmin leans back in his chair, watching you with a little smile. His gaze flicks briefly to where Mingyu sits, and his smile grows when he catches him pointedly not looking at you. Mingyu keeps his focus on his plate like it’s a contract in need of signing.
Later in the meal, the conversation shifts. It always does, swirling around work and town gossip and whatever nonsense Vernon and Dino have gotten up to. Tonight, it lands squarely on Evie and Seungcheol, which is always good entertainment.
“Did you fill out those field trip forms I gave you?” Evie asks, spearing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. Seungcheol chews slowly, pretending not to hear her. Evie narrows her eyes. “Cheol.” He sighs. “I looked at them,” he says. “And?”
"And some of those questions are ridiculous.” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Why do you need to know if every kid’s grandma has a favorite color?” Evie’s stare turns lethal. “Those are reflection prompts for the kids,” she says tightly. “The actual permission slip is on the back, which you’d know if you ever read anything all the way through.”
"I read contracts all day,” he protests. “I’m not reading about little Timmy’s favorite dinosaur.”
"It’s not about Timmy’s dinosaur, it’s about getting them to think about—”
"If the forms are that important, why didn’t you just bring the kids out without me?”
"Because we need your liability waiver, genius,” she snaps. “And your precious insurance paperwork. And maybe I didn’t want to risk having thirty eight-year-olds trample your fence line without warning.”
Hana leans toward you, stage-whispering. “I give them five minutes before one of them throws food.” Riley hums. “Three,” she whispers back. Tess just shakes her head, lips twitching.
“I’m just saying,” Seungcheol continues, “you could have explained it better instead of dumping a stack of papers on my desk and yelling about ‘childhood experiences.’”
"I did explain it,” Evie fires back. “You were on your phone. Like you always are when I talk about anything that isn’t cattle weight or feed costs.”
"Because we own a ranch.”
"Because you’re emotionally constipated.”
A chorus of oof travels around the table. Seungcheol sets his fork down very carefully. “Excuse me?” Evie doesn’t back down. “You heard me.”
For a moment, the air crackles. They’re both flushed—him with annoyance, her with righteous indignation that somehow still looks good on her. They’re leaning in, eyes locked, completely focused on each other. If either of them took half that intensity and pointed it somewhere other than an argument, you’re pretty sure this table would catch fire. “Just kiss already,” Dino mutters under his breath, not quietly enough.
Hana chokes on her drink. “Chan,” Tess hisses. Evie and Seungcheol both swing their glares toward Dino, united for one brief second in their outrage. “What did you say?” Evie demands.
“Nothing,” Dino says quickly. “Just… pass the salt?”
Nobody believes him. But the spell breaks. Evie huffs, stabbing another piece of chicken. Seungcheol shakes his head and picks up his fork again. “I’ll sign the damn forms,” he grumbles. “Bring your kids. Just warn me before they unleash hell.”
Evie lifts her chin. “They’re eight, not demons.” He gives her a pointed look. “Debatable.” She throws a napkin at him. Everyone rolls their eyes and smiles into their plates. You do too.
You catch Mingyu watching them, expression somewhere between tired fondness and please don’t make me be in the room when this explodes. His gaze slides to you then, like it can’t help it. You look away, pretending to be very interested in Riley’s story about Vernon’s failed attempt at baking bread. But your skin prickles. Because you can feel it—the way something between you and him shifted out there in the arena. How it’s still shifting, even now, under the surface of your work and his gruff orders and your attempts to act like it was just a riding lesson.
You wonder how long you can pretend it’s only the riding you’re learning to trust.
Longview feels different at the end of a long week.
Like something electric. Anticipation, maybe. You can feel it humming under everyone’s skin all day—louder jokes in the barn, music blaring from the guys’ bunkhouse while they shower, Hana yelling through the open window that if Vernon steals her good boots again, she’s stapling them to the floor. You’re halfway through braiding your hair when Riley slaps a palm on your bunk and declares, “We’re making you pretty.”
“I’m already pretty,” you protest, even though your stomach flips. “We’re making you bar pretty,” she corrects. “Different scale.”
Tess snorts from where she’s folding laundry. “She’s fine as she is.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Riley says. “I said we’re upgrading. It’s her one-month-iversary. We’re celebrating properly.”
Hana appears with a swipe of mascara and a wicked grin. “And by properly, she means we’re going to get you drunk enough to dance and sober enough to remember it.” You laugh, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath.
A month. You’ve been here a month. Longview isn’t a transit stop anymore—not in your chest. It’s stalls at dawn, coffee in cracked mugs, Milo’s warm shoulder under your palm, Mingyu’s voice saying “heels down” so often you hear it in your sleep. It’s laundry on the lines and Nora’s bread on the counter and family dinners where your chair is just… there. You didn’t think you’d get a month of anything like that again. “Okay,” you relent. “Make me bar pretty.” Riley whoops in triumph.
Hana digs out the skirt she convinced you to buy in town—dark, soft, a little shorter than you’re used to. Tess insists on one of her tops, a black thing that drapes in all the right places and shows a hint more skin than you usually dare. They argue over earrings. Riley wins. By the time you’re standing in front of the bunkhouse mirror, you barely recognise the woman staring back. She’s still you—same eyes, same scar half-hidden at your jaw, same bone-deep caution. But there’s colour in her cheeks and gloss on her mouth and something wild in the way she’s standing, weight on one hip like she has a right to take up space. “Damn, Rookie,” Hana says, low. “Look at you.”
“Mingyu’s gonna have a stroke,” Riley adds cheerfully. Your stomach does something stupid. “He won’t care,” you lie. They give you a synchronised sure, Jan look.
The bar in town looks different tonight than the first time you saw it. Then, it was noise and neon and unknowns you didn’t have the bandwidth to face. Now, arriving with a convoy of trucks and familiar voices spilling out into the gravel lot, it feels less like a threat and more like a little pocket of the world you’re allowed to share. Music thumps through the walls, low and pulsing. The place is packed: locals, travellers, ranch hands from other spreads. Trucks lined up under the string lights, cigarette smoke curling in the cool air. Above the door, the same faded sign buzzes faintly. “Alright, children,” Tess says as everyone piles out of the trucks. “Ground rules: we all get home in one piece, nobody gets in a fight, and if anyone vomits in my truck, they’re mucking stalls for a week.”
Riley salutes. “Yes, mom.”
“Stop calling me mom.”
You fall into step with Hana and Riley, your boots crunching on gravel. Behind you, you hear Seokmin’s loud laugh as he hooks an arm around Seungcheol’s shoulders, teasing him about looking like someone’s dad in his nicer shirt. Mingyu’s heavier footsteps are unmistakable, steady and unhurried. You don’t look back.
Inside, the bar is all dim lights and bodies moving in a loose, happy press. The air smells like beer and fried food and perfume, the floor sticky in places, the walls crowded with old photos and rusty license plates.
Mae is behind the bar. You almost don’t recognise her. She’s in a simple black tank and jeans, hair pulled up, tattoos on her forearms visible. She’s moving fast, pouring, laughing, sliding bottles down the counter with enthusiastic precision. The second she spots your group, her mouth quirks. “Look what the cows dragged in,” she calls. Seokmin beelines for her like he’s been magnetised. “Mae.” His voice goes softer, warmer. “You look—”
“Busy,” she cuts in, grabbing a bottle. “What do you want?”
“Your heart,” he says, without missing a beat. She rolls her eyes. “On tap or bottled?” The guys snicker. Hana groans. You bite back a grin. “Two pitchers of beer,” Seungcheol orders smoothly, sliding in to spare Seokmin from himself. “And, uh—” he glances at you, Riley, Hana, Tess “—whatever they want.” Mae’s eyes sweep over you, taking in your outfit, your slightly self-conscious posture. “First drink’s on me,” she says. “Happy one-month, Longview.”
Warmth floods your chest. “Thanks.” She taps the bar. “Don’t let them corrupt you too fast.”
“Too late,” Riley says, already reaching for the shot glass Mae plants in front of her.
“One each,” Mae warns, sliding three more shot glasses your way. “Two each,” Riley corrects, immediately flagging down another. “We’re celebrating.” You down yours, coughing a little at the burn, and feel the heat bloom in your chest, loosening edges you didn’t realise were still clenched. Mingyu hangs back a few steps, the slide of his gaze quick but thorough. He takes a beer when it’s passed to him, nods at Mae. “You good?” she asks him.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Try having fun,” she suggests. His mouth twitches. “We’ll see.”
You don’t mean to end up on the dance floor so fast. It just happens. The music shifts into something with a beat, and Riley yelps, “Oh my God, I love this one!” She grabs your hand, and suddenly you’re in the middle of it—lights spinning, bodies moving, heat on your skin. Hana’s beside you, hips swaying, arms thrown up, hair whipping. Tess is more restrained but still smiling, muttering, “I’m too old for this,” even as she taps her foot and lets Riley spin her. You’re stiff at first. Self-conscious. Hyper-aware of your own limbs. Then the chorus hits. Riley whoops. Hana bumps your hip. “Loosen up, Rookie!” she hollers over the music. “Nobody’s watching!”
That’s not true. You know it’s not true. But for once, it doesn’t send your heart into your throat. You close your eyes, feel the bass under your boots, the air brushing your bare legs as your skirt swings. You let your body move—not gracefully, not perfectly, but honestly. Shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck, laughter coming more easily. When you open your eyes again, you catch a glimpse of the bar. Mingyu is there, half-leaning against it, beer in hand, talking with Wonwoo and Dino. His cap is off, hair messy from the day, the collar of his shirt open. He looks relaxed, in that coiled way he has, like even at ease he’s ready to move. His gaze is on you. Not on the crowd. On you.
The song ends, another one starts. At some point Riley staggers back from the bar with a tray of shots, grinning like she’s discovered oil. “Anniversary round!” she shouts, thrusting a glass into your hand. “For bravery and bad decisions!”
“You’re going to kill her,” Tess says, but she takes one too. You clink the tiny glass with theirs and toss it back. The second burn is easier. It slides into the first, warmth spreading through your stomach. When you step back onto the dance floor this time, you’re buzzing. From the shots. From the music. From the way Mingyu’s gaze keeps finding you no matter where you move. You feel it like a touch between your shoulder blades, low on your spine, tracking every sway of your hips. Every time you glance over, he’s still there. Sometimes he’s pretending to listen to Wonwoo. Sometimes Seokmin is talking his ear off. But his eyes… They stay you.
And for the first time in years, instead of making you want to shrink, that look makes you want to see what happens if you lean into it. You let your movements slow down. Smoother. Your hips roll a little deeper with the beat. You shrug one shoulder, let your hair fall over your face and then toss it back. Your hands skim down your own sides as you turn, skirt swishing high on your thighs. You’re not dancing for the room. You’re dancing because his eyes are on you and, with the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, it feels… good. Powerful. Like claiming the body you live in instead of just hauling it through the day.
Hana whistles. “Okay, Rookie,” she laughs, pulling you closer. “I see you.” Riley cackles. “Someone’s gonna combust,” she sing-songs. You risk another glance toward the bar. Mingyu’s jaw is tight. His grip on his beer bottle looks like it might snap glass. He’s not even pretending to follow whatever joke Dino just told. His eyes track the line of your thighs, the way your top clings when you lift your arms, the tilt of your mouth when you laugh at something Hana says. Seungcheol leans in, shoulder brushing Mingyu’s, lips moving near his ear. You can’t hear what he says over the music. You see the effect. Mingyu’s mouth flattens. His gaze sharpens. He shakes his head once, like he’s telling himself something you’re not privy to. Seungcheol just gives him a knowing look and claps him on the back, moving away to intercept Evie, who has just walked in with murder in her eyes for whoever left copies jammed in the school printer. You don’t hear that conversation either. Because there’s suddenly someone behind you. A chest at your back. Hands too close to your waist. You stiffen, the good kind of heat evaporating. You turn and find a stranger.
He’s tall, maybe your age or a few years older, in a worn ballcap and a T-shirt with some local beer logo on it. He smells like cheap whiskey and cologne, grin easy and just a little too confident. “Couldn’t help noticing you out here,” he says, leaning in close so you can hear him. “Dance with me?” You take a half-step back, trying to keep it light. “I’m with them,” you say, nodding toward Hana and Riley. “Just having fun.” He takes that as encouragement, not a boundary. He moves with you as you shift away, matching your steps, closing the space you opened. “Looks like you were dancing for everybody,” he chuckles. “Don’t mind if I enjoy the show.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you say, louder this time, placing your hand flat on his chest. A polite barrier. He doesn’t stop. He slides in closer, your palm pressing against him as he moves anyway, his hand brushing your hip like he has the right. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, breath too hot against your ear. “Don’t be shy.” Your heart starts to pound for a different reason. “I said no,” you repeat, trying to sidestep. His fingers curl around your wrist. Not gently.
The music keeps thumping, people keep moving, but in the small circle of space around you, everything narrows to the feel of that grip—too tight, too familiar, memories ripping up through your chest like weeds.
You yank your arm back on reflex. The hold tightens. “Don’t be like that,” he says, smile slipping. “You were practically begging for attention out here.” You open your mouth—to protest, to shout, to do something—but you don’t get the chance. A solid weight slams between you. Your arm is yanked free, not roughly, but decisively. The stranger is shoved back a step as a larger body shoulders him away from you.
Mingyu. He’s suddenly there, filling your vision, standing squarely between you and the stranger, his frame a wall shielding you. “She said no,” he snaps. You’ve never heard his voice like that. Not raised, exactly, but sharp enough to cut. The stranger sneers. “Who the fuck are you?” Mingyu doesn’t answer. He steps into the guy’s space, shoulders broad, hands loose at his sides. You see the tension in him, coiled and ready, the same kind of readiness he carries on a horse when something spooks—focused, lethal.
“Walk away,” he says. “Now.” The guy shoves his chest. Everything happens too fast after that. Mingyu’s fist comes up in a blur, catching the stranger square across the bridge of his nose. There’s a sickening crack, an explosion of movement—chairs scraping, people shouting, Mae swearing. The man goes down hard, hands flying to his face, blood spilling between his fingers. You gasp. The room’s energy whiplashes from fun to dangerous in a heartbeat.
Someone yells. The bartender nearest Mae reaches for the phone. Another guy steps in front of his friend, glaring at Mingyu, but doesn’t move closer—something in Mingyu’s face making him think twice. “Mingyu,” you breathe out in horror. He doesn’t look at you right away. His chest is heaving, nostrils flared, eyes locked on the man groaning on the floor like he might get up and try again. He won’t. Thank God.
“Out,” Mae snaps, suddenly in front of the bar, hands slammed on the counter. Her eyes blaze at both men equally. “Cheol, get them out before I have to mop up their teeth.” Seungcheol is already moving, muttering under his breath, pulling Mingyu back by the arm. “Come on,” he growls. “That’s enough.”
The stranger is hauled to his feet by a friend, nose crooked and bleeding, yelling something about “psycho cowboys” and “lawsuit” that no one really listens to. You just stand there. Shock pins you in place. You stare at the blood, at Mingyu’s knuckles, at the way his jaw is clenched so tight you think he might crack a tooth.
You should say thank you. You should say what the hell. You’re not sure which wins. You reach out, fingers brushing his forearm. “What the hell was that?” you demand, voice breaking on the last word. He finally looks at you. His eyes are dark. Wild. “He grabbed you,” he says, like that’s the beginning and end of the story.
“I had it,” you snap, even though you didn’t, not really. “You can’t just go around breaking people’s faces.”
“Watch me,” he snarls.
The bar’s noise starts to creep back in around you—music turned down, people whispering, someone swearing in the bathroom about the blood trail. Hana and Riley hover a few feet away, eyes wide. Tess moves closer, but stays back just enough to give you space. Your wrist throbs where the stranger’s hand was. You’re shaking now—for a different reason. Fear, yes. But also anger. At the guy. At the way your body remembers being grabbed like that. At Mingyu for exploding instead of… something else. “You didn’t have to hit him,” you insist.
“He didn’t have to touch you,” Mingyu fires back. You stare at each other, breathing hard. Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says. “We’re done. Mingyu, outside. Now.” Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m taking her home,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re done drinking,” he says. “You’re done dancing for idiots who don’t understand the word no.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” you snap. “I can finish my drink and—”
“You’re cut off,” he says, voice low and hard. “You’re leaving. With me.” The command hits somewhere low in your stomach, a tangled mess of fury and something hotter. “Oh, absolutely not,” you say. “I’m not some calf you can just drag into a trailer—”
He doesn’t argue with words. He just moves. One second you’re standing on both feet; the next, your world flips. A strong arm hooks behind your knees, another clamps around your thighs, and you find yourself hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Mingyu!” You pound at his back, more scandalised than actually hurt. “Put me down!”
“No,” he grunts. The bar erupts into laughter and catcalls.
“Get it, Longview!”
“Damn, Rookie, you pulled the boss!” Riley shrieks, half hysterical, half delighted, before Tess smacks her arm.
“Chan, stop filming,” Hana hisses at Dino, who’s absolutely trying to get his phone out. Mae glares over the bar. “If you two are going to screw up my Saturday night, have the decency to do it outside,” she calls. Seungcheol is torn between exasperation and amusement. “I’ll settle the tab,” he says. “Go. Before someone calls the sheriff.”
You wriggle, but Mingyu’s hold is iron. The world bounces with each step he takes, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, arm locked over the backs of your thighs to keep you from kneeing him in the face. This close, you can smell him—sweat and soap and beer and something distinctly him underneath it all. It’s infuriating. It’s dizzying.
Outside, the night air hits your flushed skin, cooler than the bar, stars bright above the parking lot. He strides toward the trucks. “Mingyu, I’m serious,” you warn. “Put me down or I swear to God—” He stops. For a second, you think he might listen. Then he simply adjusts his grip and keeps walking. “You can swear at me from the truck,” he says. He drops you onto the passenger seat with less gentleness than usual but more than anger would allow. The door slams, vibrating the frame. He stalks around the hood, muttering something vicious under his breath.
You’re panting, hair mussed, skirt bunched around your thighs. “You can’t just manhandle me like that,” you snap the second he climbs in. He turns the engine over, jaw still tight. “You weren’t listening,” he says. “And I wasn’t about to let you stay in there so some other asshole could try his luck.”
“I said no,” you shoot back. “I can handle myself.”
His hand slams against the steering wheel, making you jump. “Can you?” he demands, finally looking at you. His eyes blaze in the dashboard light. “Because from where I was standing, you were shaking so hard you could barely talk.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not your call to make,” you whisper. Some of the heat drains out of his face, replaced by something else—guilt, maybe. He drags a hand down over his mouth, breathing hard. “He grabbed you,” he says again, voice rougher now. “I saw your face, Rookie.”
You swallow. “That doesn’t mean you get to break someone’s nose,” you say. “Or throw me over your shoulder like a caveman.”
“Maybe not,” he allows. “But I’m not apologising for getting you out of there.” You glare out the windshield, furious at him, at yourself, at the way your body betrayed you in front of a stranger. “It's not your job to protect me from everything,” you mutter.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’ll sure as hell try.”
The words hang there, too much and not enough. You don’t know what to do with them. He puts the truck in gear and pulls out of the lot. Gravel crunches under the tyres. The bar recedes in the rearview, neon shrinking to a smear of light in the dark.
The first part of the drive is silent. You watch the road, the way the headlights carve a tunnel through the night. The fences flash by, familiar silhouettes. Your breathing slows, the adrenaline shifting from sharp edges to a steady buzz. His hands on the wheel are tight, knuckles pale. His jaw is still working. You’re both wound so tight you might snap. “He didn’t matter,” you say after a while, voice low. “He was just some guy.”
“That’s the problem,” Mingyu says. “Just some guy. Thinks he can put his hands wherever he wants. Thinks ‘no’ is a maybe.”
“You punched him because you were jealous,” you accuse, because it’s easier to poke that than admit how much the rest of what he said affected you. His hands tighten on the wheel. “I punched him because he touched you,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And yeah. Because I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say. “You barely talk to me unless I’m falling off a horse.”
“I talk to you,” he mutters.
“‘Heels down’ doesn’t count,” you shoot back. He huffs a humourless laugh.
The truck slows. Mingyu turns off the main drive, pulling onto a side track that leads out toward the back pastures. There’s no house here, no lights—just a narrow strip of dirt and the vast dark of the fields on either side. “What are you doing?” you ask. He puts the truck in park and kills the engine. Suddenly, the world is nothing but soft ticking metal and the sound of your own heartbeat. He turns in his seat to face you fully. In the dim cabin light, his face is all hard lines and shadow, eyes searching yours. “I talk to you with my eyes,” he says quietly. “You just never look long enough to hear it.”
“What are they saying, then?” you ask, because the alternative is to shatter. He reaches up slowly, thumb brushing the faint red marks on your wrist with a gentleness so at odds with the memory of his fist that it makes your throat ache. “They’re saying I hate seeing you scared,” he murmurs. “They’re saying I hate that you think you gotta prove yourself, constantly.”
His thumb slips lower, tracing the pulse fluttering under your skin. “They’re saying I wanted to rip his hands off you,” he adds, voice rougher now. “Because when you dance with someone, it should be because you chose him. Not because he dragged you.” Heat rolls through you, hot and cold at once. You swallow, eyes locked on his. “And who,” you ask, “exactly, am I choosing?”
The question hangs there, fragile and dangerous. His gaze drops to your mouth. When he looks back up, something in him has given in. “Tell me to drive you home,” he says. “Tell me you’re mad at me. Tell me you never want me to touch you again.” You don’t. You lean across the console instead.
The kiss crashes into you the way the bar noise did earlier—loud, overwhelming, everything at once. His mouth is hot and hungry, tasting like beer and anger and something softer underneath that you’ve been pretending not to see. Your hands find the front of his shirt, balling fabric between your fingers, pulling him closer like you’re trying to erase the last few inches of air between you.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, low and rough, and then he’s cupping your jaw, thumb against your cheek, tilting your head to get a better angle. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to make you gasp. "Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "You have no idea what you do to me, Rookie."
You climb over the console on instinct, desperate to close the distance. Your knee clips the horn. It blares. You both jerk, then burst into breathless, incredulous laughter against each other’s mouths. "Smooth," you gasp.
"Shut up," he mutters, already hauling you fully into his lap, one big hand spanning your waist and guiding you down. You straddle him, the steering wheel at your back, the top digging into your shoulder blades. Suddenly, there’s nowhere that isn’t him—thighs braced under you, chest solid against yours, breath mingling in the small, dark cab.
Your skirt hikes up as you settle, bunching around your hips. His jeans are rough under your thighs, the heat of his body bleeding through the denim. His hands grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of you. There’s no hesitation in the way he handles you—strong, sure—but there’s nothing trapping about it, either. He moves you like he’s done this a thousand times in his head and is terrified of getting it wrong in real life.
He drags his mouth from your lips to your jaw, to the edge of your throat, each kiss a little rougher than the last. When he finds the spot just below your ear, he bites lightly, and your whole body jolts. "You okay?" he asks, voice ragged against your skin. "Tell me if you’re not. Tell me to stop and I will. I mean it."
You nod so fast your hair brushes his face. He pulls back an inch, eyes dark, jaw tight. "Use your words, Rookie."
"I’m okay," you manage. "I want this. I want you." Something in his shoulders drops.
"Good girl," he murmurs, so soft you barely catch it. Heat rolls through you, sharp and sweet all at once.
His hands slip under the hem of your borrowed top, fingers skimming your back, your ribs, tracing the edge of your bra. Your spine arches without your permission, chest pressing against his. His thumbs make slow, almost worshipful passes along your sides, learning every line. You fist your hands in his hair, tugging a little. He groans, low and filthy, and his mouth slants back over yours, kiss turning messier, wetter. You taste him, feel him, lose track of where you end and he begins.
He slides one hand down, over the curve of your hip, along your thigh, fingers splaying against bare skin where your skirt has ridden up. He squeezes once. "You have any idea what it did to me, watching you dance?" he mutters into your mouth. "Knowing every asshole in that place was looking at you when you were—" he cuts himself off with a strained laugh, breath catching as your hips shift. "Jesus."
You shift again on purpose this time, rolling your hips down against him, testing. The sound he makes is half curse, half prayer. "Don’t—" he says, fingers tightening. "You keep doing that and this is gonna be over fast."
"Maybe I like you a little desperate," you whisper, surprised by your own boldness. His eyes flash. "Careful, baby," he says hoarsely. "You’re gonna find out exactly how desperate I am." He proves his point. His hand slides higher along your thigh, up, up, dragging your skirt with it. The air in the truck feels too hot. You grab at his shoulders, at anything, as his fingers map out slow, maddening paths on your bare skin; He pauses just shy of where you want him, thumb pressing into the tense muscle of your inner thigh, holding you open without forcing, making you feel every inch of the distance between almost and there. "Mingyu," you whisper, hips shifting restlessly.
"I know," he murmurs, voice low and frayed at the edges. "I’ve got you."
His hand slips higher, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear, testing how far he can push. The contrast of his rough fingertips and the soft lace of your panties makes you jolt, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your throat. He swallows it with a kiss, his mouth hot and greedy on yours as his fingers start to explore. He ghosts his touch along the edge of the fabric, tracing the line where it meets skin, but never quite giving you what you’re aching for. He draws lazy shapes, circling slowly, feeling the way your muscles tense and shiver. "Here?" he breathes against your lips, adjusting the angle of his touch by a fraction, until his fingers pass through your folds. Your answer is a sharp inhale and your nails biting into his skin.
"Yeah," he says, more to himself than to you. "There."
He settles into a rhythm—small, focused circles over your clit that send heat unfurling low in your belly. Every time you gasp, he chases it, refines it, like he’s cataloguing what works and what doesn’t. He alternates pressure, speed, angle, paying attention to every twitch of your hips, every little stutter in your breathing.
"You feel what you’re doing to me?" he mutters, voice rough, the heel of his other hand pressing briefly against your lower back as if to keep you from floating away. "Look at you, falling apart in my lap."
Your head drops to his shoulder, forehead pressed to his neck. It’s too much and somehow still not enough—you grind down against his hand without meaning to, chasing more, chasing the friction he’s giving you and his hardness you can feel against you through his jeans.
The sensation builds, tight and bright, your thighs trembling around him. He slips two fingers easily into the heat of your core, your slick walls greedily enveloping the digits. He murmurs praise against your skin as he curls them inside, words blurring together—that’s it, good, just like that, let me see you—and each one winds you tighter. His touch is firm but responsive, adjusting the instant you flinch, doubling down when you moan. You’re panting now, breath hot against the window.
"Mingyu," you gasp, fists clenched in his shirt. "I—oh my God—"
"Too much?" he mutters, words almost lost against your skin. You try to ride it out, to let him take you over the edge with just his hand, but the need spikes past what he’s giving you.
"It’s not enough," you pant. His answering curse is muffled against your collarbone. His fingers ease out of you, not abandoning but shifting, rolling over your clit. "Okay," he mutters, breathing hard. "Okay. You want more? You’re gonna get it."
You feel him fumble at his belt, his zipper, movements clumsy for the first time since you’ve known him as he frees his cock. He’s not smooth here. Not practised. He’s a little frantic, a little shaky, and somehow that makes it worse—in the best way. You’re dimly aware of the cold air against your core where he pushes your skirt even higher. There’s something obscenely intimate about how much you’re still wearing, how little has to move for everything to change.
He pauses, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours as he rasps out: "Tell me no, and we drive back, and forget this happened." You cup his face in both hands, forcing him to really see you. "I’ve spent so long having things done to me," you say, words tumbling out. "I want this. I’m choosing you."
His eyes close briefly, like the words physically hit him. When he opens them, there’s no distance left. "Okay," he whispers. "I’ve got you." He slowly guides you down onto his cock.
The first push of him inside you drags a shocked sound from your throat, a stretch that borders on too much and somehow not enough. His jaw is clenched, eyes squeezed shut as your walls flutter around him. "Breathe, baby," he grits out. "You’re so—" he breaks off, sucking in air through his teeth.
"I’m okay," you whisper, voice shaky. "Move, Mingyu. Please." He exhales a broken laugh. "You’re gonna end me," he mutters.
He starts slowly, careful, like you’re made of glass and he’s trying not to break you. Each push of his hips lifts you, settles you, finds a new angle that pulls soft sounds from your throat. The steering wheel digs into your back when you lean too far, the horn threatening right under you if you shift wrong. The absurdity of it bubbles up between the moans and curses—you on his lap, half-dressed, hair a mess, windows fogged, in the middle of his land like the whole world has shrunk down to this truck cab and the way you fit together.
You rock with him, following his lead, then finding your own rhythm. His hands help, guiding you down onto his cock after each lift of your hips, coaxing, not forcing. Every time you gasp his name, his grip tightens; every time you bury your face in his neck and bite his shoulder through his shirt, his hips jerk up harder, his breath catching. "That’s it," he groans. "Just like that. You feel that? That’s us, Rookie. That’s you and me."
The words should embarrass you. They don’t. They catch in your chest, lodge there, drive you higher. The heat builds fast, too fast, coiling low in your belly. The world outside the truck disappears; there’s only the frantic creak of the seat as he fucks you, the sting of his stubble on your throat, the salt of his skin under your mouth, the way his voice sounds when your walls grip him deeper. "I—" you start, then lose the sentence on a harsh inhale.
"You close?" he rasps, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your spine, pulling you flush against him. You nod helplessly, forehead pressed to his.
"Look at me," he says. You force your eyes open. His are blown wide, pupils swallowing the warm brown, sweat beading at his temple. He looks wrecked and reverent and a little bit undone.
"Come on, Rookie," he whispers. "Let go for me." You do.
It hits hard, all the tension and fear and want you’ve been carrying snapping at once. You break apart around him, a strangled sound torn from your chest as everything goes white-hot and weightless. He holds you through it, arm banded tight around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, grounding you with little words you barely register.
When you start to come back to yourself, you realize his hips are still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying not to lose it before you’re fully with him. You kiss him—messy and half-formed, all gratitude and need—and that seems to be what finally tips him over the edge. He shudders beneath you, his rhythm faltering, a soft, wrecked curse spilling against your mouth as he follows you over and spills his seed inside of your, grabbing at your hips like he has to hold on to something.
You slump against his chest, forehead tucked under his jaw, arms still looped around his shoulders. His hands rest on your back, large and careful, stroking slowly up and down like he’s not sure how to stop touching you without spooking you. He presses a lazy kiss into your hairline, another under your ear, softer now, almost apologetic. "You okay?" he asks again, voice hoarse but gentler at the edges. You breathe him in and let your weight settle fully on his lap. "Yeah," you whisper, surprising yourself with how true it feels. "I… yeah."
He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a second, like he’s bracing for you to bolt anyway. You lift your head enough to look at him. He looks wrecked. And beautiful. And very, very real. "You’re still an asshole," you say, because your brain needs somewhere to put all of this. His mouth curves, small but unmistakable. "Yeah," he says quietly. "But I’m your asshole tonight."
Your cheeks heat. You don’t argue.
You just stay there, skirts and denim and skin tangled, letting your breathing sync with his while the truck ticks and cools around you, the night pressing close on all sides and the ranch waiting, somewhere ahead in the dark.
You wake up to the sound of Riley’s snore and the taste of Mingyu still in your mouth.
For a second, you don’t know where you are. All you remember is heat and cramped space and the feel of his hands locked around your hips as the truck windows fogged—Then the bunkhouse ceiling snaps into focus, and shame and want hit you at the same time. You’re in your own bed. In your own clothes. The walk back from the trucks is a blur—you remember him helping you down, smoothing your skirt, both of you suddenly quiet in the way people get when they’ve done something they can’t take back.
You remember him saying, “Get some sleep, Rookie.” Like you hadn’t just come apart in his lap. You roll onto your stomach and groan into your pillow. One-time thing, you tell yourself. It was adrenaline, alcohol, almost getting grabbed, his stupid face, your stupid heart. A storm, that’s all. Storms blow over.
Liar, something in you whispers. You shove that voice down and drag yourself out of bed.
The kitchen in the big house is already busy when you walk in.
Tess is at the stove, flipping pancakes, hair tied up in a messy knot. Hana leans against the counter, scrolling through her phone. Dino is pouring himself orange juice as if it were a life-saving elixir. Seokmin is sitting on the table instead of at it, telling some overdramatic story about Vernon almost driving into a ditch last night. “It was not a ditch,” Vernon protests. “It was a shallow depression.”
“You screamed,” Seokmin says.
“The truck bounced.”
“You grabbed my arm and yelled, ‘tell my mom I loved her, ’” Seokmin insists. Dino chokes on his juice. You slip in, grab a mug and pour coffee.
Everyone looks… normal. Relaxed. No one is staring at you like they know you fogged up Mingyu’s windshield with your body heat. You exhale slowly. Hana bumps her shoulder against yours. “How’s the head?”
“Not as bad as I thought,” you say. “Not sure if that’s a good sign.”
“Rookie handled her liquor,” Riley crows from the doorway, shuffling in with lion’s mane hair and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged under her eyes. “Proud of you.”
The kitchen door swings open. Mingyu walks in, hair damp from a quick shower, clean shirt pulled over broad shoulders. His knuckles are bandaged. His gaze sweeps the room once, automatic, count-the-heads, check-the-vibe, then catches on you. You force your face into something neutral and take a heroic sip of coffee.
“Morning,” Tess says. He grunts what might be a greeting.
“How’s your hand?” Dino asks, eyes wide.
“Fine.”
“You really tagged that guy,” Seokmin says, half-admiring. “Never seen so much blood in a bar that wasn’t from Riley’s line dancing.”
“Hey!” Riley protests. Mingyu ignores all of them. He goes for the coffee, passing directly behind you. For half a heartbeat, his arm brushes your back, a barely-there touch through your clothes—but your whole body lights up like someone plugged you into a generator. You grip the mug tighter.
He pours his coffee, moves to the other side of the table, and sits down like nothing is wrong. You try not to stare. You fail. There’s no sign on his face that anything is different. No smirk, no awkward cough, nothing that screams I had you in my lap last night, remember? He looks exactly like he always does at breakfast: tired, focused, somewhere between amused and done with everyone’s shit. You tell yourself that’s good. You tell yourself your chest stinging a little at that realisation is stupid. Normal. It’s all normal. If you pretend hard enough, maybe it’ll feel true.
You move through the day like you’re playing a part. You muck stalls. You help Tess with inventory. You check on Milo, stroke his nose, breathe in the familiar smell of horse and hay and leather until your heartbeat calms. You avoid being alone with Mingyu. You fail at that, too.
In the tack room, you reach for a bridle hanging on the wall at the same moment he does. Your fingers brush over worn leather and then over his knuckles. You both jerk back like you touched a live wire.
Outside, when you’re hauling feed, Vernon tries to grab the heavier sack from you. “Here, Rookie,” he says. “You’ll blow out your back.” Before you can answer, a sharp voice cuts across the yard. “She’s got it,” Mingyu snaps. You and Vernon both look over. Mingyu’s expression is hard, jaw set. He’s leaning against the fence line, clipboard in hand, pretending to check something off. Vernon raises his hands, backing off. “Okay, man,” he says slowly. “Didn’t realise there was a waiting list for sacks.” You lug the feed past him, cheeks hot.
Later, Wonwoo stands a little too close behind you at the workbench, talking you through how to mend a broken latch. It’s innocent—just his hand guiding yours, voices low. Mingyu appears in the doorway like he was summoned by the ghost of jealousy. “Wonwoo,” he barks. “You done with that gate yet?” Wonwoo straightens. “Almost.”
“Then maybe work on the gate instead of crowding the newbie,” Mingyu growls. You bristle. “He’s not crowding me,” you say. Mingyu’s eyes flick to you, something tight and unreadable in them. “You’re supposed to be on feed, Rookie,” he says. “Not tinkering.”
“She’s learning,” Wonwoo points out, frowning.
“She can learn when the work’s done,” Mingyu shoots back. “There’s feed sitting, and last I checked, the cows don’t give a shit about latch theory.”
Tension crackles. Wonwoo’s jaw tightens, but he steps back. “Yes, boss.”
You want to say something cutting. You want to call Mingyu out for acting like a dog who’s just found out he has teeth. For no longer acting like last night didn’t happen, but like he has no idea what to do with it. You don’t. You grab the feed schedule and march out into the yard, muttering curses under your breath, trying to ignore the way every cell in your body is vibrating with awareness of him.
Mingyu can’t sleep.
He sits on the edge of his bed in the big house, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The room is dark except for the lamp on the dresser, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
He can still feel you. That’s the worst part. Not the split skin on his knuckles when he punched that guy. Not the weight of Seungcheol’s stare in the bar or Mae’s unimpressed glare. Not even the faint ache in his jaw from clenching it all damn day. You. Your weight on his lap. Your hands in his hair. Your voice saying I’m choosing you. He drags his palms down his face. Idiot.
He shouldn’t have lost his temper at the bar. He knows that. He’s not proud of that part—not the blood, not the crunch, not the moment when he wanted to keep hitting long after it was done. It felt too familiar. Too much like a road he’s already walked down—or tried to. He sees flashes of memory he doesn’t usually let himself touch: rain on a windshield, headlights too bright, a laugh in his passenger seat that he will never hear again. Flowers on a grave he avoids like it can hurt him any more than it already has. He’s built this life out here to keep moving. To keep his hands busy enough, his days full enough that there wasn’t room for anything else. Not grief. Not hope. Certainly not you. And yet. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are. The way your face looked when that guy grabbed you—fear and fire, both at once. The way your mouth tasted in the truck. The way you’d said please, like you didn’t know how much power that word had over him.
He’s furious with himself. He’s furious at the part of him that feels… not guilty. Not about you, anyway. He’d expected shame when it was over. Guilt. Maybe something like betrayal, like he’d done something disloyal to a ghost. Instead, there was this gut-deep relief.
And then, afterwards, when you were breathing hard against his neck, and he was holding you—he’d felt something else he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. Want. Not just the sharp, physical kind, though there’d been plenty of that. The quieter kind. The kind that looks like mornings and coffee and your boots next to his by the door. The kind that scared him enough, he almost pushed you off his lap and drove you back to the bunkhouse without another word. He didn’t. He let himself have it. Just once, he told himself. Just this.
He looks at his hands now, flexes his fingers. There are scars on them—rope burns, old cuts, the small, pale mark on his pinky finger where he used to wear something he hasn’t taken out of the drawer in two years. He doesn’t deserve this; he knows it. Not you. Not the way you looked at him in the truck, eyes blown wide, giving him trust you shouldn’t waste on someone who’s already proved he can destroy things he loves just by existing near them. He knows that. He believes it. He also can’t stop thinking about the way you sighed when he touched just right, the way you clung to him like he was something safe instead of something dangerous. He wants that again. He wants you again. Craves it, like a thirst. He presses his thumb into the old pale groove on his finger until it hurts. “Get over yourself,” he mutters.
Maybe he can thread the needle. Maybe he can give in to the wanting without letting it become something bigger. No promises. No future. No lies about forever. You’re a grown woman, not a girl he can wreck with a careless word. You wanted him. You said so. Maybe you want the same thing he does: heat and relief and something that makes the nights less long. He can do that.
He can give you his body and keep everything else locked up where it belongs. He can take yours without touching the parts that hurt. He can keep things simple. No strings. Nothing real. Just sex. Just you. He lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and repeats that until he almost believes it.
You try to stop it before it starts. You fool yourself trying to draw lines—but wanting doesn’t take orders.
Late one night, you’re closing up the barn, last to finish, checking latches and lights. The sky is clear, stars bright. Your body is pleasantly sore. Your head is finally quiet. You turn to leave and find Mingyu leaning against the doorframe. “You missed a light,” he says, nodding toward the far stall. “I was getting to it,” you lie.
He grunts, pushes off the frame, and crosses the distance in a few long strides. You tense, expecting an inspection, a lecture about routines and safety. Instead, his hand catches your wrist. Not hard. Not like the stranger’s. Just enough to stop you. “We’re okay?” he asks quietly, eyes searching your face. “You’re not… scared of me now?”
“If I was scared of you, I wouldn’t have climbed into your lap,” you say before you can think better of it. His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
Silence stretches between you. You can taste the memory of his mouth. You can feel the ghost of his hands. Your body leans toward him like it remembers before your brain catches up. You shouldn’t. You do. You step into him.
The kiss feels inevitable. It’s different from the truck. Less frantic. Less jagged. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if he can’t quite believe you’re here, letting him do this again.
It’s like the floodgates open after that.
A brush of fingers in the tack room when no one else is around, your hands meeting on the same bottle of liniment and staying tangled a beat too long. You slipping into the shadowed part of the barn during a lull and finding him already there, leaning against a stall, arms open like an invitation. His mouth on yours, pressed up against the cool of the wood, his hand cupping the back of your neck, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, both of you pulling away only when someone calls your name from the yard. You start to recognise the creak of the big house’s back stairs at midnight. You lie awake in the bunkhouse, listening to your roommates’ breathing settle, heart pounding in your throat. When you’re sure they’re out, you ease off your bunk, pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt, and slip outside. The air is cold. The stars are bright. The big house looms a little darker at this hour. You almost turn back.
Then the back door opens without a sound. He’s there. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair mussed, eyes watching you. “You shouldn’t be sneaking around like this,” you whisper as he lets you in.
“You’re the one sneaking,” he murmurs, bracing one hand on the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I’m just answering the door.”
In his room, the walls remember him—work shirts on the back of a chair, dusty boots lined up by the door, the faint smell of leather and detergent. The bed is too neatly made, like he doesn’t sleep much in it. You forget about that once he pushes you down on it.
The nights are a blur of heat and whispers, of his mouth mapping your skin, your fingers drawing new constellations on his back. Sometimes it’s quick and rough, the kind of relief that leaves you limp and laughing into his shoulder. Sometimes it’s slow enough that it almost scares you, the way he looks at you like he’s seeing something he doesn’t think he has any right to touch.
You never stay until morning. You always slip out while the stars are still high, padding back to the bunkhouse on bare feet, heart thudding, telling yourself this is nothing. No strings. Just chemistry. Just two people taking what they can, while they can. You almost believe it.
But then, a calf gets sick. She’s too small, all knobby knees and big eyes, breathing too fast in the straw. You and Tess have been taking turns checking on her for hours, warming milk, coaxing her to drink, rubbing her sides to keep her circulation up. By the time it’s close to midnight, Tess is swaying on her feet. “Go,” you tell her. “I’ll stay a little longer.”
“You sure?” You nod. “You’ve been at this longer than I have. I’ll call if she does anything weird.”
Tess hesitates, then squeezes your shoulder. “Text if you need me,” she says. “She’s a fighter. Like her babysitter.” When she’s gone, the barn feels bigger. Quieter. You sit in the straw beside the calf’s pen, hoodie pulled tight around you, listening to her breathing, petting her soft, stupid head.
“You’re gonna be fine,” you murmur. “You have any idea how much trouble you’re causing?” She blinks at you. You smile, tired. You don’t hear the footsteps at first. “Rookie?” His voice is low, softer than usual, threading through the dim. You look up. Mingyu is in the doorway, shoulders filling the frame even in shadow. He’s in a dark sweatshirt and jeans, hair mussed, eyes tired. You stand too fast, straw sticking to your knees. “You scared her,” you whisper, nodding at the calf.
“I scared you,” he counters. You shrug, heart jittering. “What are you doing here?” He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. The barn light overhead hums, casting everything in a warm, muted glow. “Tess said you stayed,” he says. “You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.” You roll your eyes. “What, is the calf gonna mug me?”
He doesn’t smile. He crouches by the pen, big hand reaching through the slats to rest on the calf’s side. His touch is gentle. The calf huffs, but doesn’t shy away. “How’s she doing?” he asks.
“Better than earlier,” you say. “Her breathing’s slowing down. She finally took the bottle just before Tess left.” He nods, watching the rise and fall of her small ribs. “You did good,” he says quietly. Something in your chest loosens. You sink back down beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his. For a minute, it’s just the three of you in the soft, straw-scented quiet.
“You didn’t have to come check,” you say after a while. He huffs. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” You don’t ask why.
Silence settles again, thicker now. You’re too aware of the way his thigh is a few inches from yours, of how the barn seems to have shrunk around you. You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Something passes between you—unspoken, familiar, heavier every time you let it. You swallow. “This is nothing, right?” you blurt. His jaw tightens. “Is that what you want it to be?” he asks, voice slow. You should say yes. You should say absolutely. You look at his mouth instead. “It’s what it has to be,” you say, which is not the same. His eyes close for a second. When he opens them again, there’s a decision to be made. “Then that’s what it is,” he says quietly. “Nothing.” He reaches out, thumb brushing a piece of straw from your hair, touch lingering at your temple. “Come here,” he murmurs. You go. He kisses you there in the straw, beside a half-sleeping calf. It starts soft—his mouth a slow question, his hand cradling the back of your head—but it doesn’t stay that way. It never does.
You swing a leg over his lap as his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. The kiss deepens—heat rising, breaths tangling, the world narrowing to the press of his chest against yours and the way your heartbeat kicks when he nips at your bottom lip.
“Door’s locked?” he asks against your mouth. You nod, already breathless. “I locked it when Tess left,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he says. You don’t know how he keeps making that sound like praise and not a joke.
His hands slide up under your hoodie, palms spanning your waist, fingers tracing the familiar path along your ribs. You arch into him, chasing every brush of his skin on yours. Outside, the wind bumps against the barn walls. Inside, all the noise is you and him. He slows you down. That’s the main difference tonight. In the truck, everything felt like a landslide. Now, he treats you like you have all the time in the world, even though you both know you don’t. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, to the hollow of your throat, tasting, marking, worshipping.
Clothes shift. Not all the way off—too cold, too exposed—but enough. Your hoodie bunched around your ribs, his sweatshirt pushed up, his jeans undone, your leggings tugged down. The contrast of covered and bare feels weirdly more intimate than full nakedness would.
He turns you gently. You let him, trusting the way he guides you like you trust his hands on the reins. He eases you forward until you’re braced against the smooth, worn top rail of the pen, the calf snuffling curiously a few feet away. Your fingers curl around the bars, knuckles white. Behind you, his body is a wall of heat along every inch of your back, chest hovering just off your spine. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles into the dip of your lower back. “If you want to stop, you say it,” he murmurs, leaning in so his chest ghosts your spine. “Any time. I mean it, Rookie.”
Your eyes flutter closed. “I know,” you whisper.
“Look at me,” he says. You blink, confused. He shifts, one hand leaving your hip. You feel him bend, reach, then he’s angling you a little, guiding your chin with one broad hand. There’s a smooth metal panel set into the stall gate—something reflective enough that, in the barn light, you can see a hazy version of yourselves: your flushed face, his broad shoulders behind you, his eyes locked on yours. “Here,” he says, voice low. “Keep your eyes on me.”
The barn disappears. The calf does too. There’s only the reflection—the two of you folded together, your breaths fogging the metal, his gaze steady and intent on your face as he settles behind you. You feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance, slow and careful, one hand steady on your hip. When he finally pushes into you, your breath catches, fingers biting into the rail. The stretch has you gasping, your eyes wide with surprise. His grip on your hips tightens. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
He stays there for a beat, letting you adjust, forehead close to the side of your head so in the warped shine you can see his expression—jaw tight, eyes dark, fighting for control. You inhale, exhale, easing back into him.
Only then does he start to move. Every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, unhurried, angled just right so that each glide hits that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening there as he pulls you back into him, keeping you upright. He presses his mouth to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, dropping an endless line of kisses on every inch of exposed skin he can reach—soft, reverent little touches that contrast with the deep, steady push of his thrusts.
“Say my name,” he whispers, breath hot against your jaw. You do. “Mingyu.” He shudders. “Again.” You obey, his name breaking a little more each time as heat builds low and heavy in your gut. In the reflection, you can see how wrecked you look—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes blown wide and fixed on his. It’s slower tonight, but no less intense. If anything, the pace makes it worse—in the best way—drawing everything out until you’re half-sobbing against your own knuckles on the rail, your body arching back into him, your reflection so clearly wanting him that it scares you a little. He watches your face, not looking away even when his own expression twists, even when his control frays. His free hand leaves your stomach, sliding lower, fingers tracing over your thigh before slipping between your legs. You suck in a breath as his fingertips find your clit, stroking you in small, sure circles that match the rhythm of his hips. The added pressure makes your vision blur.
“I want to see you come,” he murmurs in your ear, voice rough. “Right here. With me.” It’s too much. It’s exactly enough. You fall apart with your eyes on his in the metal, your walls clenching around him, sound caught in your throat. The world narrows to the feel of his arm banded around your waist, his hand working you through it, his voice rough in your ear, saying that’s it, I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you as you come undone. He doesn’t last much longer. Maybe it’s the look on your face in the reflection. Maybe it’s your voice saying his name like a prayer, dragging him over the edge with you. He buries his face in your neck when he comes, breath stuttering, a low, unguarded sound tearing out of him that you’re pretty sure no one else has ever heard.
Slowly, he eases away, careful even now. You tug your clothes back into place with shaking fingers, suddenly aware of the chill again. He turns you gently, big hands framing your face, tilting your chin up. You expect a joke. You expect distance. Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Chaste, almost, compared to everything that just happened. It feels like the most intimate part of the whole night. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.” His thumb brushes your lower lip.
“This is still nothing,” he says softly, like he’s trying to convince both of you. “Right?” You swallow, the word tasting like a lie before you even say it. “Right,” you whisper. He searches your face for a long heartbeat, then nods once, stepping back. “Go get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll sit with her for a bit.”
You look at the calf, then back at him. You want to stay. You want to curl up in the straw with both of them and watch his face in the barn light until morning. You don’t. You force your feet toward the door, every step a quiet ache. You shove your hands in your pockets and start the walk back to the bunkhouse, heart full and hollow at the same time. This is nothing, you tell yourself. No strings. No promises. Just sex in trucks and barns and midnight rooms. But as you glance back and see the soft glow of the barn light with him still inside, everything in you knows the truth you’re not ready to name: You’re already tangled.
You feel the weather turn in your bones before you see it.
All afternoon, the sky sits low and heavy over Longview, clouds stacked bruise-dark over the mountains, wind coming in sharp, restless gusts. Horses are jumpy. The dogs pace. Even the air tastes metallic, like the world is holding its breath. “Radar looks bad,” Seungcheol says at dinner, phone in hand, frowning at a weather app that never quite matches reality out here. “Storm line’s shifting south. We’re gonna get the worst of it.”
"Could use the rain,” Tess mutters. Mingyu just nods, jaw clenched. “Check the low spots on the fence before dark,” he says. “Move the herd closer in. I don’t want them anywhere near the ravine if it blows through hard.” You volunteer to help without thinking. He looks at you for half a second too long. “You and the girls secure the barn,” he says instead. “Tarp the feed. Make sure nothing’s gonna blow loose.” You bite back the urge to argue. This is not the time. You do as you’re told: hauling tarps, double-tying knots with Tess, securing loose tools while Hana calms horses and Riley curses at the wind trying to peel the hat off her head.
By the time you’re done, the first thunder rolls across the hills, low and distant. You wedge the barn door shut and feel it in your ribs.
The storm hits in the middle of the night. You jerk awake to a crack so loud it feels like the sky splits open right over the bunkhouse. Rain hammers the roof. Lightning flashes under the curtain, turning the room white for a heartbeat. “Shit,” Riley mutters under you. “That was close.”
Then, faint but unmistakable under the roar of rain, comes the sound that makes everyone on a ranch move: Yelling.
You throw your legs over the side of the bunk, boots already within reach because you’ve learned. Hana is doing the same. Tess is halfway to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, braiding her hair as she goes. “Fence?” she says, voice sharp. “Fence,” Hana confirms.
You grab your jacket, shove your arms through damp sleeves, and run. The world outside is chaos. Rain slashes sideways, stinging your face. Thunder rolls so close it shakes the ground. In the sudden bursts of lightning you see silhouettes moving fast—men swearing, horses skittering, the big yard flooding with water.
“Rookie!” You turn toward the shout. Mingyu stands by the barn, hat gone, hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off his jaw. Behind him, Seungcheol and Seokmin are already saddling horses, hands moving quick and efficient despite the storm. “Section of the north fence is down,” he yells over the wind. “Cows are pushing toward the ridge.” Your stomach drops. The ridge means bad footing, broken ground, a creek that can swell into a death trap in a storm like this. “What do you need?” you shout back.
Lightning splits the sky, turning everything stark and bright. For a second you see the herd in the distance—a dark mass against the flashes, moving in the wrong direction. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. “You’re staying here,” he says. “Help Tess and Hana keep the barn secure. Coordinate on the radios. We’ll bring them in.”
"Like hell,” you shout. He stares at you, rain running down his face, eyes fierce. “Your riding’s not there yet,” he snaps. “I am not fishing you out of a ravine tonight.” Rage and fear slam together in your chest. “I’m not asking you to fish me out,” you fire back. “I’m asking you to let me help. I can ride enough to be useful. I know the land better now. You said I pull my weight—let me prove it when it actually matters.”
Seokmin appears at Mingyu’s shoulder, cinching his saddle tight. “She’s not wrong,” he yells. “We’re short bodies. If we don’t turn them fast, they’re gone.” Seungcheol swings up into his saddle, scanning the dark. “Give her a mount you trust,” he calls. “Keep her with you. We don’t have time to argue.” Mingyu looks like he wants to fight all three of you and the sky at once. Lightning flashes again. You see the decision happen in his face. He swears, low and vicious. “Fine,” he bites out. “You don’t leave my side. You don’t try to be a hero. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. You understand me, Rookie?” Your heart is pounding, but your voice is steady. “Yes.” He points at you, eyes blazing. “Say it.”
"I’ll do what you say,” you repeat. It tastes like surrender. It feels like trust. He yanks Milo’s saddle off a rack and throws it on with a speed that would make your trainer-self faint. Minutes later you’re in the yard, foot in the stirrup, rain soaking you through as you swing up. Milo snorts, shifting under you. “Easy, boy,” you murmur. Your voice shakes. You settle anyway. Mingyu is already mounted, larger horse dancing sideways a little at a flash of lightning. He brings his gelding close, leans in. “If at any point you feel out of control, you yell for me,” he says, low and fierce. “I don’t care where we are. You yell. Got it?” You nod, throat tight. He looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he just clicks his tongue and kicks his horse into motion. You follow.
The world beyond the barn is a different planet. Wind claws at you, trying to peel you out of the saddle. Rain stings your eyes, blurring everything beyond a dozen yards. The ground is turning to soup under Milo’s hooves; each step requires more balance, more trust. Mingyu leads, Seokmin close on his right, Seungcheol veering off toward the south side of the pasture, shouting orders into the radio clipped to his vest. “Get Vernon and Wonwoo on the east flank,” he yells. “Dino with me. Keep ’em off the creek!” Your adrenaline spikes. But as you ride, the lessons kick in. Sit deep. Don’t choke the horn. Let your knees be soft. Look where you’re going, not where you’re afraid you’ll fall. You focus on Milo’s movement under you, on keeping your heels down, your body in the centre, your breaths timed with his strides.
The herd is a dark, shifting mass ahead, bunched near the broken fence. A section of posts has splintered under the force of the wind or a fallen branch; wire dangles useless. Beyond, lightning illuminates the uneven rise of the land, the faint gleam where the creek is already swelling.
The cattle are panicked. You can hear it in their lowing, see it in the way they crowd together, some already drifting toward the slope.
Mingyu’s voice cuts through the storm. “We push them back to the inner paddock,” he shouts. “Keep them away from the low ground. Don’t chase—pressure and release. Use your bodies, your voices. Don’t rush them into a stampede.” Seokmin whoops, half to pump himself up, half to cut through the noise. “You hear the man! Let’s go!” You fan out.
You end up on the left flank, a little behind Mingyu, Milo’s ears pricked forward, your heart in your throat. You’ve done smaller pushes before, in daylight, on dry ground. This is another animal entirely.
A clap of thunder hits right overhead. Milo flinches. So do you. You almost lose a rein, fingers slick with rain. Then you hear Mingyu. “Breathe, Rookie!” he yells. “Talk to him!”
You suck in air. “You’re okay,” you tell Milo, voice wobbling. “We’re okay. Easy.” You loosen your death grip on the reins a fraction, letting your seat and legs speak more. Milo snorts, but he steadies, picking his way forward as you angle him toward the edge of the herd. The cattle move in a single file, rippling away from your approach. You keep your eyes up, watching where you want them to go, not the jagged rocks you’re afraid of. Lightning throws the world into stark relief. You see, clear as a photograph, several cows nosing toward the top of the slope, where the mud is already starting to slough away. “Left side!” you shout, voice cracking. “They’re going for the ridge!”
"Take ’em!” Mingyu bellows. “You’ve got it!” You don’t have time to question him. You put your leg on, angle Milo between the cows and the drop. Your pulse roars in your ears. You shout, wave your arm, make yourself big, the way Mingyu taught you. The nearest cow tosses her head, eyes rolling white. For a second, she looks like she’s going right over the edge anyway. You push a little closer. “Hey!” you yell into the wind. “Move it, come on, go, go!” Milo feels your intent and shifts with you, cutting off the path just enough that the cow snorts, turns, shoves back into the herd instead of into the dark. It works.
You barely have time to feel it. The ground gives a little under Milo’s hind feet as a wave of muddy water surges down from the slope, carving a new rivulet. He slips. The world tilts. For one insane, endless stretch of time you’re weightless, your body sliding sideways out of the saddle, nothing beneath your left leg, your boot scraping out of the stirrup. You grab for the horn and miss. The scream sticks in your throat. A hand clamps around the back of your jacket and your belt in the same instant. A flash of powerful muscle under you, a second horse right up against Milo’s side. You’re yanked upright with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. Mingyu. He’s so close his knee is almost under your thigh, his horse jammed right against Milo to give you something solid to crush into.
“I told you not to try to die in front of me,” he snarls, breath hot against your ear—even through the rain. You cling to the horn, chest heaving.
“I—I’m good,” you manage, even though your heart is beating like a trapped bird. He doesn’t let go of your jacket until he feels you sit back, heels finding the stirrups again. His hand lingers one second longer than necessary at your waist, a silent I’ve got you, you don’t have time to unpack. Then he pulls his horse away, running back to bark orders at Dino, who’s chasing a small group veering toward the creek.
For a moment, everything blurs. Rain. Noise. Cattle. You lose track of where everyone is, of which direction the house lies, of anything beyond the next step, the next shout, the next animal you need to keep from sliding into danger. This is where all those drills matter.
At some point the herd splits—Seungcheol whistles and drives a dozen toward the lower paddock, Seokmin and Vernon cutting them off at the gate. Wonwoo and Dino peel away to deal with another pocket. A knot of six or seven cows bolts left, away from the main mass, toward a rocky outcropping and a tangle of scrub. Mingyu is on the far side, trying to turn the bulk of the herd. There’s no time to wait. You veer after the strays. “Rookie!” someone shouts behind you. You don’t check who. You breathe, sink deeper into the saddle, and push Milo into a trot.
The ground is bad here—uneven, studded with rocks—but Milo is sure-footed. You give him his head, guiding but not fighting, keeping yourself centred while he does the work. The cows barrel toward the rocks. You angle wide, then cut in at an angle, blocking the path to the worst of it. Your voice comes out hoarse but loud over the thunder. “Hup! Move it! Turn!” You wave your arm, make noise, use every trick Mingyu and Seokmin have hammered into you over the past weeks.
For a terrifying second, they ignore you. Then the leader baulks at a flash of lightning on the slick stone, swings her head, and shoves back toward the open pasture. The others follow. You chase them, keeping yourself between them and the bad ground, pushing on the side, releasing when they pick the right direction. It’s messy and far from textbook, but it works. By the time you manage to shove them back toward the others, your legs are shaking, your teeth chattering, your throat raw from yelling.
Mingyu appears out of the rain, driving another group in. He sees you. Sees the cows you’ve brought back. You catch the flicker of surprise, then something like pride, before his face hardens back into business. “Gate!” he bellows. “Open the damn gate!” Hana and Tess haul it wide on the inner paddock as the herd finally surges through, hooves churning mud, bodies jostling. One by one, in ones and twos, they come in. It takes hours. Or it feels like it.
By dawn, the storm is staggering away across the plains, muttering thunder like an afterthought. You’re soaked to the skin, mud up to your knees, fingers pruned and raw. Your muscles shake every time Milo stands still for more than a minute. The herd is clustered in the inner paddock—wet, miserable, but alive. You help with the final count, moving through the fog of your own exhaustion as Seungcheol ticks numbers off on his clipboard, double-checking tags. “We missing any?” Vernon croaks, voice shredded. Seungcheol squints at the list, then at the cattle. “Just the steer that busted his leg last week,” he says. “Everyone else is here.”
Relief sweeps the yard. Someone whoops. Someone else laughs hysterically. Riley leans against a fence post and slides down it, sitting in the mud, utterly unbothered. “We did it,” she says, giddy. “Holy shit. We actually did it.” You lower yourself out the saddle and pat Milo’s neck, whispering thanks into his damp mane. He nickers, blowing warm air over your frozen hand.
“Hot showers, now,” Tess declares. “If any of you track this mud into my kitchen, I swear to God—” Her threat dies as she looks around at all of you, bedraggled and shivering and grinning like lunatics. Her mouth softens. “You did good, kids,” she says quietly. Hana limps over and bumps your shoulder with hers. “You look like hell,” she says fondly.
“You smell like it,” you shoot back. Riley flings an arm around your neck from behind. “You were amazing,” she crows. “Dino said he saw you cutting off those strays like you were in a movie.”
You flush. “I almost ate dirt,” you admit. “You didn’t,” Seokmin says, leading his horse past. “That’s what counts.”
You feel Mingyu before you see him. He walks up leading his gelding, hair dripping, shoulders heavy with a fatigue that goes deeper than the night. His gaze runs over the herd, the fences, the mud, the people. Then it lands on you. You brace for a lecture. For I told you not to go left, or you almost fell, or don’t ever break formation like that again. What you get instead is a short, rough nod. “Good work,” he says. “You kept those cows off the rocks.” The simple praise hits harder than half the thunder tonight. You blink. “I—thanks,” you manage. He grunts.
“Rookie can ride in a storm now,” Seungcheol adds, lips quirking. “I’ll stop telling Evie you’re our liability.”
"You told Evie I’m a liability?” you yelp. He smirks. “She called back-up insurance yesterday. She’s been worried about you.”
Evie, who has just arrived in rain boots and a borrowed coat from Hana, smacks him in the arm. “You say that like I’m the only one with a heart,” she says. Mae shows up a little later with coffee in thermoses and a box of day-old pastries from the bakery, shoved into Seokmin’s hands with a muttered, “Nora said you’d all look like drowned rats. She wasn’t wrong.”
You all crowd under the eaves of the big house, steam rising off your clothes as you peel off jackets and accept mugs. There’s laughter, and groaning, and the kind of quiet you only get when everyone in the room just did something hard together and came out the other side. You sit on the step, fingers wrapped around hot metal, watching the herd huddle against the wind. Home, a treacherous little voice whispers. Not a stop. Not a hiding place. Home. You don’t shush it.
Later, showered and in dry clothes, you slip into the small office off the kitchen. The storm knocked out the internet and half the cell reception, but the sat phone sits in its cradle, steady and alien among the ranch clutter. It’s usually for emergencies—vet calls, weather updates, real disasters. Your hand shakes as you pick it up. This is an emergency of a different kind. You punch in a number from memory you wish you didn’t have. It clicks, hums, connects. Your lawyer’s voicemail picks up first—urban background noise faint in the distance. On the second attempt, she actually answers, sounding surprised. “Hello?” You take a breath.
“Hi. It’s me.” You say your name quietly, the one no one here really uses. “I’m… I’m okay.” That feels important to say. “I’m somewhere safe.”
You glance out the office window. Through the glass, you can see the yard: the muddy tracks, the patched fence, the faint figures of Seungcheol and Mingyu checking the lines again just to be sure.
“I want to move forward,” you say into the phone. “With the divorce. Whatever we have to do to finalise it. I’m working now. I have a place to stay. I can sign whatever you need, send whatever you need.”
There’s a pause. “Are you sure?” she asks gently. Once, that question would’ve made you crumble. Now you think of the storm. Of Milo under you, steady. Of your hands not letting go. Of Mingyu’s shout and grip and grudging good work. Of how it felt to count yourself as part of we when Riley said we did it. “I’m sure,” you say. She doesn’t ask where you are. You’re grateful. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll move things along. There may be… resistance on his side. But if this is what you want, we’ll push for it.”
Fear curls in your gut at the mention of him. But for the first time, it’s threaded with something else. Resolve. “It is,” you say. “I don’t want to run anymore. I just… I want it to be over.” She promises next steps. Paperwork. Timelines. Things you barely absorb. When you hang up, the office is very quiet. You set the sat phone back in its cradle, fingers lingering on the plastic.
Outside, the sky is clearing in streaks of pale blue between torn clouds. The mountains gleam, washed clean. In the paddock, the herd shifts and settles, steam rising from their backs in the cold morning air. Mingyu crosses the yard below your window, head tilted back, scanning the fence line. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for the next disaster. Just… taking stock. You could leave, you think. You could take the bus back to nowhere, papers in hand, name still the same but unbound. Instead, you rest your palm flat against the cool glass, fingers splayed, as if you can feel the mud and wood and sky through it. You don’t know how long you’ll get here. You don’t know what will happen when the past catches up.
But for the first time, you’re not only thinking about surviving. You’re thinking about staying.
The sat phone rings in the middle of the afternoon.
You’re halfway through mucking stalls when Seungcheol’s voice cuts across the yard. “Rookie!” You look up, shovel mid-swing. He’s standing on the porch, shoulder braced against the post, the chunky phone in his hand. “It’s for you,” he calls. “City number.”
Your heart drops straight into your boots. You wipe your hands on your jeans, pass the shovel to Hana with a muttered “Sorry, two seconds,” and cross the yard, every step feeling too loud. The phone looks wrong here—ugly plastic, stubby antenna, all hard edges in a world of wood and dust and sun. You take it from Seungcheol carefully, like it might bite.
“You okay?” he asks, brow creasing. “Yeah,” you lie. “Probably just… family stuff.” He nods, not prying. “You can take it inside if you need privacy,” he says. “Signal’s better in the office anyway.” You swallow. “Thanks.”
You slip down the hall, heart banging, and duck into the small office. You close the door most of the way, leaving it just shy of latched, needing the illusion of air. You lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”
"Hi,” your lawyer’s voice says, tinny but familiar. “It’s me. You okay to talk?” You exhale, sinking onto the edge of the desk chair. “Yeah.” Not really. “What’s going on?” Papers rustle on her end. “We’ve filed,” she says. “The petition’s in. The judge signed off on temporary orders. He’ll be formally served within the week.” The words make your throat close. Served. You picture your husband’s face—surprise, then anger, then that flat, dangerous calm that always came right before… You grip the phone tighter. “What does that mean for me?” you ask.
“It means the clock’s ticking,” she says. “If he doesn’t contest, this can move relatively fast. If he fights, it’ll take longer. But either way, the process has started. You’re not stuck in limbo anymore.”
You stare at the wall. The phrase not stuck feels almost as unreal as the storm did the night before. “Will he know where I am?”
"No,” she says firmly. “Everything’s going through my office. The orders specify no contact. If he tries to find you, we’ll deal with it. But I can’t pretend there’s zero risk. You knew that when you left.”
You nod even though she can’t see you. “I know,” you whisper. “I just… I want it over. I want to sign whatever I have to sign and be done being his wife.” The word wife tastes sour. “You’re doing the right thing,” she says. “You got out. You’re building something new. That’s not nothing."
“I’m working on a ranch,” you say, a little dazed. “I’m actually… okay. Mostly.” She laughs softly. “You sound different,” she says. “Stronger. Hold on to that. I’ll call when I know his response.” You hang up with your heart in your throat and relief and terror knotted tight in your chest. You’re still staring at the dark screen when the floorboard outside the office creaks. You look up. Mingyu stands in the gap. His expression is… blank. That’s worse than anger. “How long have you been there?” you ask, voice too quiet. He doesn’t answer that. “‘Done being his wife,’?” he says instead, quoting you back to yourself. "That’s what you said?”
Your blood runs cold. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps inside. The office feels smaller instantly. “How much did you hear?” you manage.
“Enough to know you left out a pretty important piece of your story.”
You set the sat phone down very carefully, like if you moved too fast, everything would shatter. “I was going to tell you,” you say.
He laughs once, but there’s no humour. “When?” he asks. “Before or after the divorce went through?” You flinch. “It’s complicated.”
"No,” he snaps, taking another step closer. “It’s pretty simple. You’re married.” Silence rings between you. “Technically,” you say, hating how weak it sounds. “On paper. I left him. I’m getting out. You heard that much.” He braces his hands on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Did you think that didn’t matter?” he demands. “Did you think I wouldn’t care that the woman I’ve been—” he cuts himself off, chest heaving. “That you still belong to someone else? Legally. Practically.”
"I don’t belong to him,” you spit. “I haven’t in a long time.”
"Except you do,” he fires back. “In every way that counts with the law. You signed those papers. You wore the ring. You knew exactly what you were when you climbed into my truck.” Your vision blurs.
“You want to talk about what I knew?” you say, voice shaking. “I knew I was running for my life. I knew if I didn’t leave that night, I might not get another chance. I knew I had to get far enough away that he couldn’t find me. I did not know I’d end up here, or that I’d be in your lap, or that—" your voice cracks; you swallow it down. “I’m trying to fix it.” He hears none of that. Or he refuses to. “You had plenty of chances to tell me,” he says. “Plenty of nights sneaking into my room. Plenty of mornings riding next to me. You could’ve said, ‘Hey, by the way, I’m still somebody else’s wife.’” You wince. The word wife cuts hearing it from his mouth. “I was scared,” you say. “Of him. Of losing this. Of how you’d look at me if you knew.”
"Like this?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. He talks about the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re a stranger, like you’re a bad call on a long list of bad calls. “I didn’t lie,” you whisper. “I just… didn’t tell you everything yet.” He snorts. “That’s not the defence you think it is.”
You feel something in you snap. “You are not seriously turning this into a morality play,” you say, anger finally finding you. “You, mister ‘no strings,’ mister ‘this is nothing.’” His eyes flash. “This is different.”
"How?” He straightens away from the desk, closing the remaining distance between you. You can feel his anger like heat. “Because I started to trust you,” he growls. “I started to—” he stops, teeth clenched.
You don’t breathe. “To what?” He shakes his head, jaw working. “Doesn’t matter.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve kept it where it was meant to stay. A distraction. A body. Something I could walk away from.” You flinch like he struck you. “Wow,” you say. “Glad to know what I am to you.”
"You’re someone else’s wife,” he spits, the cruelty landing before he can stop it. “And I’m the idiot fucking her.” The words suck the air out of the room. You stare at him, mouth open. For a second, he looks like he wants to take them back. He doesn’t. You swallow hard. “Don’t you dare reduce me to that,” you whisper. “What am I supposed to call it?” he throws back. “Because that’s what it is. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what I’ve been doing. Another bad decision I get to live with.” Your heart lurches. “Another?” you echo. His jaw tightens. “Forget it.”
"No,” you say, voice sharpening. “You don’t get to throw that out there and then act like I’m the only one with a past.” He looks away, muscles tense. You step around the desk, refusing to let him retreat. “You want to talk about trust?” you demand. “You never talk about your past. You never talk about anything real. You hide behind orders and grunts and ‘heels down, Rookie.’ You have a whole graveyard behind your eyes, and you won’t even let anyone know where it is.” His gaze snaps back to you, wounded and furious. “You’re deflecting,” he says. “Classic.”
"I’m asking why my papers matter more than whatever ghost you’re clinging to,” you shoot back. “Because that’s what this is, right? You’re pissed I didn’t give you the full horror story on day one, and also pissed because you started feeling something you promised yourself you wouldn’t. So now you get to shove me into the ‘bad choice’ box and retreat into your martyr kingdom.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
"So tell me,” you push. Silence. You think he’s going to walk out, slam the door, disappear. Instead, he laughs. It’s a terrible sound. “Fine,” he says. “You want the truth? You want context instead of excuses?” Your spine stiffens. He looks right at you, eyes suddenly very, very old. “I was engaged once,” he says. “We were together since high school. She was… it. Knew me when I had nothing. When I was a mess. When all this—” he gestures vaguely, taking in the office, the ranch beyond the window, “—was a fantasy and a thrift-store magazine.”
Your chest tightens. He goes on like you haven’t made a sound. “We fought,” he says. “About the usual shit. Money. Time. How much of me the ranch was taking, how much of her job was taking. She wanted me home more. I told her I was building something for us. She said she didn’t care about land; she cared about me not being a ghost in my own house.”
His throat works. “She walked out,” he says. “Got in the truck. Said she was going to her sister’s. I followed. It was raining. I was angry. I pushed too hard on a turn, and there was gravel and…” his hand makes a helpless skidding motion. “We went off the road.” Your heart stops. “Mingyu,” you whisper. He doesn’t look at you. “I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm,” he says. “She didn’t wake up at all.”
The room swims. “You were driving,” you manage. He finally looks at you. “I killed her,” he says flatly. “I put the ring on her finger and then put her in the ground. That’s what I live with. That’s the ‘context’ you didn’t have.”
Your breath comes short and shallow. You should say you’re sorry. You should say it wasn’t his fault, that accidents are accidents.
Instead, something mean and hurtful in you speaks first. “So what?” you snap. “You decided you don’t get to be happy ever again? That you don’t get to want anything? That you’re cursed, so the rest of us have to live with the fallout of your martyr complex?”
His face goes white. “Don’t,” he warns. You don’t stop.
“You think clinging to her makes you loyal,” you say, words spilling now, sharp and unstoppable. “But all it does is give you an excuse. An excuse not to try. Not to risk. Not to actually show up. You get to punish yourself forever and call it grief.” He stares at you like he doesn’t recognise you. You’re not sure you recognise yourself either. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something,” you go on, voice rising. “You think I liked walking out of my life? You think I don’t wake up wondering if he’s found me yet? But I still got on that horse in a storm. I still picked up that phone. I’m trying. You’re just hiding.” He flinches, then bares his teeth. “At least I admit what I did,” he says. “You can’t even say his name.”
"He doesn’t deserve it,” you spit.
“He doesn’t deserve what you’re doing with me either,” he bites back, instantly regretting it and saying it anyway. “Maybe he had a point if this is how you treat commitments.” The words slam into harder than any of your husband’s fists ever did. You feel them in every old bruise. “Fuck you,” you whisper. His jaw locks, horror flickering in his eyes at himself. You don’t wait for him to take it back. “You know what?” you say, voice shaking. “You’re right. I made a mistake. Not in leaving him. In thinking you were anything safe. In thinking your ‘I’ve got you’ meant anything outside an arena.” He stares at you, breathing hard. You move toward the door.
“You’re not some tragic hero, Mingyu,” you say, hand on the knob. “You’re a coward with a saddle and a saviour complex. And I refuse to be something you can punish yourself with.” You walk out before you can see how the words land. The kitchen is a blur of sound and light as you pass through. You push out into the yard, into the cold air, blinking hard until the big house and the barn smear. You make it to the bunkhouse before you start crying. You slam the door harder than you mean to. Hana looks up from her book. Riley pauses mid-scroll on her phone. Tess lifts her eyes from the crossword.
You stand there, shaking, jacket half off, cheeks hot and wet, and you don’t even remember when you started. “Okay,” Tess says, setting the paper aside. “Who do I have to kill?” That almost makes you laugh. You don’t. You collapse onto your bunk instead, burying your face in your hands. Hana is there in a second, perching on the edge of the mattress, hand rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Riley flops down by your feet, chin on your shin, eyes wide and unexpectedly gentle.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Hey, Rookie. Breathe.” You choke out some mangled version of the story. Not all of it. You can’t. But enough. Paperwork. Husband. Overheard. Mingyu. The words. The fight. “He called you what?” Riley demands, eyes flashing. “An idiot,” you say hoarsely, editing, because actually repeating someone else’s wife feels like letting it carve into you again. “A bad decision.” Tess’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Well, then he’s a bigger one,” she says. “Man’s head is so far up his own guilt he can’t see daylight.” Hana nods, jaw tight. “He’ll regret it,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t make it okay. But he will.” You don’t know if you believe that. Right now, all you feel is hollow. “Maybe I should go,” you whisper. “Before it gets… worse.” Riley’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not,” she says. “You’re not running because some emotionally constipated cowboy can’t use his words.”
"This is your home now, too,” Hana adds. “You earned that. We want you here.” Tess nods once. “If anyone leaves, it’s him,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve known that idiot since he could barely see over a fence post. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll just sulk.” You let them talk. Let them build a small, noisy wall around you with jokes and insults at Mingyu’s expense and offers of chocolate and threats of physical violence. You curl into their warmth and let yourself believe, for a little while, that staying is possible.
Even if everything between you and him just cracked down the middle.
Seokmin finds Mingyu not long after. He’s in the shadow of the machinery shed, leaning against the tractor, staring at nothing. Hands limp at his sides, shoulders rigid. “You look like shit,” Seokmin says, trying for light. Mingyu doesn’t answer. He will later barely remember exactly what he and you said—only flashes, only the worst parts on loop. Someone else’s wife. Coward. Killed her. The words stick in his throat like barbed wire. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Seokmin asks, softer. Mingyu shakes his head once. Seokmin studies him, worry etched deep. “You’re gonna lose her,” he says quietly. “If you haven’t already.” Mingyu’s hands ball into fists until his knuckles go white. He says nothing.
Seungcheol catches his eye once in the doorway, the question clear. “Don’t,” Mingyu says, voice rough. Seungcheol sighs, but lets it go—for now. Mingyu tells himself he’s right to be angry. He tells himself this proves what he’s always known: that he ruins things. That anything he touches ends up broken. That wanting you was a mistake from the start. But when he hears your laugh float faintly from the bunkhouse later—thin, forced, propped up by Hana and Riley—something in him cracks anyway. He doesn’t go to you. You don’t come to him.
The fifty yards between the big house and the bunkhouse suddenly feel wider than the whole damn ranch.
Unbeknownst to you, the papers did exactly what they were meant to do. They found your husband.
He opens the door of his neat little suburban house in a shirt he hasn’t bothered to button properly, stubble dark on his jaw, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The process server says his name and holds out the manila envelope. He laughs at first—too loud, a little slurred. Then he reads. The laugh dies.
His fingers tighten on the papers until the edges bend. His eyes start to move faster, back and forth, tripping on the words cruelty and fear for safety and protective orders like they’re accusations aimed at someone else. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. The server says something about signing, proof of service. He scrawls his name hard enough to tear the page, then shuts the door in the man’s face. He drinks. He reads the petition three times. The first time, he scoffs, taking a swallow after every sentence that paints him as anything less than a good husband. The second time, he mutters about lies. About exaggerations. About how you always twisted things. The third time, his face goes very still. “You think you can do this to me,” he says into the empty room, the bottle sweating in his hand. He doesn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.
He drinks instead, buzz humming under his skin, mind running circles around the same thoughts: you leaving, you talking to lawyers, you putting his name on paper with words like danger and harm. By the third day, his heart is jittery, and his hands won’t stop shaking. He throws clothes into a bag, doesn’t bother zipping it properly. He grabs the car keys, knocks over a chair, and doesn’t pick it up. The house door slams behind him, echoing down the quiet street. He drives.
Highways blur past in sun and then in neon and then in predawn blue. He nurses gas-station coffee with one hand and whiskey with the other, ignoring his own blinking reflection in the dark windows whenever he stops. He has nothing solid to go on. You cut cards, changed phones, ran. But he has your full name, and he has his anger, and he has three days of obsession carved into his nerves. It’s enough.
He hits a random exit in the middle of nowhere because his eyes are gritty, his fingers are tingling, and the gas light is on. The town is a handful of streets and a string of lights. It could have been any town. He walks into the first diner with its lights still on. The waitress can’t be more than twenty-two. Ponytail, tired eyes, soft voice. She sees the ring on his finger, the papers peeking from his jacket pocket, the desperate, frayed look of a man who hasn’t slept. She doesn’t see the bottle in the glove compartment or the way his jaw clenches every time he says “my wife.”
“Coffee?” she asks. “Have you seen her?” he blurts, sliding a photo across the counter—one from the early days, when you still smiled for his camera. The waitress hesitates, then covers her mouth with her fingers. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. She came through here. Nora at the bakery took her in for a bit. Said she was sweet. She’s out at Longview now.”
"Longview?” he repeats. “The ranch,” the girl says, eager to be helpful. “Big place out past the highway. They hire everyone. Took her on right away, I think.” She blushes. “She looked… better when I saw her last. Happier.” His smile goes thin and sharp. “Did she,” he says. She doesn’t hear it. She writes Longview Ranch and gives rough directions on a napkin, placing it in front of him like she’s handing him a lifeline.
“Good luck,” she says kindly. “I’m glad you found her.” He tucks the napkin into his wallet beside that old photo. He leaves the coffee untouched.
Later, he stands at the edge of town, at the turnoff where pavement gives way to gravel and then to dirt, looking at the fence line disappearing into the distance. His eyes are bloodshot, lids heavy, hands buzzing with caffeine, alcohol and rage. “Found you,” he murmurs. And starts walking.
Days pass at Longview with a new kind of silence.
Not the easy quiet that settles after a long day, when everyone’s tired and content and too full of Tess’s cooking to do more than murmur. This is the brittle silence of two people orbiting each other and refusing to touch.
You get up before dawn, muck stalls, check water, ride your routes. You joke with Vernon, tease Dino, help Tess inventory feed. You help Seokmin with a loose latch, laugh at Riley’s ridiculous playlist, listen to Hana complain about a parent-teacher conference Evie told her about.
You do your job. You don’t go near the big house unless you have to. Mingyu works too. If anything, he works more. He takes the worst jobs—checks fence lines in the heat, hauls extra feed, volunteers for late-night rides to check the far pasture. He talks to Seungcheol and Seokmin when he has to, gives orders that are shorter and sharper than usual, and vanishes. He doesn’t look at you at breakfast. You don’t look at him at dinner. The others feel it. Conversations stutter when you walk into a room together. Riley watches you both with murder in her eyes. Hana oscillates between sympathy and barely restrained rage. Tess sighs a lot and mutters, “Idiots,” under her breath. No one says out loud what they suspect. No one knows the specifics. It doesn’t matter. Something broke. And no one knows how to fix it.
Tonight, you can’t sleep. You throw off your blanket and stare at the bunkhouse ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of breathing around you. Riley is out cold. Hana shifts, mumbling. Tess’s snores are a steady, comforting rumble. You slip out of bed, drag on jeans and a hoodie and boots, and step outside. Lights glow low in the barn, left on purpose for late checks. Seungcheol asked someone to make sure the new gate latch on the equipment shed is holding; you’d volunteered earlier, then forgotten. Now it feels like something to do with your hands.
You cross the yard, gravel crunching under your boots, breath fogging in front of you. The big house is dark except for one room upstairs. The far pasture is just a line of darker shadow against the sky. Mingyu is out there tonight. You know it without needing to check the rota.
You find the shed door slightly ajar, just like Seungcheol said. Inside, the shapes of tractors and mowers hulk in the half-dark. A single overhead light flickers. On the workbench by the door, another sat phone sits in its charging cradle, left there after the last weather check. You think about calling your lawyer again tomorrow. You think about the way Mingyu’s voice sounded when he said someone else’s wife, and tell yourself not to.
You’re still staring at the phone when a voice behind you says your name. Not the one everyone here uses. The old one. You freeze.
The sound of it is a fist to the gut, pulling you straight back to another town, another kitchen, another life. You turn slowly. Your husband’s framed in the doorway, lit from behind by the bare bulb above the shed.
He looks worse than he ever did at home. Eyes bloodshot, sweater stained, hands trembling slightly at his sides. There’s a sour tang of alcohol even from across the room, layered over stale coffee and three days of sweat. He’s vibrating with exhaustion and adrenaline, stretched thin and sharp. “Hey, baby,” he says, smiling like this is funny. “Been a while.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Air becomes a suggestion. “How did you—” you start, voice barely there. He lifts a wrinkled napkin between two fingers—Longview Ranch scrawled across it in looping waitress handwriting—then lets it flutter onto the workbench. “You left a trail,” he says. “Bus ticket. Motel receipt. Little breadcrumbs. You always were careless with details.” He takes a step inside, hand bracing on the doorframe as if to hold himself upright. “Drove all night,” he adds, with a twisted chuckle. “Three nights, actually. Couldn’t sleep, not when my wife is out in the middle of nowhere telling strangers I’m some kind of monster.” You take a step back without meaning to. He notices. His smile tightens, goes brittle. “That’s not very welcoming,” he says lightly. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
"You… shouldn’t be here,” you manage. “You got the papers.” His eyes flash, a flare of humiliation and rage. “Yeah,” he says. “I got the papers. Imagine my surprise, finding out my wife has been running around playing cowgirl instead of coming home like she was supposed to.”
"I’m not your wife,” you say, voice shaking. “Not anymore.” He tsks. “On paper, you still are,” he reminds you. “You always did have trouble understanding vows.” Anger threads through the fear. “You broke them first,” you say. “You know you did.” His jaw twitches.
He steps closer, a sway in it now—not drunk enough to stumble, just enough that you can see how frayed the edges are. “I worked myself to the bone for us,” he says, voice tightening. “Provided. Paid the bills. Put a roof over our heads while you… what? Decided you were bored? That you deserved better? That filing papers behind my back was a cute way to get attention?”
"I did it to survive,” you snap. “You weren’t providing, you were controlling. You weren’t protecting me, you were hurting me.” He barks out a laugh, sudden and ugly. “There it is,” he says. “The drama. Survive. Hurting. You read a couple of articles online and suddenly you’re the poster girl for abuse.” Your stomach turns. You edge sideways around the workbench, inching yourself closer to the sat phone. “You hit me,” you say, low. “More than once.” He shrugs, jaw clenched. “You pushed me,” he fires back. “You nagged, you picked, you walked around like everything I did wasn’t enough. Sometimes I reacted. That’s marriage. You don’t get to rewrite our whole history because your feelings got hurt.”
"You broke my ribs,” you whisper. He doesn’t flinch. “You pushed me to it,” he says. “You always do. You make me the bad guy and then act shocked when I live up to the role you wrote.” He says it like he believes it. That might be the worst part.
You slide your hand along the bench, fingers brushing the cold plastic of the phone. His eyes flick down. He sees. “What are you doing?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around the device anyway. “Calling someone who can make you leave,” you say. He laughs again, but his voice is fraying.
“Who, your lawyer? You think she can drive out here and drag you home? Because that’s what should happen. We should go home, sit down like adults, and talk this through. You can apologise for overreacting. For embarrassing me.” The word embarrassing lands heavily.
“I didn’t overreact,” you say. “I left because if I didn’t, you were going to kill me.” He goes very still. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says softly. “You know I’d never hurt you. Not unless you gave me a reason.” You want to scream. Instead, you move. You snatch the sat phone off the bench and hit the call button on instinct, thumb slamming down on the emergency contact Seungcheol programmed. You don’t look at the screen—you just press and hope. The tinny ring sounds in your ear. Once. Twice. Your ex lunges.
He catches your wrist, knuckles whitening around your bones. The phone slips, dips. For a second, the screen is angled toward him in the overhead light. He sees a name. Mingyu.
“So that’s his name,” he says, voice dropping, all pretence gone. Something cold and possessive ignites in his eyes. “You ran halfway across the goddamn country to spread your legs for some cowboy named Mingyu.” Pain blooms along your wrist as your ex’s hand slams it onto the bench.
“You think he’ll save you?” your ex asks, voice low and dangerous. You look him in the eye even though your pulse is rabbiting. “I know he will,” you say. “He’ll be here any minute.” His lip curls.
“You always were a terrible liar,” he says. “That’s why it was so easy to keep you where you belonged.” He yanks you around the end of the workbench, dragging you into the deeper shadow of the shed. Your boots skid on the concrete. You wrench back, trying to twist out of his grip like you’ve practised in your head for months. You get halfway free before he shoves you back against the metal shelving. The impact rattles tools and jars; something clatters to the floor. Pain spikes through your shoulder. “Let go,” you gasp. “You can’t—” He slams his palm into the shelf beside your head, making everything jump and jangle. “I can do whatever I want,” he hisses. “You owe me. I worked my ass off while you sat at home and complained. And this is how you thank me? Running off to a bunch of hicks and sending me legal threats?”
Terror crawls up your spine. You try to slide sideways. He follows. His other hand clamps at your hip, fingers bruising, thumb digging into old ghost marks. “Nobody here knows who you really are,” he mutters. “Sweet little stray they all took in. You think they’ll keep you when they find out you walked out on your husband? That you made him look like some drunk who couldn’t keep his woman in line?”
You glare at him through the fear. “You made yourself look like that,” you spit. “Every time you picked up a bottle instead of listening to me. Every time you raised your hand instead of your voice.” His eyes flare, bloodshot and furious. “You drove me to drink,” he snarls. “Do you get that? You. Your nagging, your whining, your constant I’m not happy. I wouldn’t be like this if you weren’t the way you are.”
It’s so familiar it makes you nauseous. “You chose the bottle,” you say. “You chose to hit me. You chose to follow me here.” He lunges. You duck, but he’s still faster, still bigger and wired on three days of obsession and whiskey. His hands find your shoulders and slam you into the shelving again. Your head cracks back; stars explode behind your eyes. You shove at his chest. “Stop—”
"Look what you make me do,” he snarls, spittle hitting your cheek. “You always do this. You push and push and then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.” His grip shifts, fingers bunching in the front of your hoodie, hauling you up onto your toes. You claw at his wrists. His mouth twists.
“If I can’t have you,” he says, voice gone frighteningly soft, “nobody else is going to. Not some cowboy. Not some ranch. Not anybody.” The words chill you more than the night air ever could.
His hands climb. Fingers around your throat. Pressure. Instant. Your body goes cold. Your hands fly up automatically, grabbing at him, nails scraping skin. You can’t get any air. The shed narrows to the span of his face above yours, eyes bright and wild, breath sour with alcohol. He squeezes harder.
“This is your fault,” he grits out. “Remember that. You make me like this.”
Your ears fill with a rushing sound, like standing under a waterfall. You try to kick. Your boot connects with his shin. He grunts, slams you harder into the shelving, metal biting into your spine. The world warps at the edges. You think of the barn. Of Milo’s steady eyes. Of Hana and Riley and Tess laughing over coffee. Of the herd moving like a river in the storm. Of Mingyu’s voice in the truck, saying I’ve got you like he meant it. Your vision tunnels. The overhead bulb smears into a bright, distant star. His face floats in front of you, red and blurred, mouth still moving—ungrateful, embarrass me, mine—but the words are slipping away.
You reach for his wrists one more time, but your fingers won’t close. Your knees go weak. The last thing you hear is your own pulse thudding slow and heavy in your ears, like hooves on packed earth.
Then even that starts to fade.
Mingyu almost ignores it.
He’s halfway down the northern fence line, reins loose in one hand, eyes on the horizon, when his phone buzzes in his vest pocket. The night is quiet—just insects, the occasional low from the herd, the creak of leather as his horse shifts. He fishes the sat phone out with numb fingers, glances at the screen. Your name. His chest tightens. He hesitates. You haven’t spoken in days. Pride whispers, let it go. Hurt adds she’s doing fine without you. Before he can decide to answer, the line dies. He pulls the phone back, frowning at the call ended message. No signal error. No dropped network. Just—gone. He stares at your name on the screen, thumb hovering over redial.
“Pocket dial,” he mutters, even though you don’t do that. You’re careful with devices in a way he’s only now understanding. He slips the phone back into his vest. Rides two more fence posts. His gut twists. He thinks of that night in the truck. The way your voice sounded when you said you were choosing him. The way you looked in the office when he threw those words at you like knives. He reins in, swears under his breath. “Shit.”
He turns the horse around and kicks him into a canter.
By the time he clears the last rise and the main yard comes into view, his pulse is hammering. The big house is dark. The bunkhouse is quiet. The yard looks… normal. No vehicles. No strangers. No obvious emergency. He almost laughs at himself. Then he hears it. A muffled crash. A high, broken sound that might be metal, might be a voice. The equipment shed.
He’s off the horse before he fully stops, boots hitting dirt in a spray of gravel. He tosses the reins over the fence rail, trusting the gelding to stay, and runs. The overhead bulb in the shed throws a weak halo over the doorway. Inside: shadow, shelves, machinery. And you.
Pinned against the shelving, toes barely brushing the concrete, fingers clawing at the hands locked around your throat. For a second, his brain doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. Then it clicks: a man’s back, shoulders bunched, forearms tight like cables, your face above his hand—eyes wide, mouth open in a sound that isn’t making it past your crushed windpipe. Something in Mingyu’s chest detonates. He doesn’t think. He moves.
He hits the man like a freight train, shoulder slamming into his ribs, hands tearing at his grip on your neck. The force rips him away from you; you crumple sideways, coughing, sucking air like it’s the first time. The stranger hits the concrete hard, breath leaving him in a grunt. He reeks of whiskey and sweat and something sour underneath. Mingyu doesn’t register the words he spits, just the sneer, the wild eyes, the flash of his hand reaching again. Not happening. Mingyu hauls him up by the front of his shirt and slams him into the opposite wall. Tools rattle. The man swings at him, fists clumsy but fueled by something ugly. A punch grazes Mingyu’s jaw. Good. He’d been waiting for an excuse.
Mingyu’s fists find bone and muscle and resistance; he drives through all of it. Every hit lands with the solid, sick thud of knuckles on flesh. He doesn’t count them. He doesn’t pace himself. All he can see is your face going purple. All he can hear is his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. Not again. Not again. Not again.
The man jerks and swings, but he’s slow—drunk, exhausted, winded. He gets one good shot in that splits Mingyu’s lip. It barely registers. Mingyu tackles him to the floor, knees pinning his hips, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other bringing his fist down again and again. Pain shoots up his arm. Blood—whose, he doesn’t know—splashes his knuckles. “Stop—” the man slurs, or maybe laughs. “What, you gonna kill, cowboy?”
The word kill hits a live wire inside Mingyu. He hits harder. The world narrows to red.
You drag yourself upright on unsteady legs, lungs burning, throat fire-raw. Every breath feels like scraping glass. The room swims. Mingyu is on top of your ex, straddling him, arm rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. Your husband’s head snaps with each blow, blood smeared across his face, his hands up in some pathetic attempt to shield himself. Mingyu’s face is something you’ve never seen before. Jaw clenched. Eyes wild. Teeth bared. You’ve seen rage. You’ve lived inside it. This is different.
“Mingyu,” you rasp, voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t hear you. You stumble forward, catching yourself on the edge of the workbench. “Mingyu,” you try again, louder this time, your vocal cords protesting. “Stop.” No reaction. His fist comes down again with a crack that turns your stomach. “You’ll kill him,” you croak, forcing the words out past your shredded throat. “Mingyu, please. Stop.”
He doesn’t look at you. He’s somewhere else, buried under years of guilt and two minutes of pure, blinding fury. All he sees is the hand around your neck. All he feels is the old sick weight of a ring and a steering wheel and the moment he lost everything. “You don’t get to touch her,” he spits, knuckles slamming into bone. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get anything.” You try to scream. It comes out as a broken, torn sound that makes your eyes water. Still, you keep going. “Please,” you manage. “He’s not worth it. Mingyu, please.” Your words bounce off the walls, thin and ragged against the heavy thud of fist on flesh.
Noise explodes at the mouth of the shed. “What the hell—” Seokmin’s voice, high and panicked. “Move—” Seungcheol, right behind him. A second later, they’re on Mingyu. Seokmin grabs his shoulder, hauling backwards. Seungcheol wedges both arms under Mingyu’s, locking him up in a full-body hold and dragging him off the man on the ground. Mingyu fights them on instinct.
He sees flashes: Seokmin’s shocked face, Seungcheol’s clenched jaw, your ex rolling onto his side and curling around his ribs. “Let go,” Mingyu snarls, straining. “He was choking her—”
"You’re done,” Seungcheol grunts in his ear, muscles bunching as Mingyu bucks against him. “You’re done, Gyu.” Mingyu twists, still trying to get one more shot in, hands clawing at the air now that his fists can’t reach.
“He doesn’t get to walk away from this,” he spits, voice breaking.
“He won’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “But you are not going to do this in front of her. Enough.” More footsteps. Tess in the doorway, hair loose, face white, phone already in hand. Hana and Riley behind her in pajama pants and boots, eyes wide with horror as they take in the scene: you clutching your throat, your ex groaning in a smear of blood, Mingyu trembling in Seungcheol’s grip, hands dripping red. “I'm calling the sheriff,” Tess says, already dialling. “Someone call an ambulance. Now.”
The following minutes are chaotic. Mingyu loses track of the order. He remembers being shoved outside, the cool air hitting his sweat and blood, his ears ringing. Seungcheol keeps a tight hold on him anyway, one hand clamped on his shoulder, as if he thinks Mingyu might bolt back in. He might have. He might, even now. He tries to look for you instead.
You’re sitting on the lower step outside the shed, Tess crouched in front of you with her hands fluttering uselessly before she finally settles one against your knee. Hana has an arm around your shoulders. Riley is pacing, swearing under her breath with impressive creativity.
You’re breathing. Shallow and ragged, but breathing. Dark marks are already blooming on your throat, fingerprints rising ugly and distinct. There’s a smear of blood at your hairline. Your hands shake. You’re still here. He doesn’t realise he’s moving toward you until Seungcheol’s grip tightens. “No,” Seungcheol says quietly. Mingyu jerks his arm out of his hold and crosses the space between you in three big strides. “Rookie,” he says, voice rough, reaching out before he can think, fingers stretching toward your face, your throat, anything to anchor himself to the fact that you are alive.
You flinch. It’s tiny. A flicker. A reflexive duck of your chin, a millimetre of recoil before you force yourself still. It’s enough. His hand stops in mid-air. The look on your face guts him more than any punch: you, trying to smile through pain, wanting to reassure him, but there’s fear there too. And he put it there. He knows it. He freezes. Pulls his hand back like he’s burned. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely—to himself, not you.
Hana’s gaze snaps between you two, eyebrows knitting. “We need ice and water,” Tess says briskly, standing up. “And towels. Go.” Riley bolts for the house just to have something to do. Seokmin hovers near the shed door, watching as the paramedics work in tight, efficient movements over the crumpled body on the concrete. Your ex doesn’t fight them. He doesn’t say anything at all. His face is a swollen, bloody mess; one eye completely closed, mouth slack, breath coming in wet, shallow pulls as they fit an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. “BP’s low,” one medic mutters. “Let’s move.” They slide him onto the stretcher, strap him in, and lift. Sheriff Alden stands back to give them room as they carry him out. He doesn’t spare the man on the stretcher a word. His gaze is on Mingyu.
On the bloody knuckles, the split lip. On the bruises already rising on your throat. He’s not a tall man, but he’s solid. He steps closer, boots crunching on stray gravel, and looks from Mingyu to Seungcheol. There’s history there; Longview has been paying taxes and smoothing town trouble for a long time. “He came onto our land drunk and went for one of our own,” Seungcheol says, voice flat. “We found his hands around her throat.” He doesn’t dress it up as anything else.
Alden’s eyes flick to you—wrapped in a blanket on the step, a medic pressing gauze gently to your temple, Hana’s arm tight around your shoulders, Riley standing guard like she’s ready to bite someone. Alden nods once. “That’s what I’ll say I saw when I came in,” he says. He still asks questions, because he has to. Tess backs up the story, voice steady, jaw tight. Seokmin fills in what he heard when he came running. Hana and Riley add their details. You croak answers when you have to, every word scraping your throat. No one mentions the part where Mingyu didn’t stop hitting after the immediate danger was over.
Eventually, Alden turns back to him. “You got anything to add?” he asks. Mingyu swallows. His fists ache. His lip is split. He can feel blood drying under his nails, tight and tacky. He opens his mouth, ready to say I lost control. To ask if they need to take him in, too. To confess how good it felt to hit until he couldn’t see anything but red. The words lodge in his throat.
“He hurt her,” he says instead. “I stopped him.” Alden studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “We’ll write it up that way,” he says. “You might get a citation if someone downtown wants to make noise. Doubt it’ll stick. From where I’m standing, it looks pretty clear-cut.” Mingyu’s stomach churns. Clear-cut. Sure.
Nothing about how his knuckles enjoyed connecting is clear-cut. Nothing about how, for one second, he wanted the man to stop moving altogether is clear-cut. They lift the stretcher into the ambulance. The doors slam. Lights wash over the yard in red and blue, then fade as the vehicles head back toward town. Dust settles. Literally. Figuratively, not so much.
The others drift—Tess back to the house to make tea she’ll pretend is for herself, Riley and Hana to the bunkhouse where they can fuss over you more privately, Seokmin to check on the horses that spooked at the sirens. Seungcheol lingers with the sheriff a few minutes more, low-voiced, making sure everything is as tidy on paper as it can be. Mingyu is left standing in the yard, feeling like he’s not quite in his own skin. He flexes his hands. They hurt. He deserves it.
He looks toward the bunkhouse. The door is closed. The light in your room is on, a warm square spilling onto the dirt. He can almost picture the scene: you on the lower bunk this time, blanket around your shoulders, Hana kneeling in front of you with a bag of ice pressed gently to your throat, Riley tossing out half-serious ideas about going into town to slash tyres. He should go to you. He should say something—anything. I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. I shouldn’t have kept hitting him. I was so scared. Instead, he stands there, rooted.
Because the image he can’t shake isn’t you gasping on the shed floor. It’s you, flinching from his hand. He hears his own voice, cold and cruel in the office: someone else’s wife. Hears you calling him a coward with a saviour complex. Hears the way his fists sounded on your ex’s face and overlays it with smashing glass, skidding tyres, the last scream he ever heard from the passenger seat of his truck.
What if it had been a second later? What if he’d hesitated longer on that call? What if he’d walked away? He sees your throat, bruises blooming in the shape of fingers. He sees his own hands. Maybe he was always headed here. Maybe this is who he is when it counts: a man who puts people in the ground, one way or another.
Seungcheol appears at his elbow like he’s read his mind. “Charges will be minor,” he says quietly. “Alden’s framing it as self-defence. Maybe disorderly conduct, maybe nothing. Guy came onto our land drunk and attacked someone. We’ve got witnesses. Your record’s clean.”
Mingyu huffs out a humourless laugh. “You sure about that last part?” Seungcheol gives him a long, steady look. “I’m talking about legal records,” he says. “The ones that matter to the sheriff.” A beat. “The other kind… you’re the only one who can do anything about those.” Mingyu’s jaw flexes. “She flinched,” he says, before he can stop himself. “When I reached for her.” Seungcheol’s mouth presses into a line.
He doesn’t say of course she did, or you’re covered in blood, or you scared the shit out of all of us. He just says, “Then you make sure, from now on, she never has a reason to do that again.” Mingyu looks back at the bunkhouse, at that soft pool of light. His feet stay where they are.
He is soaked in adrenaline and regret, and terrified that if he gets close to you right now, you’ll see all of it. He turns instead toward the barn. Toward a hose, a first aid kit, and a set of empty stalls where no one can watch him scrub blood off his skin and try not to see your face every time he closes his eyes.
Out in the dark, eyes burning, knuckles raw, Mingyu holds a thin, fragile truth like the only thing keeping him from going under: You called him. He almost didn’t come. He came anyway.
You don’t leave the bunk for four days.
The first morning you wake up, your throat feels like you’ve swallowed sandpaper. Every breath is a careful, measured thing. Your neck throbs in ugly pulses, each one a reminder of fingers that wanted to close around your life. You try to sit up. Your body says absolutely not. Hana is there before you can fall back, a palm at your shoulder. “Easy,” she murmurs. “You’re on medical leave, Rookie. Doctor’s orders. And by doctor I mean Tess, which is scarier.” You manage a half-smile, but it hurts.
They fuss. God, they fuss. Tess appears like clockwork with broth and tea and soft food that doesn’t make you swallow too hard. Riley pulls a chair up by your bunk and plays you stupid videos on her phone when the shaking gets too bad, pretending not to notice when your hands tremble.
Hana texts Evie, who drops off a stack of paperbacks and a set of ridiculous pastel pens so you can underline things if you get bored. Mae swings by one afternoon with a box of cookies and a card that says Congratulations on Not Dying in glitter pen. The boys come too.
Vernon hovers in the doorway with a potted succulent he stole from the windowsill in the mudroom. Dino sits on the floor and chatters about absolutely nothing of consequence until you stop staring at the wall.
Seungcheol pokes his head in once, clears his throat, and says, “You scared us,” like it personally offended him. Then he leaves you his favourite mug and a gruff pat on the ankle. Seokmin comes the most.
He never arrives empty-handed: gum, a new pair of socks, a stupid magazine, a handful of jellybeans he “taxed” from the office candy jar. He sits on the bunk ladder and fills the air so you don’t have to. They’re all here. Everyone but him. No one says his name.
On the third night, you wake up choking on your own breath. For a second, you’re back in the shed—hands on your throat, the world narrowing, the overhead light smearing into a star. You bolt upright.
Riley jerks awake in your previous bunk. “Hey, hey,” she mumbles, hanging over the side. “You good?” You nod too fast. You’re not. She doesn’t push.
She climbs down, slips under your blanket without comment, and lets you tuck yourself against her shoulder like you’re not both grown adults. Her hand rubs slow circles on your back until your breathing evens out. “You’re safe,” she says into your hair. “He’s gone.” You know which he she means. You still lie there with your fingers pressed to your own pulse, counting beats like they might vanish if you don’t pay attention.
On the fourth day, Seokmin comes in after lunch and doesn’t immediately start talking about something stupid. That’s how you know it’s serious. He knocks on the bunk post with two knuckles. “You decent?” You tilt your head toward him. Your voice is still mostly a croak, but it works. “Pretty sure.” He climbs onto the foot of your bed, careful not to jostle you.
For a minute he just looks at you. At the bruises creeping from purple to sick yellow-green around your throat. At the faint split near your hairline. His usual sunshine is dimmer today. “We can talk about something dumb,” you rasp. “I can handle your top ten cow rankings.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re not ready for that debate,” he says. Then, softer, “I wanted to check in. And, uh… tell you some stuff. If you’re up for it.”
You pull the blanket a little higher and nod. “Okay.” He fiddles with the hem of your comforter for a second. “So,” he starts, “first thing: they’re not coming after you or the ranch for what happened. Sheriff filed it as trespass, assault, protective order violation. Your guy—” he makes a face; your guy is wildly inaccurate—“is in custody. Hospital first, then jail. Alden says the DA’s building a nice little pile on him.” Your stomach flips. You stare at your hands. “And Mingyu?” you ask, trying to sound neutral. You fail. “Self-defense,” he says. “They toyed with a charge, but Alden shut it down. Said if it ever sees paper it’ll be some bullshit misdemeanor that gets pled out. Cheol’s been on the phone with every suit in a fifty-mile radius.” You let out a careful breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay,” you whisper. Seokmin watches your face. “He beat him pretty bad,” he says quietly. “You know that.” Images flicker: Mingyu’s shoulders heaving, fist rising and falling, blood spattering his knuckles. You nod once. “How’s he doing?” you ask, not trusting yourself to say more.
Seokmin snorts softly. “Terrible.” He leans back against the wall. “He’s working like a maniac. If he’s not in the barn, he’s on a fence. If he’s not on a fence, he’s checking the herd. He hasn’t sat at the kitchen table in four days. I don’t think he’s slept much.” A bitter part of you wants to say, good. The rest of you just feels tired. “Is he… mad?” you ask. “At me?”
Seokmin gives you a look like you’ve grown a second head. “He thinks you’re gonna leave,” he says. “He thinks he deserves it.” You swallow around the ache in your throat. “He scared me,” you admit, voice barely audible. “Just for a second. When he wouldn’t stop.” Seokmin’s face pinches. “I know,” he says. “We all were. But he—” he breaks off, searching. “He saw you and something in his brain just—fried. It wasn’t pretty. But if he hadn’t come back when he did…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. “He saved your life,” he says instead, simply. The words land strange. True. Heavy. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “He didn’t come,” you croak finally. “To see me.”
"He’s afraid to,” Seokmin says. “He said he doesn’t want to be another reason for you to flinch.” A pause. “He’s not handling that well.” You let that sink in. Your ex’s violence was always about control—about punishment, power, ownership. If he’d walked in on you with someone else, it would’ve been how dare you embarrass me, not are you okay.
Mingyu’s rage had been… different. Messy and terrifying and too much, yes. But underneath it was something else: panic. Fear. This bone-deep, desperate need to keep you breathing. He’d gone too far. He’d also gotten there because someone was actively killing you. Both things can be true at once. “Thanks,” you tell Seokmin. He shrugs it off. “Part of the job,” he says lightly. “Wrangling cows, fixing fences, providing emotional exposition.” You snort, which hurts, but it makes him smile. Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “You know you don’t have to decide anything right now, right?” he says. “About him. About staying. You nearly died. You’re allowed to just… breathe for a minute.” You nod. You also know something shifted the second you saw your ex on that stretcher and realized he wasn’t between you and the door anymore. You’re tired of letting men decide whether you stay or go.
On the fifth morning, Tess wakes you from a fitful doze with a knock on the bunk frame. “Mail call,” she says. You blink blearily. She’s holding an oversized envelope out at arm’s length like it might explode. Your name is printed in neat black letters across the front. The return address is your lawyer’s. Your heart does something weird in your chest. Your fingers shake as you take it. “Figured you’d want privacy,” Tess says gruffly. She taps the side of the bunkpost, then leaves without waiting for an answer.
The envelope feels heavier than it looks. You slit it open with a thumbnail and slide the documents out. Your eyes pick out the important words even through the blur: Decree of Dissolution of Marriage. Your name. His name. Filed, stamped, signed. Final. You read it twice to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Then a third time, just because you can. By the fourth, the letters stop meaning anything. They blur together, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the strange, light feeling in your chest.
It’s done. No more waiting for a court. No more technicallys. No more arguments in your own head about whether you have the right to move on until the system catches up. You are not his wife. Not in any universe. A laugh breaks out of you, half-sob, completely undignified. Hana jerks awake in the top bunk and peers over the side. “You okay?” You hold up the papers with a trembling hand. Her eyes widen. “Are those…?” You nod. Her face crumples and brightens all at once. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “You’re divorced.” She corrects herself. “You’re free.” Free. You press the papers to your chest.
For a second you’re back in that first motel room, chair wedged under the door, heart beating out of your ribs. You had a bag, some cash, a stranger’s pity, and a vague plan. You have more now. A job. Friends. People who heard you scream and ran toward the sound. A man who answered your call even when he thought you didn’t want him anymore.
You think of Mingyu in the shed, the way his voice sounded when he spat you don’t touch her between blows. The way he looked when you flinched from his hand. Your ex’s violence had always come with you made me do this attached. Mingyu’s came with I’ll take whatever comes after written all over his face. You’re shaking again, but it’s not fear.
Mingyu spends the fifth morning digging a posthole he doesn’t actually need. The fence in this section is fine. It’s overkill. Redundant. He doesn’t care. He just needs his hands busy and his mind blank. He’s failing at both. Every time he blinks he sees it again: your face above that bastard’s hand, eyes wild, lips purpled. The way your body went slack when the air cut off. The way it felt when his fists finally found something they could break without consequence. And then the way you jerked away, just that fraction, when he raised his hand near you after. That’s the part that keeps him up. He drives the posthole digger into the earth and pulls, muscles burning. Dirt gives under the blades, clumps flying. Sweat runs down his back despite the cool morning.
“You’re gonna hit China if you keep going,” Seungcheol’s voice calls from the fence line. Mingyu doesn’t look up. “Fence needed checking,” he mutters. “Fence is fine,” Seungcheol says. “You did it twice already.” Mingyu sets the tool aside, chest heaving. Seungcheol hops the fence and comes to lean on a post nearby, arms folded. For a while, they just stand there. Finally, Seungcheol says, “Papers came this morning.”
Mingyu stiffens. He doesn’t ask which papers. “They’re final,” Seungcheol adds. “Evie texted. Alden called her; she called Tess; Tess told half the county. Your girl’s single.” Your girl. The words twist in his gut. He stares at the hole he’s dug. “Good,” he says, voice rough. “That’s… good.”
"You’re not going to talk to her?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu’s throat tightens. “She was scared of me,” he says. “I saw it. I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw clenching. “I don’t want to be another thing she has to get over.”
Seungcheol studies him. “You almost crossed a line,” he says simply. “But you didn’t. You came back when she called. You stopped when we pulled you off. You’re not him.”
"You didn’t see me,” Mingyu mutters. “You saw the tail end. You didn’t feel—” He presses his palms over his eyes. “I liked it. For a second. That’s what scares me.” Seungcheol exhales. “You’re human,” he says. “You saw someone you care about being hurt and you lost it. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make you a monster either. What you do with it now is what matters.” Mingyu drops his hands. Looks at the house. At the bunkhouse beyond. “If she leaves,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop her.” A half-smile tugs at Seungcheol’s mouth. “Maybe let her tell you what she’s doing before you decide,” he says. He pushes off the post. “Family dinner tonight. You don’t show up, I’m dragging you in by your ear.” He walks away, leaving Mingyu with the hole and his thoughts.
You’re divorced. Free. You owe him nothing. He knows, with a cold kind of certainty, that he’d rather pack a bag and disappear into some back forty than watch you flinch from him again. But he also knows something else. You called him. You could’ve dialed the big house, or the office, or the sheriff directly. You called him. Even after everything he said to you—you still reached for him when it mattered. Maybe he owes you the same courage. He wipes his hands on his jeans and starts toward the bunkhouse before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re sitting on the bunkhouse steps with the decree folded neatly in your lap when his shadow falls across your bare feet. You know it’s him without looking up. The air changes when he’s close—tighter, somehow, but not always in a bad way. Your heart kicks. You lift your head. He looks rough: dark circles under his eyes, jaw unshaven, split lip healing in an ugly line. There are faint yellow bruises on his cheekbone where your ex got that one hit in. His hands are clean now, but you remember what they looked like covered in blood. “Hey,” he says, voice low. You swallow. Your throat protests. “Hey.” He glances at the papers in your lap. “Is that…?”
You nod, holding them up a little. “It’s done,” you croak. “Judge signed. He did too.” For a second, something almost like a smile flickers over his face.
It doesn’t last. “Congratulations,” he says. You huff out a weak laugh. “Hell of a party,” you mumble. Silence stretches. He shifts his weight, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he doesn’t trust them near anything breakable. “Can I…?” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Can we talk?” You look up at him properly. You remember Seokmin’s words: He thinks you’re gonna leave. He thinks he deserves it. You also remember the office. The things you both said. The way they sliced you open deeper than you wanted to admit. But you’re tired of running.
You nod once, then scoot sideways on the step, patting the space beside you. He sits, leaving just enough distance that his knee doesn’t quite touch yours. The yard spreads out in front of you—barn, fences, open sky. The spot where the ambulance had parked is just dirt now. You start. “He used to say it was my fault,” you rasp. “The way he was.” Mingyu goes very still. You keep your eyes on your toes. “That if I didn’t push, he wouldn’t snap. That if I was better—quieter, more grateful, more… whatever—he wouldn’t need to drink so much. Wouldn’t have to hit things.” You swallow. “Wouldn’t have to hit me.” His hands curl in his pockets. “None of that is true,” he says immediately. “You know that, right?”
"My head does,” you say. “My nervous system is still catching up.” You look at him. “So when you went for him… when you wouldn’t stop… for a second, it felt like being back there. I know it wasn’t the same, but my body doesn’t always know the difference.” The words hang between you. He doesn’t flinch away from them. His jaw flexes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For that. For how it looked. For losing it like that in front of you.”
You watch his profile. “I know why you did,” you say, equally soft. “I know it wasn’t about owning me. It was about… not losing me.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I heard you,” he admits. “In the shed. I heard your voice but it was like—” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t hearing words. Just noise. And his face. And your neck. I haven’t wanted to hit something that bad since…” he trails off. You know how that sentence ends. “I didn’t stop when I should’ve,” he says. “I crossed a line. Or I was damn close. That’s on me. That’s not on you. It’s not because of you. It’s not something you caused.” You nod slowly. “You saved my life,” you say.
He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I also called you someone else’s wife,” he says, like he’s listing charges. “I threw your past in your face. I made your abuse about me. I punished you for being scared and for surviving. I have no defense for that.” You stare at your hands. “It hurt,” you admit. “Worse than the bruises.” He winces. “I know.”
"You made me feel dirty,” you go on, voice shaking. “Like I’d cheated on both of you by surviving. Like I should’ve told you everything upfront so you could decide if I was… worth the risk.” He sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “You don’t owe anyone your trauma on a timetable,” he says. “Least of all some asshole rancher with a saviour complex.” He opens his eyes, looks straight at you. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. I’m sorry.” The apology is simple. No but. No if. No excuses.
“I was scared,” you tell him. “Of telling you. Of losing this place. Of losing you. I thought if I said the word husband out loud, it would somehow make him real again. You were starting to feel like… the opposite of that.”
“You are not her replacement,” he says suddenly, like it’s been burning a hole in him. “You’re not a second chance at the same story. You’re…” he searches for it. “You’re the first person who’s made me want anything since she died. That’s not small. That scared the shit out of me. But it’s not about putting you in her place.” You let that sink in. “You said you killed her,” you say quietly. He looks out at the pasture. “I was driving,” he says. “I was angry. I was stupid. That’s a kind of killing, in my head. I don’t know if that ever changes.” He flicks a glance at you. “But I don’t want to use her as an excuse anymore. To hide. Or to hurt you.”
Silence stretches. The breeze ruffles your hair. Somewhere near the barn, a horse snorts. “I’m not leaving,” you say. He goes very still. “You don’t have to decide that now,” he says. “I already did.” You turn toward him fully, divorce papers crinkling in your hands. “I’m not running again,” you say. “Not from him. Not from you. Not from this place. This ranch is home. These people are my family. I’m staying.” You take a breath. This is the hard part. “The question is whether I’m staying… just as a ranch hand,” you finish, “or as something more. With you.”
His mouth parts, then shuts. “After everything I said?” he asks, disbelief roughening his voice. “After what you saw in that shed?” "Because of what I saw,” you correct softly. “You came anyway. You’ll live with your own shit for the rest of your life. I see that. I have mine too. But I don’t feel owned here. Not by you. Not by them. That’s what matters.”
You search his face. “Do you want me here?” you ask. “Honestly. All of me. Mess and papers and bruises and everything.” His answer is immediate. “Yes.” He swallows. “I… want you here,” he says, like the words are heavy and precious. “On this ranch. In this family. In my life, if you’ll let me. But if the idea of being near me makes your hands shake, if you can’t trust me after what you saw, I will get out of your way. I’d rather walk off this land than be another man you have to heal from.” Your eyes sting. You don’t look away. “You scared me,” you say again, because you won’t pretend otherwise. He nods, accepting the blow. “I know.”
"But I wasn’t afraid of you,” you add. “Not the way I was with him. I was afraid of losing you. Of losing… this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “That’s on me to untangle. And I want to. With you. If we do this slow. If we keep talking. If you promise—”
"Anything,” he says, too fast. You almost smile. “If you promise not to disappear when it gets hard,” you say. “No more grunting across the yard and pretending you don’t care. No more punishing me—or yourself—for wanting things.” He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped for months. “I can try,” he says. “I’m gonna screw up. I’m probably gonna say dumb shit. But I’ll stay. I’ll talk. I’ll… try not to be an idiot.”
"That’s all I’m asking,” you rasp. “Well. That and maybe fewer bar fights.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “No promises if someone touches you again,” he says, then grimaces. “Kidding. Mostly.” You huff out a sound that almost passes for a laugh. Your throat protests. He sees it. Very carefully, like he’s approaching a skittish colt, he lifts a hand. He pauses midway between you. “Can I…?” he asks. “Touch you?” You look at his palm. Big. Calloused. Clean. You nod.
He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind. His fingers brush your jaw first, feather-light, then tilt your chin so he can see the marks on your neck properly. His eyes go dark with something like grief. “I hate that I wasn’t faster,” he murmurs. “You were fast enough,” you say. His thumb traces your cheekbone once, then falls away, as if he doesn’t trust himself to linger. You miss the touch immediately. “So,” you say, voice raw but steady. “Home?” He frowns a little. “You want to call this home?”
You fold the decree neatly, slide it under your thigh like you’re putting it to bed. “I already do,” you answer.
He looks at the bunkhouse, the barn, the house, the stretch of land beyond. Then at you, hunched on the step in an old hoodie with a healing throat and divorce papers in your pocket. “Home,” he says, more certain this time. He shifts, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, solid and careful. You let it. For now, that’s enough.
Later, there will be more work: lawyers and therapy and triggers you don’t see coming. There will be days when you still wake up choking on air, nights when he still dreams of rain on glass and metal twisting.
But here, on the bunkhouse steps with the sun starting to slide down and the ranch humming around you, you let yourself lean into his solid warmth. For the first time since you ran, the word home no longer feels like a trap. It feels like hope. Like a future.
You wake to the soft tick of the old clock in the bedroom, to the weight of a warm arm slung over your waist, to Mingyu’s slow, even breaths ghosting across the back of your neck.
“You’re staring again,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. “I’m thinking,” you murmur. He nuzzles closer. “About feed costs or about what you’re doing to me, leaving this bed at five a.m.?” You smile, rolling just enough to see him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction. His eyes are half-lidded, soft in a way you still haven’t fully gotten used to—like he trusts the day to be kind. “Both,” you say. “In that order.”
“Tragic,” he sighs. He leans in and kisses you, slow and unhurried. It still hits you somewhere deep, the way he can make a five a.m. kiss feel like a promise and not a goodbye. “Up, Rookie,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Herd won’t move itself.” You groan. “You’re the one keeping me here.”
“Yeah,” he says, lips quirking. “That’s on purpose.” He steals one more kiss for good measure, then lets you go. Your boots wait by the bedroom door. So do his, a little bigger, a little more scuffed. Your hat hangs on the same hook as his. Your side of the dresser has a mess of hair ties and chapstick and a small ceramic dish Mae gave you for your birthday. There’s a framed photo of the three owners and you at the last county fair, all of you sunburnt and grinning like idiots. Evie swears it’s the only time she’s seen Seungcheol smile that wide in public.
Downstairs, the big house smells like coffee and toast and Tess’s cinnamon something. Hana is already at the counter, ponytail looped through the back of her cap, lunchbox open, stealing bacon off a plate. “Morning, boss,” she says, bumping your hip. “Don’t call me that,” you say, stealing a strip of bacon right back. “You’re the one with your own coffee mug in the main house,” she points out. “That’s, like, official rank.” Your mug does sit by the kettle now, nestled between Mingyu’s chipped one and Tess’s floral favourite. It says Rookie in big, hand-painted letters. Riley made it. Of course she did. “Speaking of useless titles,” Riley says, shuffling in behind you with sleep in her eyes and one sock half-off her foot, “who’s taking bets on Seokmin actually asking Mae out on a real date before we all die of old age?”
“He asked,” Tess says, sliding a plate onto the table. “She said yes. Friday. Real restaurant and everything.” Riley gasps so hard she almost drops her coffee. “Shut up.”
“What the hell, Tess,” you say. “You didn’t lead with that?” Tess smirks. “I enjoy watching you all suffer,” she says. “Also, sit and eat before I start throwing things.” You sit. You eat. You listen to Hana complain about a parent who tried to argue fractions with Evie (“She almost got herself arrested,” Hana says, grinning proudly), and to Riley brag about how many calves she can rope in under an hour. Tess rolls her eyes and mutters that if anyone breaks anything, she’s not nursing them through it again. You laugh. You do it without worrying about who hears.
By mid-morning, you’re in the saddle, out in the middle pasture, the sun finally up and burning off the last of the haze. The grass is high, the herd spread wide, heads down. You ride like you were born to do it. Milo moves under you with easy confidence, your body matching his without thinking. Your hands are steady on the reins, your posture relaxed, eyes sweeping the herd for limps or stragglers. There’s a new kid riding a borrowed mare on the far side of the field. She’s nervous, all hunched shoulders and white-knuckle grip, legs too stiff. “Heels down!” you call across the distance, voice carrying clean and easy. “You’re not choking a chicken, let your hands breathe!” She laughs, tension easing.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped being the one needing the constant corrections. Somewhere along the way, you started giving them. Seokmin rides up on your left, hat tipped back, smile bright as the sky. “Look at you,” he says. “Bossing people around. What would Truck-Sex-You think of this?” You groan. “I hate that you call me that.”
“I hate that the horn squeaks when I hit it,” he says. “I will never forgive you for that.” You shove at his arm with your boot. Ahead of you, Hana whoops and takes off at a gallop, cutting around a pocket of cows in a smooth arc. She yells something back about you two moving your asses or eating her dust. “Rookie,” Seokmin says, eyes glinting. “Race you?” You arch a brow. “You sure you want to cry before lunch?” He gasps. “Mingyu’s rubbing off on you. I hate it.” You grin. Then you nudge Milo into a run.
Wind whips at your face, your hat brim, your hair. The herd blurs at the edges as you and Hana and Seokmin weave through them, guiding, not scattering, whooping and laughing. You’re aware of your scars—the faint ache at your throat when you breathe too hard, the old bruises that sometimes still twinge when the weather changes—but they don’t define the moment. You do. You and the horse beneath you, the land, the people yelling insults and encouragement in equal measure. You don’t notice the two figures on the porch. They notice you.
From the porch of the big house, Mingyu watches you ride like it’s the only thing worth looking at on the whole damn horizon. You look different now than the day you stepped off that bus. He still remembers that girl—eyes jumpy, shoulders tight, heart wrapped in barbed wire. The one who flinched if someone opened a door too fast, who counted exits without meaning to. The woman down there now laughs with her whole body.
You lean into the turn as Milo cuts ahead of Hana and Juniper, whooping as you beat her by half a length to the makeshift finish line near the creek. Seokmin throws his head back in exaggerated despair, nearly falling out of his saddle.
“She’s gonna be insufferable,” Seungcheol says beside him, taking a sip of coffee from his World’s Okayest Rancher mug (Evie’s joke, still his favourite). “She already is,” Mingyu says, but there’s no heat in it. Seungcheol follows his gaze. From up here, the ranch looks like the picture they used to tape to the inside of the truck—dream version of a future they weren’t sure they’d ever reach. Fences in good repair, barns freshly painted, herd fat and glossy. Workers moving with the easy rhythm of people who know what they’re doing and know they’re valued for it.
Business is good. The new irrigation pivots on the south field, which went in last fall. The winter calving season was their best yet. There’s talk of a small direct-to-consumer beef line; Tess is already experimenting with spice blends in the kitchen. They’re expanding the bunkhouse next year. They’re talking guest cabins the year after that. There’s a spreadsheet open on Mingyu’s phone with numbers that don’t make his stomach hurt anymore—just his brain a little, in a way he’s learned to like.
“We’ll need another hand if we take that east pasture, though,” Seungcheol is saying. “Somebody good. Vernon’s already stretched, and Dino’s gonna burn out if we keep throwing every night check at him.” Mingyu makes a noncommittal sound. He hears him. He’s just a little busy. His right hand is wrapped around a mug. His left is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing the small, square box that’s been living there for the past three weeks. The metal corners press against his knuckles every time he shifts. It grounds him. It also makes his heart attempt weird gymnastics.
Seungcheol follows the line of his arm, the way his shoulder’s just a little too stiff. “You gonna tell Rookie what you’ve been carrying around,” he asks mildly, “or you gonna make us all suffer another year watching you hover?” Heat crawls up the back of Mingyu’s neck. “You could pretend you’re not observant for once,” he mutters. “No fun in that,” Seungcheol says. “Ring burning a hole in your pocket isn’t subtle, man. Seokmin almost sat on the damn box when you left your jacket on the couch last week.” Mingyu winces. “He see it?”
“Nah,” Seungcheol says. “I moved it. Almost had a coronary doing it. Felt like I was picking up contraband.” He glances at him. “You waiting for something?” Mingyu cups his mug with both hands now, box momentarily forgotten. He thinks of everything between then and now.
Of papers and court dates and the day Alden called to say their problem was going to be someone else’s problem for a very long time. Of the first time you raised your voice and he didn’t flinch from it, just listened. Of the way you still sometimes wake up breathing too fast—and how, more often than not now, you fall back asleep with your hand in his. He thinks of the storm and the shed and the hospital and all the ugliness that brought you here, yes. But he also thinks of the morning you called the bunkhouse “home” like it was nothing. Of the afternoon he found you on the couch in the big house, arguing with Tess about his grandma’s biscuit recipe and claiming it as your own. Of the picture on the mantel of all of you last Christmas, Riley wearing antlers, Seokmin mid-sneeze, you laughing so hard your eyes are closed. “I was waiting to make sure you weren’t gonna fire her,” he says dryly. Seungcheol snorts. “You’re the only one we’d fire,” he says. “She’s the reason we’re in the black.”
Mingyu smiles. He can’t argue that. He looks back out at the pasture. You’ve dismounted now, hat tipped back, face turned up to the sun as you talk with Hana and Seokmin. You gesture toward the outer fence, probably arguing over which route is fastest for the afternoon rotation.
You look like you belong here. Like you’ve always belonged here. His hand finds the box again, thumb rubbing over the seam. “I’m waiting to make sure I’m not asking her to sign up for something she’s still healing from,” he says finally. “Marriage, I mean.”
“You’re not him,” Seungcheol says, no hesitation. “I know,” Mingyu says. “But. Still.” Seungcheol is quiet for a beat. “You know what she did on the anniversary of her divorce papers this year?” he asks. Mingyu arches a brow. “No?”
“She baked a cake,” he says. “Ugly thing. Pink frosting. Riley wrote ‘Happy You Day’ on it. She cut the first slice and said, ‘I’m not celebrating the end of something, I’m celebrating that I was dumb enough to try. Means I can be dumb enough to try again.’” He tips his mug toward the pasture. “That sound like someone afraid of you asking?” Mingyu stares at him. “You were listening from the stairs again, weren’t you?” he says. “You two aren’t subtle,” Seungcheol replies.
Mingyu laughs, low and a little disbelieving. His heart… doesn’t feel like it’s trying to crawl up his throat anymore. It beats steadily. Solid. Like it’s already decided.
Down in the field, you throw your head back and laugh at something Seokmin says, reaching out to smack his arm. Milo nudges your shoulder impatiently, and you turn to scratch his nose, all easy affection. Mingyu watches you for another quiet moment. Then he sets his mug on the railing. His fingers close fully around the box. “You gonna go?” Seungcheol asks, though the answer’s written all over his face. Mingyu exhales. “Yeah,” he says.
He steps down off the porch, boots hitting the packed earth of the yard with a familiar thud. The big house looms behind him, the barn off to one side, the bunkhouse farther out—every piece of this place stitched into him now. He walks toward the pasture. Toward you. You spot him when he’s halfway there. Your whole face changes when you see him—it always does, even when you’re pretending it doesn’t. Your smile is small at first, then bigger when he approaches closer and closer. You swing up into the saddle again to meet him at the fence, hat tipped forward, eyes bright.
“What’s up, boss?” you call, teasing. He grins. God, he loves you. “Got a question for you, Rookie,” he says.
And for the first time in a long time, there’s no panic under the words. No, what if screaming in his head. Just this. You. The ranch humming around you both. Something solid under his boots and building under his ribs. He reaches the fence, hand already moving toward that back pocket, toward the small square box that isn’t going to live there much longer.
You lean down from the saddle, curiosity and affection written clear all over your face, and whatever he was about to say settles, sure and steady, on his tongue. He’s ready. To ask. To stay. To build whatever comes next—with you.
A/N: Okay so, I know this is crazy. Writing 50K words after just finishing a 61K story and telling you all I was going to disappear for a while. Good time for me to let you all know I suffer from major hyperfixation, and when I obsess over something, I literally CANNOT not finish it. Like, sleeping two hours and writing through the night. So, surprise (I guess?) Hope you enjoy. 💟
Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
↳ part of the winter with you collab!
synopsis: everything you've ever done, chan has been by your side - either egging you on or talking you off the ledge. after a rough year of studying, failed relationships and having chan be the insistent angel on your shoulder, the holidays roll around - and let's just say you're not too happy about it.
genre: holiday au. bffs to exes to lovers (what a doozy); angst, fluff, smut.
pairing: lee chan x fem!reader
word count: 40.4k (DON'T LOOK AT ME!)
rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
warnings: swearing, references to smoking weed, alcohol, food, use of sex as a general coping mechanism, jealousy. general exes who are still friends type of dynamics. mentions of misogynistic views, mentions of having kids, mentions of seasonal depression. chan is a bit of an asshole but redeems himself (and is overall just a good person but yk...) reader has a strained relationship with her mother. reader deflects a lot, chan cannot stop running his mouth. mingyu and sooyoung make several appearances. mutual pining. smut warnings: (let's take a deep breath for this one!) multiple scenes because they're fucking freaks (3 total!) alluded virginity loss (not depicted, backstory). teasing, frottage, heavy petting, bitiing, chan cums in his pants once. oral (m&f. rec.), face sitting, ab riding, subtle body worship (m&f. rec.), fingering (f.rec), pussy slapping (i know i know). nipple play (m&f. rec.), hair pulling, spitting, cumplay (just...okay?), switch!chan x switch!reader, chan likes it when she's mean, whiny!chan (can i get a hell yeah!?). slight strength kink, breeding kink, d*ddy kink (save me), love (?) kink (?). dirty talk (HELP. ME.), pet names (baby, princess, babe, etc.,) unprotected sex (don't do this), missionary (wouldn't be a haologram fic without missionary and body worship but i digress.) i think that's it!
what to listen to: meddle about - chase atlantic ; habit - seventeen ; to die for - sam smith ; wait - dino ; heart - dawn ; scared to live - the weeknd ; fantasy - bazzi ; don't leave me - intro ; kiss it better - rihanna ; all mine - plaza ; the party and the after party - the weeknd ; always - daniel caesar ; fade into you - mazzy star.
author's note: i fear i cannot shut the fuck up! yet another behemoth for caratblr, loverboy!chan save me please. special thanks to my dearest @diamonddaze01 for betaing this big ass fic an encouraging me to not give it up when i was truly losing my mind. thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be in yet another collab of theirs. as always, dedicated to the most devoted dinonara i know, @bitchlessdino. snowflake dividers are by @/strangergraphics here on tumblr! enjoy the wild ride and happy holidays, everyone!
DECEMBER 22, 4:32PM.
Your car horn cannot take another beating, and you're not sure Chan's ears can take another annoyed, muttered string of expletives from your mouth – confirmed the moment he yells at you to pull over. You argue back that you're in the middle of the expressway and everyone around you is going over sixty miles an hour, but he doesn't care. You mumble profanities as you merge several lanes, pulling over only for him to tell you to stay inside and he'll get out.
"You've been driving me up the fucking wall since we left the apartment. What stick do you have up your ass that you're upset about everything!?" He practically slammed your car door as he got into the driver's seat, swatting your bare thigh as you climbed over the console to the passenger side. You scoff, batting his hand away from your legs as you plop into the seat.
"Nothing, Channie. I'm fine." You grit, yanking the seatbelt a little too hard for him to think you're fine. He sighs, resting his forehead against the steering wheel before he turns to look at you.
"Y/N, I've known you since we were in diapers. I know when something is bothering you, you're not weaseling your way out of this."
What was wrong with you? You're sitting in your old beater car with your life-long best friend, wearing his old cheer shorts and his t-shirt and probably his socks as well. You're on your way home during an unusually warm winter, hence the shorts, and you're nursing a cup of his infamous hot cocoa. The one with actual mini marshmallows, none of that Swiss Miss bullshit.
You'd had a great cheer practice before the break ended, with your coach telling you and Chan to please rest during the holidays – it wasn't exactly either of your fortes. She knew the two of you went home for the break together, and you'd likely be practicing stunts in your parents' basement – but you knew exactly why you were upset and it had nothing to do with cheer and everything to do with the fact that your best friend has had the best years of his entire life while you're being a sulky baby.
You cross your arms, the drawstrings of your hoodie yanked by the seat belt as Chan turns in his seat. "Everyone has bad days, Y/N."
"You don't." You mutter, crossing your legs at the knee before you feel Chan's fingers pinch your cheek. "Yes, I do. I don't know where you got this idea that I'm perfect. I'm flattered, but I'm just as human and clumsy as you are."
"Yeah, well…shut up." You huff, feeling Chan press his lips to your temple. "Don't be so sour. We're on vacation, let's enjoy it. It's our last one before we graduate, isn't that exciting?"
It's not. It makes existential dread weigh on your shoulders, and it's so stupid. It's stupid dread, rooted in misogyny and lies and comparison that is the thief of joy. It makes you hate him, knowing that Chan doesn't have to worry about any of this but you do simply because you have some stupid biological clock that works AGAINST you.
You know once university is over, your parents will start to ask about marriage and kids. You know that they'll bring up Chan, over and over until you tell them for the third year in a row that you and Chan tried it and it just didn't work.
Freshman year of college between you and Chan has to have been one of the strangest years yet. He had rushed a frat and you helped him move from his dorm into the house – and the brothers made eyes at you until Chan lied and said you were his girlfriend. None of them bought it, so much so that Chan had confessed about it and you were so wide eyed he was scared your eyes would fall out. Once the initial shock wore off, you shrugged and agreed you'd be his pretend girlfriend – that it would definitely get you out of some bullshit.
Simultaneously, it got you into some bullshit.
It was a few weeks before winter break, and you were both drunk at your first frat party. The two of you had been locked away in his room getting high earlier that day, and neither of you were in the condition to interact with anyone else or even go downstairs for more drinks – so you just laid in his bed and giggled about nonsense. He was propped up on his elbow, telling you about how the older brothers had made him pants the president of Alpha Phi and you were just staring off into space while you nodded along.
Until you looked at Chan a little too closely, your head on his pillow as he pushed your hair out of your eyes. He smiled down at you, his fingers tracing the shell of your ear as he continued talking when you sat up and anxiously pressed your fingers to your pulse point, having felt your heart rate spike at just the slope of his nose. Everything felt way too hot and intimate for two best friends.
He'd asked if you were okay, if you needed water – assuming you were too crossfaded to prevent the panic attack that seemed to creep on. You shook your head, screwing your eyes shut as you flopped back down and tucking yourself into his chest.
He'd assumed you wanted to be held, so he threw your leg over his waist and ran his fingers through your hair, murmuring subtle praises as you tried to regulate your breathing – but the smell of the weed and your best friend's cologne was just too much and you wound up pushing him away.
"Channie, get away from me!" You'd whined, shoving him back and attempting to pull your sweater over your head. You failed, and he laughed, yanking it over your head the rest of the way. "Are you hot? Should I open the window?"
"You should kiss me, you fucking idiot. How can you tell your entire fraternity I'm your girlfriend and you won't even kiss me?" You'd poked your finger into his chest, your t-shirt rumpled from the sheer force of your sweater coming off. He blinked at you, lip jutted out in a pout. "Well, how am I supposed to know you want me to kiss you when you literally just told me to get away from you?"
"I'm your fake girlfriend! I'm getting zero play from anyone else because they think we're a thing!"
"Aren't you a virgin?" He asked, sitting up as you smoothed your shirt over your belly, lying back down on your side, propped up by your elbow. "Aren't you? You're my best friend, it's not like we'd hump and dump each other. If we're bad, we can just learn."
Chan had been truly appalled at your words. The two of you had never crossed into this territory, despite knowing everything about each other. You'd been each other's first kiss back in high school, but that was fully a dare from your other friends and neither of you spoke about it again. He dated around with other girls and you had one boyfriend that was shitty, but it was always just the two of you at the end of the day.
"You want me to…"
"Only if you want to."
"Are you joking?"
You hadn't been, and you proved that by tugging Chan down by his collar and pressing your lips to his. He immediately reciprocated, pushing you onto your back and shoving your thighs apart to settle between them. He wasn't a bad kisser at all – a little too skilled for your shy touches, but you quickly caught on to his movements as you felt him grow hard.
"We don't have to do this at all. You know that, right?"
"Chan, I want you to."
He'd blushed slightly as you flipped the two of you over, letting him sit up with you in his lap and quickly pulled your top off. His hands were warm and nervous, but you kissed him again and it felt like everything fell into place.
The first round was slow and gentle – you were on top, and he kissed all over your chest and face as the two of you got into it. By the third time, you were covered in nips from his teeth and his saliva as he folded you in every position imaginable. He was a young guy with a Costco box of condoms and the girl of his dreams in his bed – he had to commit this to memory. The two of you went at it like starved, depraved lovers – it was nearing seven in the morning by the time he reached into his nightstand and the box of condoms was empty. You were both sober by then…and the reality of your decisions began to sink in as you let him sink into you, raw.
"Y/N…" He whimpered into your neck, entirely too sensitive for this to be happening but you only mewled in response. "Feels so good, Channie, please…"
You only spurred him on, clawing at his back and whining his name as your walls overstimulated him. Every single part of his body felt like it was on fire under your touch, and he relished in the way your teeth sunk into his shoulders and neck as he brought you over the edge repeatedly.
"Shit, b-baby…I'm gonna.."
You only wrapped your legs around him, pulling him into you deeper as you kissed the words off his tongue. He tried to kiss you back, he really did – but failed miserably as he came inside you, hips involuntarily working the two of you through your shared orgasm. You kissed him messily as he came down, feeling his hands on your cheeks as he slowed you down, before pulling away fully.
"We need to clean up." He muttered, resting his forehead against yours, your eyes closed as you nodded tiredly. "I don't think I can get up."
You hadn't been able to – Chan wound up carrying you into his bathroom and holding you between himself and the wall in order to help you shower. You were so tired your eyes remained closed for the majority of it all – something Chan was grateful for because he just couldn't stop roaming his eyes all over you.
Thankfully, it'd been a Saturday the day before – so there was no reason for you to leave his bedroom. He gave you the cheer shorts he usually wore, and tugged an old sweatshirt over your head while also stripping his bed of the sheets. He threw your clothes in with it in the wash – and returned to see you asleep. He had so many questions, just watching as you snuggled into his pillow as he sank onto his bed, reaching for his phone to order delivery – only for you to tug him back.
"We can eat later."
"When can we talk?"
You peeled your eyes open for that one, looking at him tiredly.
"You're my boyfriend, Chan. Couples have sex."
"But–"
"I love you. Now, hold me."
And he did. He laid down, and you draped yourself over his chest. His hand went under your sweatshirt, rubbing small circles into your back as the two of you fell asleep. But his mind never strayed from how confidently you said those three little words.
That was one of many nights between you and Chan. You were referring to each other as significant others, subconsciously going on dates, and fucking like there was no tomorrow. He'd get you flowers, tell you how pretty you looked. You'd fluster him with comments of how handsome he was, and you'd spend hours slow-dancing together in his bedroom if you weren't just basking in each other's presence.
Neither of you spoke about feelings, but rough whispers of I love you slipped out often during sex, softer ones when he dropped you off at your dorm (that you were hardly at because you spent all your time with him), teasing ones when he just felt like it. You found it harder to say after the first time – kissing him in response, feeling your cheeks grow hot as he looked at you with said love in his eyes. Sometimes you'd mumble it, only loud enough for him to hear.
You loved him too. You didn't know when it became romantic, you'd never been in love before. But, perhaps if you'd looked deeper – you would understand that feeling like you can hardly breathe from pure excitement when he's around is a tell-tale sign of being absolutely enamored.
Perhaps, you said I love you first – because you were scared that if you let it fester inside you, it'd become too overwhelming.
It did, anyway.
The two of you went home that holiday break and tried everything possible not to tell your parents anything. Chan's family owned the house next door and only used it when he was home – but you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep separately after weeks of constant skinship. You tried for the first three days – only for Chan to sneak into your bedroom and stuff your panties in your mouth to keep you quiet.
Everything had been going smoothly until your parents found out – spotting a hickey on your collarbone that hadn't been there when you arrived. Your mother was the first to question you – her interrogation light over dinner with Chan and his parents.
"So…find any cute boys?" She asked as she poured you a glass of water, one you immediately reached for as you choked on your bread. Chan's eyes widened as they fell on you, spotting the bruised mark on your skin under your t-shirt from across the table. "Mom, what gives? That's so embarrassing."
"I sort of asked Chan the same question." Mrs. Lee shrugged, before her hand reached to tug on her son's sweater. "Then I saw this and got my answer."
Two hickies on his chest, and Chan's cheeks burned beet red as he wiggled away from his mother. "Can we not do this?" He asked through gritted teeth, and you only covered your face with your hands as your father snorted.
"We always figured the two of you would end up together. It's just the way it goes sometimes. Friends before lovers is a good way to start a beautiful relationship." He nods, patting your back gently to ease your discomfort. You gave Chan a glare through our fingers, only for him to gawk at you as if you were blaming him for the entire thing.
"We're glad it's you, Y/N, really. I was always worried my Chan would get his heart broken by someone ruthless." Mrs. Lee pinches her son's cheek, making him groan as he moves away. "This is so embarrassing, stop it!"
"We've only been together for a few weeks, so can we drop it?" You mumbled, stabbing your fork into a meatball as your mother glanced your way. "...Sure, honey."
Your parents didn't bring it up again for the rest of your vacation, but things felt a lot more breathable after. You and Chan went out on your own several times – dinner, stargazing, a few hikes. You kissed eagerly behind closed doors, but kept your touching to a minimum in front of siblings and parents. He held your hand as the New Year's ball dropped, and kissed you moments after when his parents looked away. You felt your stomach fill with butterflies at the tender touches, but started feeling antsy as days continued and you couldn't have sex.
He offered to take you on a drive after your parents went to bed, and you wound up fucking in the backseat of his car that night to the sound of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic. It was by far the most desperate you'd ever seen him, and the night you accidentally discovered a small kink of his – one the two of you swore not to speak of again after. Or rather, he asked you not to – but what kind of girlfriend and best friend are you if you don't tease him about his little ticks?
You both returned to campus a few days later, and Chan managed to get you naked in his bed before you even unpacked your things. You'd decided to forego buying condoms on the way home to avoid the temptation, but just looking at you was enough to get Chan going and he had no idea how to make you understand that.
Until the spring semester started and the two of you got slammed with essay after essay, lab after lab, pop quiz after pop quiz. It was February by the time the two of you got to spend more than an hour alone – and you had nothing to talk about. You just kissed quietly, feeling each other up for hours until your underwear was soaked through with your arousal and Chan was painfully hard.
"We should break up." You murmured against his lips, and he nodded. "We should. After this, though."
"After." You agreed, not knowing that Chan's chest had tightened at your words. Not knowing that he hoped just feeling you around him would mend that pain he felt, and not knowing he hoped he could get you to stay through the night – and break up in the morning. Not the night of his birthday, not the first night he gets to have you again after missing you for ages. Not the day that seems to have completely slipped your mind.
And, it worked. Yet another large box of assorted condoms and half a bottle of unnecessary lube later, you were tucked in his bed again. In his cheer shorts, in his shirt, and with dozens of love bites littered around your body. You kissed him as he slid into bed next to you, your arm draped over his chest as you began to talk.
"I'm sorry if it's sudden. You're my best friend and I don't want to lose you, but we just…don't have time." You had muttered, and Chan fought back tears as he nodded, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "I don't want to lose you, either. But if we break up…we have to stay friends, Y/N. We have to."
He meant it. Even if it meant he had to break his own heart by spending time with you and not being able to kiss you, caress you, love you, he meant it. You were all he knew – his first kiss, his first crush, his first fake-girlfriend. His first real girlfriend, despite having dated around. His first time having sex, making love, and everything in between. The first woman he'd learned inside and out, and the only woman he wanted to know that way.
If time was the issue, he'd wait.
But you didn't know that.
Shortly after your relationship ended, Chan found himself restless. His hand wasn't enough anymore, but neither was anything else he tried. He lost interest in porn easily and even wound up sneaking peeks at your Instagram for some sort of relief. He resorted to asking one of his frat brothers what he should do – and Wonwoo calmly looked up at him and said, "You fuck someone else."
Chan hadn't been sure what to do with that information. He wound up going to cheer practice early that day, only to find you doing stunts with Minghao, a fellow spotter and one of his frat brothers – his hands tightly gripping your waist as he threw you up in the air. He catches you swiftly, and Chan only feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment as you eagerly compliment Minghao on his skills, your hands gingerly wrapped around his biceps – your nails still the soft pink he chose not even a month before.
It was too much touching for Chan's taste, and he wound up turning right back around and skipping practice, sneaking out of the gym before either of you could see him. When Minghao arrived at the frat after practice and saw Chan in the kitchen, he asked him where he'd been – that you'd asked for him and wanted him to help Minghao with your stunts. Chan simply clicked his tongue and shrugged, "Was busy. She can figure it out."
Minghao had been a bit taken aback by his comment, but said nothing as Chan practically pushed past him. There was a party a few days after that, with both you and a bunch of random girls in attendance – mostly girls from the fraternity's sister sorority. Chan had one up in his bedroom within the hour, and another two hours later.
You went home after seeing him take the first one upstairs.
After that happened, and Minghao spoke to you about Chan's behavior about the entire stunt situation, you felt a shift in your friendship. Chan became a serial monogamist for a long time – none of his flings lasted longer than two weeks, and he kept them at arms' length. He never mixed business and pleasure – the cheer girls were strictly off limits, much to their dismay.
But you were the person he drunk texted. Saying he misses you and wants to hang out – and you'd hang out. You'd go pick him up and take him back to your dorm (later, your apartment) and watch movies, get drunk and fall asleep on your couch. He never made a move on you, and you never made a move on him because you were just friends.
So you shoved it all down. You watched him bag girl after girl, you watched him win trophy after trophy. You watched him make the Dean's list every semester, you watched him build unbreakable friendships, you watched everything he touched turn to gold and it made frustration fester inside you.
You struggled a lot after the breakup – from branching out and meeting new guys to your grades tanking just a bit – and it made you feel pathetic. You slept with one other guy, a guy from a different cheer team. You met him at a competition, and it was in the next city over, so you and your team had to get a hotel. You and Chan naturally roomed together…only for Chan to hit it off with a girl from another team, and it led to a heated argument between you and him to see who got the room for the night. He wound up storming out and staying with her, only to come back in the early morning to a locked door and the sound of you and the guy going at it.
Neither of you spoke about it. You didn't speak on the ride home, either – and you ignored him for a week until he texted you and asked if you wanted to get drinks. You agreed, and he apologized for his behavior. You only nursed your cosmopolitan, and accepted his apology with the condition that he buy you an appetizer.
An order of mozzarella sticks and a thing of marinara later, you forgave him. The two of you danced around conversations for a bit, before he offered you a lift home. You gracefully accepted, and he dropped you off at your apartment with a hug goodbye. A hug that lasted longer than any had since the breakup, and you felt…slightly put back together.
Things seemingly settled after that.
Fast forward to senior year – you and Chan are still inseparable. You're co-captains of your cheer team, he's the vice president of his fraternity and you find yourself there every weekend to help with events if the two of you aren't at a cheer competition. He holds your hair when you throw up and he helps you glue on your false lashes for competition nights. He drives you to places when you're too tired but still want to go out, he tutors you for Organic Chemistry and gives you gummy bears as rewards for getting questions right.
Chan is your best friend, and he makes sure everyone knows – including the girls he gets in his bed every few nights.
Your eyes still lingered on him at parties – the way he'd grind against girls, the way he'd never done with you because you weren't a stranger to him. He'd seduce them with his confidence and kiss them, but never in the way he kissed you. You could see it, how shallow it was to him, before he'd begin moving them towards his bedroom.
But, even now – you miss him. Lonely nights in your bedroom turned into lonely nights in your shared apartment with him, having been convinced to move into a two-bedroom with him as a reward for making it to senior year of university without any major fuck-ups. However, you felt like a major fuck-up – because now this meant he'd bring girls to the shared home.
He hasn't, yet. But, he will. You're sure of it.
It makes your stomach turn to think about it.
"See how much calmer things are when you're not the one driving?" Chan's voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and you scowl. "Shut up."
He only rolls his eyes, but you feel your thighs clench at the way he looks when he drives. You'd gotten used to this sight in many lights – Chan driving you home from an arcade night, Chan driving you home from getting drinks. Chan driving you home from the movies, Chan driving you home from cheer practice.
Chan driving you home after that night he fucked you senseless three years ago in his backseat, whispering how good you felt around him and how he couldn't imagine a life without you in it.
You sigh inwardly at the thought of it, opting to recline your seat and cover your face with your arms. You cross your legs before feeling Chan's hand squeeze your knee, making you jolt as you swat at him. "Stop touching me, I'm sensitive!"
"Your knee is sensitive?" He teases, fingers pinching it again as you groan. "You're pissing me off, Chan."
He only snickers, his fingers brushing up your thigh before you shove it away. "Quit."
"Alright, alright. At least put on some music, I need to hear something other than your whining." He holds up the aux cable, and you take it and plug it into your phone. You press shuffle on your Spotify, ignoring the way your cheeks heat the moment Meddle About by Chase Atlantic starts.
He only turns the volume up.
"You guys are home!" Mrs. Lee greets you by throwing her arms over you, and you nearly stiffen before Chan gives you a pointed look. You hug her back warmly, thanking her for being so excited to see the two of you. "How is school? Still doing well, I hope!"
"Doing great, Mrs. Lee. Chan's helping me quite a bit these days." You nod in the direction of her son, who is unloading everything as you shove a stick of gum into your mouth. His arms look great in that long sleeve…he should wear it more often…
"...And your mom made that brown sugar ham you love! Isn't that exciting!?" Mrs. Lee's voice brings you back as you nod quickly, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets as the wind picks up a bit. "Yes! I'm starving, you have no idea. We survived on jerky."
Your pout makes Mrs. Lee coo, her knuckles pinching your cheek as she beckons you to follow her into your house. Chan gives you a glare as he grabs your duffel, and you only blow a kiss at him as you follow his mother inside.
"Y/N!" Your little sister can be heard screaming from the top of the stairs, and you smile as you turn – seeing her practically fly down them, her arm in a pink cast as she wraps it around you. "Hey, babycakes! What happened to your arm?"
"Rosie took a tumble down the stairs last week, I keep telling her to slow down." Your mother appears out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel as she presses a kiss to your cheek. "Welcome home, darling."
Your sister begins to ramble about everything going on at school with her friends – that Katie has a crush on Hyunjin but Hyunjin likes Minseo and Minseo thinks Katie is too mean to join their coloring circle. All too much for you to process in one go, and definitely too much for her to get out in one breath because she stops the moment you hear Chan grunt, kicking the door open slightly to make his way inside.
"Chan!" She abandons you, and Chan lights up as she runs into him, spinning her around. "Hey, Rosie! It's been so long, oh! What happened to your arm?"
He kneels down to her height, and it makes your heart warm. Your parents definitely did not plan to have another child so late in life, but Rosie was the easiest kid ever. You remember when they brought her home – you were a junior in high school and you were ecstatic. You'd been staying with the Lees, and they all came over to meet her.
Chan was the only one who pulled you aside and asked how you were doing. You admitted you were a bit overwhelmed, and he wound up offering to stay the night and just talk. His parents allowed it and the two of you ordered takeout and spent the entire night just talking.
Rosie kept your parents young and on their toes – enough that they made friends with other couples in their neighborhood. Rosie was popular, she had lots of friends at school and around the neighborhood – loads of people came to her birthday parties and your home was the designated playdate house.
You zone back in to see Rosie offering Chan a marker, and you gasp. "No way you're letting him sign before me! I'm your sister!"
"But Channie's my best friend." She retorts as you walk over, squatting next to Chan, who sticks his tongue out at you. "That's what you get for not helping me unload the car."
"Oh, but you're so big and strong! You're supposed to do it!" You argue back childishly, only for your little sister to stomp her foot. "Sign it! I have things to do!"
Chan bites back his laughter as he signs it, before handing the marker over to you. "Do tell, Rosie. What things do you have to do?"
"Well, I have a tea party in ten minutes and I do not like to be late. The tea will get cold." She sniffs, and Chan pats her shoulder. "Have fun, pipsqueak."
She runs off, obviously over the excitement of her sister and her 'best friend's' arrival. Chan gives you a glance, "Feeling better after having to do nothing?"
You shrug, smiling at him. "I appreciate you, you know that."
"You have a funny way of showing it." He says pointedly, before tilting his head towards his duffel. "Mom said I have to stay with you this time, my cousins are in town for a few days and they're in my room. Is that cool?"
"Promise you'll wear socks to bed?" You hold your pinky out and he sighs, shaking his head as he links your pinky with his. "Fine, but that means you have to wear pants."
You smirk, winking at him. "It's my bed, Chan."
You stand up straight, shaking your legs out before walking away from him. He shakes his head again, tonguing his cheek as he follows suit. You wander into the kitchen, and your mother greets Chan with a hug. They start catching up about little things as you open the fridge, grabbing a wine cooler for yourself and a beer for Chan, shoving it into his chest and leaving. You hear your mother jokingly ask if Chan wanted the air mattress, and he only laughs before denying it, saying he should help you unpack and get comfortable. She agrees.
"Need help?" He moves to leave the beer on the table, your wine cooler tucked under your arm as you hoist your duffel over your shoulder.
"Nope." You smile, making your way to your bedroom. Yours is the only one downstairs, and it's in the furthest corner in the house as well. You practically begged your parents for it, insisting it was the warmest room in the house when the winters came about – and once Rosie came along, they let you move downstairs, saying the baby needed to be near them. You'd eagerly agreed and moved out happily.
Chan followed behind you quietly, his own bag over his shoulder as he took a sip of the beer you gave him. He wouldn't finish it, and the two of you would likely swap drinks before either of you had too much of it. As he reached your room, he saw you backflip onto your bed, a groan from your lips as you sank into the memory foam mattress.
"Fuck, this is gonna do wonders for my back." You moaned, eyes closed as you kicked your shoes off. He snorted, putting his beer next to your wine cooler on your dresser before doing the same. "Jesus, when did they get this for you? Your mattress has always sucked."
You know he's not referring to the time three years ago that he snuck in, but your cheeks heat anyway as you look at him. His eyes widen, and he clears his throat. "I didn't mean–"
"They got it for me last summer." You interrupt, and he nods quickly. "Sorry."
"For?" You try to act nonchalant, but you clear your throat one too many times for him to think it's fine. So…he makes it worse. "We never talk about those days, you know. It's not like…it's weird. Right?"
Not weird at all. I don't miss the way you felt inside me, nope. Not at all.
"Do you…want to?" You don't mean to sound so bitter, but Chan clicks his tongue. "I mean…it wasn't the worst thing ever. I…liked you a lot."
You grimace at the awkwardness, but try and shrug. "I mean…I hope so. We did say we loved each other. A lot, might I add."
"I said it a lot, you deflected." He corrects you, and you turn your head to look at him. "Are you doubting that I loved you?"
"You wanted to break up on my birthday, Y/N, not even a week before Valentine's Day. Forgive me for assuming." He rolls his eyes, and you sit up. "No, I didn't. Your birthday is on the 11th."
"Yeah. You came over on the 11th after we didn't see each other for weeks. We were kissing and you said that we should break up." He props himself up on his elbow, and your brow furrows as you think.
The two of you managed to sneak a glance or two in during cheer practices, but the days before blurred together because you pulled several all-nighters studying for your anatomy midterm. You remember checking the time before you left your dorm to go spend the night with him, it'd been five-thirty.
On February 11th.
"Shit, I'm sorry." You breathe, and he shakes his head. "What good is it now?" He shrugs, picking at a loose thread in your comforter.
"Chan, I'm sorry." Your hand finds his shoulder, and he gives you a soft smile. "It's fine. You finished the day with me anyway, that was all I'd wanted that year."
I'm sorry for breaking up with you, I wish I hadn't done that.
"I did love you. I still do, you're literally my best friend." You say gently, and Chan's eyes meet yours. They hold something you can't quite grasp, "It's different. Of course I love you, you're my best friend."
You feel like your stomach is about to fall out of your ass when Chan shrugs again, his shoulders constricted by the tightness of his top. Your eyes follow the curve of his waist, his sweatpants tied around his hips loosely.
"It's just different between you and me now, you know? It's not the same friendship it was before." He rolls onto his back, arms behind his head as he keeps talking. "Sometimes, I think it shouldn't have happened at all. I mean, let's be honest. Between you and me…things have always just been simple. We overcomplicated it by doing whatever it is that we thought would enhance our relationship."
You can feel your chest aching with every word, but you can't seem to stop listening. Your eyes burn with tears as you let him keep talking. We?
"I guess it was something of a dumpster fire. Everyone always assumed we'd be something, maybe it's good we got it out of our systems." He nods, before looking at you. His eyes widened, sitting up quickly as you covered your face with your hand. "Y/N–"
"You can be really, really coarse sometimes." You mumble, sliding off your bed and grabbing your wine cooler off the dresser. "I'm going to go find my dad, make yourself at home."
You tighten your sweater around yourself, flinging the door open and slipping into the bathroom. You refuse to let the tears fall, taking a deep breath before drinking half of your can. You press the cool metal to your cheeks before stepping out, walking out towards the garage to see your father tuning one of his many guitars.
"Oh, you're home! I've missed you!" He puts the bass guitar down, before he frowns. "What's wrong, honey? Are you okay?"
"M'fine. Hey." You shake your head, giving him a one-armed hug. He's not convinced, holding you closely. "You can talk to me, you know that."
"It's stupid. What are you doing here?" You set your drink down on his workbench, only to see your father's stern look staring down at you. You sigh, running your fingers over the strings of the guitar. "Chan and I broke up."
Confusion crosses his features as you take a seat on one of his cushioned bar stools. "I thought you broke up ages ago, sweetie."
"We did. That's the problem." You mumble, feeling a tear slip out of your eye and you brush it away quickly, but your father sighs carefully, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You bury your face into his ribcage, feeling sobs rack your body as he hums quietly. Your father had always been the person you went to when it came to Chan, because your mom was convinced you'd be the brute of the relationship – and insisted you were too harsh with your words at times.
"What'd he say this time?" He asks softly, and you wipe at your nose with your sweater sleeve, trying to form it in a way that doesn't expose your entire relationship. "He just mentioned that he felt like our friendship was different now that we'd involved feelings in the past, and that he thinks it's better that we 'got it out of our systems.' He said that he wishes it'd never happened sometimes, who says that?"
Your father nods, a frown on his lips as he sighs. "I'm sorry he said those things, honey. I assume he didn't know you still felt some type of way about him?"
"I don't." You lie through gritted teeth, but your father knows you far better than that. He pats your shoulder, glancing down at you. "Now, you and I both know that's not true. You called me crying about him a few weeks ago, didn't you?"
You had. You don't exactly remember what you'd said, but you remember it being three in the morning and your mother taking the phone and telling you to get a grip. It only made you cry harder, enough that your father stayed up for the next two hours soothing you over the phone. Chan walked into your bedroom a few hours later and asked if you were okay. You kicked him out of your room out of embarrassment.
"Why can't you be one of those dads that kicks the guy's ass for me?" You pout, swatting his arm as he lets out a full bellied laugh. "Because I have two wonderful daughters and a loving wife I need to provide for. If I beat up every guy that crosses you, I'd be sent away. I'd miss graduations, birthdays, anniversaries. Weddings, at some point. I'd hate to miss those beautiful moments."
You roll your eyes, and your father smiles lightly. "I also happen to know how to distinguish when my daughter is doing these things to herself. Chan might be saying things you don't exactly want to hear, but that's exactly what you're not doing. You're not talking to him about anything. He can't know how you feel if you're not telling him."
You huff, but you know he's right. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. There's nothing to tell him, and if he wants to act like we're better off being as distant as we are then I'm no one to beg for his presence."
"That pride of yours will get you in trouble. Knock it off." He says pointedly, before sitting on the stool next to you. "Now, listen to this. I think my tune is still off."
Dinner was always a nice, intimate affair between your family and Chan's. You gather around the large mahogany table your father made years ago, and talk about everything and anything under the Sun. They ask you and Chan about school, cheer, and dating. Rosie talks about her friends and her toys, your mother talks about her restaurant and your father about his music store. The Lees tell you about their dance company, and give you updates on Chan's younger brother, who would be spending the holidays stuck at work.
Dating spins the table once more, and your father gives you a look that says he'll change the topic if you say the word. Mrs. Lee starts by teasing her son, who flushes beet red and insists he's not looking for anything right now.
"I still never found out why you and Y/N broke up." Mr. Lee chimes in, and you feel your cheeks grow hot as you grip your fork. Rosie looks between the two of you, her nose crinkled. "Ew! You were boyfriend and girlfriend?!"
"No." You answer quickly, and your voice is far too nonchalant for Chan's taste, it seems. He gives you a confused look, and you shrug. "We just didn't work out. It wasn't good for us."
"Easy for you to say." He mutters, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth. You grimace, and Mr. Lee shifts uncomfortably before you feel the words tumble from your mouth. "Yeah, well when you tell your girlfriend she doesn't love you, it's kind of hard to want to be together."
Mrs. Lee's eyes are wide, spluttering over her glass of water as Chan groans, pulling his cap over his eyes. "That's not what I said, Y/N, you're twisting my words."
"Am I?" You scoff, letting your fork clatter on the table as you push your chair back. "I mean, seriously, who fucking cares anymore? It's been three years."
"Language, Y/N." Your mother's voice is stern, gesturing to your little sister who looks increasingly bewildered. You sigh, closing your eyes as you scoot your chair back into the table. "We just broke up. It's fine. I'm sorry for swearing, Rosie. Bad girl Y/N." You apologize to your sister, who nods slowly.
Chan mumbles an apology to Rosie as well, and the tension is thick as Mr. Lee clears his throat. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."
"Not your fault, Mr. Lee. Sore subject." You shake your head, patting the left side of your chest, as if saying it pains you. He gives you a sorry smile, before Mrs. Lee speaks up. "Will you be fine to room together? I don't want you guys to fight this entire trip, we haven't seen you in so long."
"It's fine." You and Chan say in unison, eyes meeting in a glare over the table. "I know how to keep my mouth shut, it's no problem." You add, and Chan scoffs, mumbling something like ridiculous under his breath.
"Alright, that's enough. We haven't seen you guys in four months. We're going to sit here and enjoy this dinner, damnit!" Your mother speaks loudly next to you, making you jolt. Chan apologizes as he sits up in his chair, your little sister wide eyed as your mother shoves a spoonful of mashed potatoes in her mouth. You elbow her lightly, and she coughs.
"Sorry, Rosie."
Your father makes the rest of the dinner go smoothly. He mentions his store, and tells a story about a guy who came in wanting to learn a few songs for his wife who was in the hospital. Everyone listens intently, and dinner is wrapped up within the hour. You offer to pick up, your mother's tired eyes thankful as she carefully hauls your now sleeping sister up the stairs to bed.
You tongue your cheek as you bid goodnight to the Lees, offering to wrap the cake your mom made in case they want to have a sweet midnight treat. They accept it and you watch them as they make the walk down the lawn to their house. You shut and lock the door, seeing Chan lingering at the bottom of the stairs speaking to your father. They both look apologetic, but Chan's cheeks are tinged pink as he rubs his neck, a habit he developed when feeling sheepish or admitting something.
You frown to yourself, turning back to the table. You gather all the plates, stacking them as you walk around the table. You'd pack the leftovers first, but you had to move everything out of the way properly.
"I'll wash." You hear Chan say, before he takes the plates from your hold. You don't reply, simply moving to gather all the cups and silverware. You dump any remaining drinks down the sink, ignoring the way he scrapes the plates over the garbage can. You move around in silence, quickly wrapping leftovers and moving them into containers, before sliding everything into the fridge and standing next to him as he washes the cups, moving onto the silverware quickly.
"I didn't think it would bother you." He begins, and your hand tightens around the glass in your hand, before you wipe it down with the rag in your other hand. He scrubs the silverware harshly as you mutter, "You assumed."
"Yeah, well, I thought we were best friends. I thought I could assume shit and be right." He huffs, and you carefully take the knives from him, swiping the rag over the blades with ease. "You are right."
"What?" He looks up from the soup bowl in his hand, and you shrug. "You are right. I guess I just didn't want to admit it earlier, but things are different between us now. It's whatever."
You're lying. You're absolutely lying and Chan's face tells you he knows.
"You've always been a bad liar, Y/N. Don't start trying now." He scoffs, and you don't say anything as you dry the forks and spoons, opening the drawer to put them away. He washes the rest of the bowls in silence, but sucks his teeth the moment he grabs a plate.
"Why?" He asks reluctantly, and you raise a brow at him. "Why, what?"
"Why are things different?"
You hum in response, drying a bowl as you think.
"For one, you've been inside me." You start, making him cough. "Be serious."
"I am serious! Did you not fuck me three ways to Sunday every time I slept over? Did I imagine that?" You snort, and you watch his cheeks flush as he tongues his left one. "Whatever. What else?"
"You stopped hanging out with me as much. I would call or text and you'd leave me on delivered for hours, and then get back to me once I was already ready for bed. Or you'd drunk dial me and come over. You used to properly spend time with me, but after that whole dumpster fire, you kind of just hung out with me when you wanted to."
You don't intend to sound so hurt as you say this, but Chan's hands slow under the running water. He nods, a soft look in his eyes as he glances at you. "I'm sorry."
"What good is it now?" You repeat his words to him, and he looks up at you. "Don't be like that."
"You also blatantly made moves on other girls in front of me. If the relationship meant nothing to you, you could've said that. It would've made moving on a lot easier." You say pointedly, before forcing out a humorless laugh. "God, your body count must be in the double digits now. Is it?"
He doesn't reply, but you nudge him with your elbow. "Is it?"
"Yes."
You shake your head, tonguing your cheek as you open the cabinet and slide the bowls in carefully.
"What's yours?"
"Two." You respond shortly, his eyes wide as he looks up at you again. "Two?"
"Problem?" Your brow is quirked as you reach for the first plate, and he shakes his head. "No. I just…"
"Assumed it would be higher? Yeah, you're doing a lot of that lately." You roll your eyes, and he scowls. "Can you stop? You had some fault there too, you have to admit that."
"I don't see how I'm to blame at all for you just assuming I didn't love you. I spent every waking moment by your side if I wasn't studying or showering, and even then it was like we were glued at the hip. I hardly had my own space, you literally snuck into my room after three days because you couldn't sleep without sticking your dick in me."
"Why do you keep talking like the sex was only good for me? Like you didn't enjoy yourself? Because I remember something very fucking different." He scrubs the plate in his hand with vigor, and you let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Maybe I don't remember it that way. Maybe it was only good because I loved you. The other guy was very different."
Chan tenses at your words, his hands still under the running water. "Was he?"
"Yeah." You nod, but the truth is, you didn't like it nearly as much. He made you cum, sure, but it was missing that…flair. That eagerness Chan always had, the passion he had, the stamina to keep up with you. It was missing the love you had for Chan, and you remember struggling not to ask this random hookup to hold your hand, or kiss you when you came, or to tell you he loved you.
All things Chan did without realizing.
"Mmh."
He doesn't speak again, handing you the dishes almost angrily before muttering something about a shower and leaving the kitchen. You wipe down the counter silently, your eyes welling with tears when you hear Chan rustle about. You assume he's moving into the bathroom when you feel a hand on the back of your head, carefully tangling in your hair as you feel his lips brush the shell of your ear.
"You do a really good job of pissing me off, but I won't ever deny that you're the best I've ever fucking had. No one feels like you and no one has made me feel like you have. No one."
He pushes you back lightly, storming back out of the kitchen with his shirt in his hand. You get a glimpse of his bare back, the muscles tense as he walks away. You feel your heart racing in your chest, your fingers coming to check your pulse as you take a deep breath.
Some vacation this is going to be.
DECEMBER 23, 7:22AM.
You thank God for the fact that everyone in your house is a deep sleeper, and can't hear how loud your heart is beating in your ears at this present moment.
Chan had taken the edge of the bed closest to the door, something he always did when the two of you shared a mattress. Or rather, the edge of the fucking mattress — he was practically hanging off. You curled into the corner closest to the wall, and stayed there the majority of the night. Chan left your TV on, knowing the white noise of whatever show he put on would lull you to sleep.
However, throughout the night, Chan migrated closer and closer to you – eventually opting to pull you into his chest. Your leg was draped over his hip and your face was nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his soft body wash and the baby powder deodorant he stole from you.
"Chan, get off me." You groaned, pushing the heel of your palm into his shoulder. He scrunched his nose, shoving your hand away before pulling you back in. "Just fucking hold me, will you?"
He rested his chin on your head, arms wrapped around you like a boa constrictor attempting to asphyxiate its prey. "Chan, I can't breathe." You're muffled against his ample chest, and he only slightly loosens his arms. You wiggle about, attempting to get comfortable at the very least, when his hand moves to grip your hip.
"Stop." His voice is hoarse as he pushes your hips away from him, which ends with you on your back and his arm over your waist. You sigh, reaching for your phone to check the time.
Seven-thirty-four. Your mother is likely either about to get up or making breakfast right now.
"I'm gonna get up." You mumble, wiping at your eyes when Chan is muttering under his breath. You lean closer to hear him, but he stops. "Speak up, I can't hear what you're saying."
"Nothing, go. Eat something." He turns his head away from you, buried into the pit of his arm and the pillow. You raise a brow, turning back on your side. "Why can't you just tell me? Have you always been this difficult?"
"Y/N, I'm hard as a rock right now. You can get out or you can watch me take care of it, I frankly don't give a flying fuck." He spits, and you feel your cheeks heat as you clear your throat. You move his arm from your waist, carefully peeling the blanket back to climb off the bed. He lets you slide over him, before his hand shoots out to grab your wrist, yanking you back onto the mattress. You yelp, your back hitting the comforter as he quickly moves to hover over you, his lips crashing onto yours. Your hands fist his shirt, your eyes fluttering shut as he carefully licks into your mouth.
You let him cup your face gently, his thumb softly caressing your cheek in tandem with the movement of his lips. He pulls away, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips quickly before your eyes open and he's looking down at you intently.
Neither of you speak, but you both know what he wants. His eyes dart all over your face, and you feel your cheeks heat as your hand shakily moves to palm him through his sweats. His jaw clenches at the friction, his hips involuntarily rolling into your hand when he shudders.
"Only if you want to." He murmurs, and you nod slowly. "I want to. Take your pants off."
He pushes off you, sitting on the edge of the bed and you take the opportunity to kneel on your rug. It's nicely padded, but he scoffs as he grabs one of the pillows and makes you move onto it. He undoes the drawstring, but your impatient hands move to his hips and you pull the sweatpants down to his knees carefully. He hisses at the feeling against his cock, but says nothing as your hand wraps around it.
Your heart is racing as you stroke him a few times, his lip tucked between his teeth as he tries not to buck into your hand. "Don't tease me, please." He breathes, and you feel your lips twitch as you lean forward, spitting on the leaking head and spreading it carefully. You lick a stripe up the underside, following the thick vein with the tip of your tongue, working your hand at the base.
He groans, leaning back on his hands as you flatten your tongue against the head. You swirl it slowly, remembering how much he liked it the few times he let you go down on him. Chan, ever the giver.
"Fuck, baby, please." His hand moves to your head, gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you take him into your mouth carefully, hollowing your cheeks as you let his tip hit the back of your throat. He sighs as you start to bob your head up and down, your tongue never stopping its laving as your throat constricts around his tip slightly. You push yourself to take him deeper, your nose slightly brushing his pelvis as he lets out a guttural groan.
“Can you shut up? My parents will hear you.” You pull off entirely, a frown on your spit-slick lips as he nods quickly, mumbling a breathy sorry. He sucks in a sharp breath as you sink back down on him, his hips involuntarily jerking into your mouth, making you gag slightly. "Shit, sorry–"
"Just keep doing that." Your voice is slightly raspy, his eyes wide as he swipes your hair away from your face. "A-Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you–"
"Do you want to finish or not? I can get up right now." You roll your eyes as you adjust yourself on the pillow, his hand still in your hair as he stands, tonguing his cheek. "Open your mouth."
You do as you're told, instinctively sticking your tongue out as he holds his shaft, a soft moan from his throat before he leans slightly. The hand in your hair moves to your jaw, before a wad of spit lands on your tongue. You feel your cheeks warm, eyes fluttering shut when you feel his tip drag across your bottom lip. His fingers gather your hair again, his voice gentle as it hits your ears.
"Let me know if I'm too rough."
That's all he says before you feel the weight of his cock on your tongue, hearing him let out a quiet hiss as his tip hits the back of your throat. He's slow with his movements, methodical thrusts into your mouth as your hands rest on his toned thighs, digging your nails into the sides. "Eyes open, baby. Wanna see you."
His voice is hoarse as it hits your ears, your eyes slightly watery as you peer up at him through thick lashes. His lips are bitten raw as he looks into your eyes – it proves to be too much for him as you whimper around his cock in your throat. "Fuck, you look so pretty like this."
You ignore the way your stomach flutters as he rolls his hips messily, thumb coming to wipe the corners of your mouth from the bubbles of spit. Your hands move up his thighs, shoving his shirt out of the way to watch the way his chiseled torso flexes as he fucks into your mouth. He whines at your touch, his grip on your hair tightening as you notice a faint tattoo on his hip. You file it to the back of your mind as you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, his release spilling onto your tongue with a whimper.
You move back slightly, his fingers carding through your hair as he softly massages your scalp. "You okay?" His breath hitches in his throat as he feels your tongue on his tip. He pushes you away slightly, before his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling you off your knees. "You're fucking insatiable, you know that?"
You shrug, "If you say so."
He stares into your eyes for a moment, his own glazed over with a mix of lust and something you can't decipher. He leans forward a bit, brushing his lips to yours. You let out a shaky breath as he nips at them, watching your lower lip bruise slightly. "Pretty. I've always loved your lips."
You roll your eyes, going to move away when he presses his lips to yours chastely. Once, twice, three times before his lips travel to your cheeks. He peppers kisses all over your face, making your nose scrunch as he pecks the tip of it.
"I'm sorry about everything yesterday." He murmurs, his hands moving to hold your cheeks. Your hands rest on either side of his hips, and you sigh. "It's whatever. Pull your pants up, what if someone comes in here?"
"It's not whatever, Y/N. I hurt your feelings, and it was shitty of me to say those things. Especially when I didn't mean any of it, I was just…"
"Angry?" You suggest, and he sighs as he moves to tug his sweatpants over his thighs. He ties the drawstring as he sits back down, your knees now settled on the pillow beneath you once more. "I don't know if I was angry. It's stupid, really. I shouldn't have spoken about it that way, is all. And I'm sorry."
"You made me feel like I was just the first notch on your bedpost. You could've told me that was all I was to you, but it wasn't necessary. Not with the way you just started sleeping with other girls so soon after our break-up."
The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and he gapes at you as you shift uncomfortably, opting to stand up. You pick the pillow up, fluffing it before tossing it onto the bed and drifting to your mirror. Your lips were a swollen mess, and you wiped at them with your hand before hearing a soft knock at the door.
You glance at Chan, who has a stoic look on his face before he stands up and answers the door. It's Rosie.
"Hey, babycakes." You call over Chan's shoulder, and he moves to the side as she waves. "Mommy told me to tell you it's time for breakfast!"
"We'll be right there, pipsqueak. Ten minutes, tops." Chan smiles, and she nods excitedly, before bolting back down the hallway, screaming your estimated time of arrival. You smile to yourself as you yank open your dresser drawer, fishing out a t-shirt.
Chan's hands are on your waist as you root around, and you peer over your shoulder to see a soft glaze of tears over his eyes. Your brows raise in concern, and you twist to face him, your hands cradling his cheeks. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"Do you ever consider how you made me feel? Or how you make me feel when you say things like that?" His voice is thick, and you feel your eyes begin to sting as your lips part. You shake your head slowly, his arms wrapping around you tightly.
"Did you think about what I said last night?" He asks softly, and you avoid his eyes as you sigh, nodding your head. "You know that's not just about sex, right? That's about everything, ever. You're the only person who has ever made me feel that way."
"What way? Like you need to fill a void? I get it, I'm shitty for breaking up with you on your birthday." You mutter, and he tilts your chin up to look at him. His eyes are still glossed over but hold a stern look.
"In a way that I feel like I can't fucking breathe without you. Nothing means anything to me since we broke up, but just a crumb of your attention makes me feel fucking insane. I don't think you understand how much you and your moods and the way you talk affects me. Everything about you drives me up the wall with want and need and I need you to understand that."
Your voice is lost on you, your throat constricting as he tucks your hair behind your ear, thumbing at the small hoops he's never seen you without. "I look for you in every girl I've been with since. Every single one, and none of them compare. None of them are as stubborn as you are, none of them give me shit when I do something stupid. If you want to talk about sex, fine. I've never finished, not once. None of them feel the way you do, none of them kiss the way you do. Not a single one of them can I close my eyes and have their body burned in my mind, not the way I have yours. Not a single one has filled the spot you left, and I'd rather die an honest death and tell you that no one ever will if it's not you."
Your lip is quivering as you look away from him, and he rests his forehead on your shoulder as your arms drop to your sides.
"Please, please tell me you feel the same."
You can't. You want to, you feel the ache to fill his cup until it overflows deep, deep in your stomach. But you're scared this is just for the moment, the fact that the two of you are away from any available hook-ups within a ten-mile radius. You're afraid that this is something temporary, just like the first time – but this time, with the intent of ending.
You hadn't wanted to call it quits then. You hadn't but it was the right thing to do – no matter who chastises you for it. You'd known, in your heart, that Chan was the person you are destined to love forever – whether you knew it then, drunk and high that first night in his bedroom, or in the backseat of his car, or even that time under the bleachers at a national cheer competition…it doesn't matter. Whether you knew it'd be in this pathetic way, doesn't matter. You know now.
He's looking for a good time, you tell yourself. And you may be a good time, a great time, even – but you won't do that to yourself.
"It took me two years to move on." You don't recognize your own voice, thick with tears and a bitter taste in your mouth. "Two years, and you fucked Chaeyoung in your bed because you saw Minghao and I doing stunts together and got jealous for no reason. You fucked Chaeyoung and Seonmi, within an hour of each other. You didn't even wait a month."
He doesn't speak, nodding his head in silence against your shoulder as he pulls you impossibly closer. His chest is flush to yours, and you can feel his tears soak into your collar.
"All because you didn't want your fraternity brothers to flirt with me. All of this, years of pining after you, yearning for your touch, missing you in my fucking bed, because you're a jealous asshole who can't stand the idea of not being the only guy in my life. All of this, Chan, because you wanted to say that I didn't love you when I don't think I've ever been able to think of a future with a man that isn't you."
His hands grip your sides tightly, your own pushing against his shoulders as you let a choked sob fall from your lips. His eyes are just as red as yours, his cheeks just as tear-stained as yours. Heart, just as broken and empty of you as yours is of him.
"It's not fair to me. Not when I'm still hurt, not when I can still taste you in the back of my throat. Not when you ignored me for girls and drinks, not when I called my dad in the middle of the night because you weren't home and I'm worried that you're not answering my calls. Not when my mom thinks I'm the brute here, when it's you."
He nods, eyes closed as he squeezes you in his arms. He rests his forehead on yours, "They're waiting for us. Wash up quickly."
Your stomach sinks, but you feel your heart pick up a bit as he places a soft kiss on the corner of your lips. "I love you."
You don't say it back.
Breakfast had been awkward, to say the least. You went to the kitchen after an hour, the two of you lying through your teeth to your parents about your red-rimmed eyes. Your father gave you a hard look, and you were set to clean the table after breakfast when Mrs. Lee offered to take you Christmas shopping.
"We can make a day of it, I miss my girl." She smiled sadly, and you'd only felt your cheeks warm as Rosie insisted she come along. Mrs. Lee agreed, and even roped Chan into coming, as well – his hesitance making your eyes gloss over with unshed tears.
He'd sat on your bed as you got ready, watching you tug on a nice sweater and a form fitting pair of winter pants. It'd begun snowing lightly during breakfast, and your father had suggested you layer up – though he was sure the snow wouldn't stick.
You and Chan hardly spoke as he watched you get dressed, his eyes trailing your naked body shamelessly. He helped you put on your winter coat, and carefully helped you put on your watch – a gift from his mother one year. He picked your rings, mumbling about which ones fit the aesthetic of your sweater the best. The casual intimacy of it all was eating away at you, only for Chan to run his hand through your hair and kiss your cheek.
A silent vow that he'd earn you back, you both understood.
Mrs. Lee was a chatterbox – she made Chan sit in the back with Rosie, playing with the Barbies she insisted on bringing as she updated you on everything going on at the dance company. You and Chan had been enrolled as kids, Chan becoming a far better dancer than you were – but the two of you excelled the same amount when it came to gymnastics. Chan begrudgingly abandoned dance to cheer with you in high school, but he quickly became enamored with the sport.
Rosie stomped her feet as you asked her to leave the Barbies in the car, only agreeing when Chan said it'd be a shame if she lost them. You rolled your eyes as she asked him to pick her up, but he did so anyway, her pink cast scratchy against his neck.
"Rosie, you know Channie's my best friend, right?" You teased her, earning a huff from the pouty six-year-old. She stuck her tongue out at you, earning a surprised laugh from Chan as he saw her in the reflection of a car window. The wind was biting, and you found yourself hovering behind Chan. As the four of you entered the mall, Rosie asked to be put down – only for Mrs. Lee to pull her close, holding her small hand within her ringed fingers as they wandered into a toy store.
"Cold?" He asked, snaking his arm around your waist. You shrugged, but your teeth chattered as you tried to speak. The two of you laughed in unison, Chan carefully swiping your hair out of your eyes as the two of you walked forward. You try not to let your face react as he interlaces your fingers.
"Did you get your mom's gift yet? I know your dad's is in the car, and Rosie's are all in my duffel."
"Shit, I knew I was forgetting one. I got your parents tickets to a cruise, I need to print those, too." You tap your temple, and Chan gasps. "I'm their son, you can't get them a better gift than me!"
"What did you get them? A picture of you in a frame from the thrift like you did in grade nine?" You roll your eyes, and he huffs, squeezing your hand. "No, I got my mom a few pieces of jewelry and my dad just wants a lawnmower."
He rolls his eyes, and you snicker. "What'd you get me?"
"My presence is your present."
"Pretty shitty present, Chan."
"Hey!"
The two of you continue to bicker as you make your way to a few different stores – you swipe your card far too many times for you to count. Chan carries all your bags as you skip ahead of him, holding a cup of hot chocolate for your little sister as you find Mrs. Lee filed away with her in the back of a jewelry store.
"What've we got here?" You squat down to Rosie's level, and she pulls her short hair back to show you her ears. "Mrs. Lee got me earrings like yours!"
A pair of thin gold hoops sit in your sister's ears, and you glance up at Mrs. Lee with a pout on your lips. "You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Lee. I would've bought them for her."
"Nonsense, it's the holiday season. I have her studs in my purse, don't let me forget to give them to your mother when we get back." She gives you a stern look, before glancing behind you, a smile on her lips. "Y/N's got you busy, huh?"
Chan feigns annoyance as he huffs, "You could say that. What's going on here?"
You turn to tell him when you see Rosie peeking into one of the bags before you cover her eyes. "No peeking! You'll see it on Christmas, babycakes."
"Just one! Please, please, please!" She holds your hand in her sticky one, likely from any snack Mrs. Lee would've bought her at one of the stands. You grimace, before sighing. "Okay, one. When we get home, okay?"
"But I'm sleepy." She pouts, and you ruffle her hair. "Then you take a little nap in the car. You can use my coat as a blanket, okay?"
The six-year-old reluctantly agrees, before reaching for the cup in your hand. Chan and Mrs. Lee prowl the store together, their eyes lingering amongst all the glittering jewelry and whispers between them as you get offered a chair by a saleswoman. You tug Rosie onto your lap and ask her about what she did – she sleepily tells you Mrs. Lee took her on the carousel ride at the children's court, then bought her a piece of honey cake at a pastry shop. She yawns as she talks about a few pairs of shoes Mrs. Lee bought her – high top Twinkle Toes and a pair of winter boots to wear as the weather changes. She doesn't manage to finish the hot chocolate as she rests her head on your shoulder, and you finish it off before managing to throw the cup into a trash bin a few feet away.
Chan and Mrs. Lee are speaking to a saleswoman at the register, her eyes a little too heart-shaped as Chan fends his mother off to swipe his card. You hold Rosie close, your eyes watching the exchange as Mrs. Lee huffs, a triumphant smile on Chan's lips as they approach you again.
"Any more places you wanna hit before we go? My fingers are about to fall off." He shows the lines from the bags across his fingers, and you shrug. "You offered, now deal with it."
He scoffs, but doesn't get a chance to retort as Mrs. Lee interrupts him.
"We should get going, actually. They did say it was going to storm pretty bad tonight." Mrs. Lee winces as the saleswoman walks up to Chan with a receipt, your eyes narrowing as he quickly tucks it in his pocket. Mrs. Lee speaks up again, "Kind of an odd thing to say, though, because it's been unusually warm."
"First snow always sneaks up on us on years like this." You sigh, shaking your head as the four of you walk out of the store. You pick Rosie up, holding her on your hip as Chan shifts all the bags to one hand to push your hair out of your eyes.
"You guys are so cute!" An older woman compliments you both, just as Mrs. Lee appears next to you, her eyes slightly wide as Chan tucks your hair behind your ear. His cheeks tinge pink as his mother gapes lightly, but she says nothing as you walk towards the exit. You pull Rosie's hood over her head as you reach the doors, and tug her scarf up to her eyes before bracing the cold air.
"Fuck, it's cold." You hear Chan mutter as Mrs. Lee shudders, her gloved fingers fumbling with the key fob as the car comes into view. You shiver as she pops the trunk, watching Chan carefully put everything in it as Mrs. Lee slides into the driver's seat, turning the heat on blast as she turns the engine on. You carefully slide Rosie into her carseat, trying not to wake her as you click her seatbelt in place. You slide your coat off, shivering immediately in the biting wind as you cover her lap with it before shutting the door quickly.
Chan's eyes are wide as he sees you crossing your arms over your chest, your scarf the only layer protecting your neck as he nearly rips his coat off and wraps it around you. "Are you insane? Do you want to get sick?"
He doesn't let you reply as he ushers you to the passenger side, nearly shoving you into the seat and all but slamming the door. He closes the trunk before getting into the backseat, his nose red from the cold. You glance at him through the rearview, watching him blow into his hands as he meets your eyes. He looks at you pointedly as Mrs. Lee pulls out of the parking spot.
You look away.
"So."
Because your mother is at her restaurant editing the holiday menus and Chan has taken the rest of the day to spend time with his cousins, you've asked Mrs. Lee to help you pick out your Christmas Eve dinner dress. She is sitting at your desk as you model options for her, the current cranberry red dress a bit too short for her taste. You frown as you change in the closet, "So, what? What's up?"
"When are you and Channie going to figure this out? I mean, it's been years." She sighs, and you hear her rustle through one of the shopping bags. You step out to see her holding the dress you bought for New Years' dinner, the black glitter mocking you as you sigh.
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Lee." You smooth your hands over a forest green sweater dress with gold accents, before turning to her. "This one?"
"You know what I mean, honey. There is still something between the two of you, don't think I didn't see the way he practically tore his coat off earlier." She shakes her head at you, and you scoff. "That doesn't mean anything, he's just a gentleman."
"Yeah? Then what was last night's outburst about?"
You freeze, your hands fisting the dress as you go to pull it over your head. She peers at you through the full-body mirror, her eyes so reminiscent of Chan's. You purse your lips, looking away and at your socked feet as you slowly make your way over to her. You perch on the edge of your bed, "I don't want you to think less of me."
Her hands hold your cheeks gently as you feel a tear roll down your face, her eyes wide and worried as she shakes her head. "Honey, I could never. You're such a smart and wonderful young woman, and you've always treated my Chan so well. You've been his biggest hypewoman, I could never think anything but the best of you."
"I was the one who broke up with him, on his birthday." You say shakily, "I didn't remember it was his birthday, but that's on me. I just…I thought I was doing the right thing. I broke things off because I wanted us to focus on school. We were so busy after we went back from break that we didn't see each other unless we were at practice, and it was eating away at me."
You wipe your eyes, Mrs. Lee's hands now folded in her lap as she listens. "No one can be upset with you for doing what you felt was best, honey."
"Chan was." You scoff out a laugh, rolling your eyes as you sniffle. "He still is, I guess. We got home and we sat down in here for a bit, and we talked. He said that maybe it was better this way, that things had always been 'easy' between him and I, that involving feelings wasn't the best move. That our relationship was a dumpster fire, and that he's glad we got it out of our systems because he wishes it never happened sometimes. That he…felt like I didn't love him."
You trail off, feeling a surge of tears roll down your face as you wipe at your nose with your sweater sleeve. You glance at her, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears as she tilts her head. "And he moved on. I didn't. So…I don't know if it's fixable. I'm sorry to disappoint you, if you thought Chan and I would be something of a forever as anything more than just friends."
You give her a sad smile, and she quietly sighs.
"He called me a few days after his birthday that year, you know." She nods, looking at her nails before she flicks her hair out of her face. Your eyes widen as you sit up slightly, "He did?"
"He was a mess." She laughed softly, running her hands down her jeans. "He cried and cried, I remember asking him if he wanted me to go up to the campus. I was so worried about him, until he told me that you two weren't seeing each other anymore. Just a boy needing his mother because the girl of his dreams broke his heart."
Her voice is slightly teasing, but your heart sinks. "What?"
"Oh yeah, honey. Channie's not very good at hiding his feelings, we knew he liked you since you were kids. We figured it would take him a bit to realize it, but once you two came home for the holidays that year, it was like he was a different person. He walked in with so much confidence, not that he needed anymore." She snorts, and you laugh softly. "He just seemed happier, a lot brighter. Like he does when he dances."
You feel your chest ache as you look away, her hands finding yours. "I know that in there, somewhere…there is a love waiting to be let loose again. I know maybe then, it was the right thing to do. I know you wouldn't have done it if you didn't think you had to, I've known your heart since you were a little girl. I know it's kind and strong and you're a good person, Y/N. Don't think about it too much, I know you've both felt that pain but trust me when I say, there is no life without pain. All I can tell you is to live without regrets."
She squeezes your hands, and you sigh shakily, your eyes still letting tears flow. "What if we break up again?"
"Then you can always say you tried." She shrugs, "You're Y/N, he's Chan. If I know anything, it's that you're both hard headed and you never give up on anything. Why make your relationship the first thing?"
She gives you a warm smile as you nod, and she glances at the sweater you have on. "Maybe not this one, either." She wrinkles her nose, and you scoff in mock offense. "I've tried everything on in my closet! Why don't you pick something for me, then?"
She grins as she gets up, skipping to your closet and rustling about. You check your phone, seeing a few missed messages from Chan.
Msg From: Chan 💗
[5:33PM] dude these guys SUCK
[5:34PM] come hang out with me :(
[5:34PM] i'm sick of this shit, soonyoung keeps making spitballs?? are we fucking thirteen??
You snort, watching as Mrs. Lee drapes a few options over her arm.
Msg To: Chan 💗
[5:55PM] can't, hanging out with ur mom
[5:56PM] do you want to take a drive later? i think the temp went back up a bit and it's not as windy
Msg From: Chan 💗
[5:57PM] oh so you hate me??? you get her tickets to a cruise AND you're hanging out with her? do you just wanna paint me as a bad son???
[5:57PM] i'd say yes but i don't think i'll be back until right before dinner :( but tomorrow after dinner at your mom's restaurant? maybe we can catch a late movie or something.
You don't get a chance to reply as Mrs. Lee whispers a small aha! She rustles around a bit more before coming out with only one dress, one you hadn't worn since you bought it because you never had an occasion. It was a long, champagne colored dress with a sarong skirt and long sleeves. The skirt was carefully ruched at the hip, before flaring out in an open slit. It had a sweetheart neckline littered with rhinestones, and you winced as you ran your fingers down the fabric.
"It's not too showy for dinner? We're just going to the restaurant." You sigh, thumbing the stitching. Mrs. Lee scoffed, "Your mother has worn far more extravagant things than this, do you remember when she wore a ball gown to New Year's last year?"
You snort, thinking back to the way you hide your face as you walked into the Lee home last year. Chan made a comment under his breath about how insane the baby blue dress was, but everyone was more or less a fan.
You also remember the way his hand slid a little too low on your back that year as rang in the new year with a hug.
Looking up at Mrs. Lee, she gives you a mischievous smile. "Go on, try it on! And we can do some hair and makeup stuff before we have to have dinner!"
Needless to say, your mother did a double take when she arrived home and saw that you were fully dolled up at the hands of Mrs. Lee. Her jaw dropped as she took in the wine red lipstick you stole from her bedroom and glittery eyeshadow, before a huge smile overtook her face and she rushed into your room to talk. It holed you away in the bedroom for another hour and a half before you graciously kicked both women out for just thirty minutes alone before dinner.
You stood in front of your vanity, dress hung back up your closet and a sigh filled the room as you reached for a makeup wipe. You peered at yourself, Mrs. Lee's words filled your mind as you ran your hands through your hair. Pursing your lips, you tie your hair back before hearing a knock at the door, and Chan opens it slightly.
"Hey. I'm home." He's not looking at you as he tugs his coat off, a sigh from his lips as you quirked an eyebrow at him. "You don't sound very happy."
"I'm just tired, I don't remember what it was like to shoot the shit with those guys." He scoffs, throwing his jacket over the back of your desk chair before sitting in it. His eyes widen as he finally looks at you, "You look pretty."
"Thanks. Mothers." You shrug, before reaching for the makeup wipe you abandoned in order to tie your hair back. "Wait, wait, let me see." He reaches for your hand, pulling you towards him. You roll your eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed, your other hand on your knee as he looks at your face.
"Why haven't you ever worn this lipstick before? It looks really nice." His thumb pulls at your lower lip, before you swat his hand away. "Stop that, someone could walk in."
"Then lock the door? I'm just looking at you." He rolls his eyes as he stretches, "Did you figure out what you're wearing tomorrow?"
"Barely. I'm still overthinking it, but the Moms said to go for it so…we're going for it." You shrug, and he raises a brow. "Do you want to show me? Maybe a third opinion could help settle it."
"Nope." You grin, before standing up to move back in front of the vanity. His hold on your hand pulls you back, his other hand snaking around your waist as he pulls you into his lap. You huff as he kisses your shoulder, "Chan. Seriously."
"I missed you." He pouts, leaning his cheek on your shoulder as you roll your eyes. "Yeah, well…"
You trail off, your cheeks heating as he smiles up at you. He's about to say something when you hear a knock at the door, making you jump in his hold. You rip yourself away from him, nearly stumbling as you rip the door open. It's Rosie.
"Ooh, you look pretty! Can I try?" She hops into your room, puckering her lips as she looks into your vanity. You snort, "Hello to you, too. Do you come with a message or just demands?"
"Dinner in ten minutes. Can I try now?" She jumps in front of the mirror, and you roll your eyes as you motion for Chan to hand you your makeup bag off the edge of the desk. He does, and you root around in it for the lipstick, pulling out a lip brush as well. You squat in front of her, "This is Mom's lipstick, okay? We can only use a little bit."
She nods, letting you carefully trace the brush around her lips. You turn her around in the mirror when you're done, lifting her up slightly. "You like?"
"I like!" She smacks her lips loudly, and you smile inwardly as you set her down. "Can I wear this tomorrow, too?"
"If you ask Mom and she says yes, we can talk about it." You shrug, and she nods quickly, before grinning at herself in the mirror one last time. "Okay, bye! Thank you!"
"Bye, babycakes." You laugh, closing the door as she runs out. You give Chan a glance, rolling your eyes as you reach for the makeup wipe. "Gotta love that kid."
"Don't take it off." He pouts, standing up to slide next to you in the mirror. You scoff, "Why? You're just gonna stare at me over dinner and everyone's gonna think something that isn't."
He huffs, resting his chin on your shoulder as you carefully wipe at your eyes. You peel one open, seeing him pouting in the mirror. You struggle not to roll your eyes as you turn your face to look at him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Stop pouting, it's not a good look on you."
His eyes are wide as you continue to wipe the makeup off, his hand coming to ghost over your jaw as he makes you face him. "I missed you." He repeats, before nuzzling his nose against yours. Your breath hitches in your throat as his lips brush yours, before he whispers against them.
"I love you."
And just like this morning, you let him. You let him slot your lips together in a tentative kiss, your heart beating wildly in your chest as he turns you around, pressing your back into the vanity. His hands move to hold your hips gently, his fingertips barely breaching the hem of your shirt as he pulls away. He doesn't move back much, brushing his lips against yours as he squeezes his fingers against you softly.
"Will you at least let me try to win you back?"
You feel your skin grow hot as you look away, and your heart flutters in your chest as he cradles your face softly in his warm hands. He presses a kiss to your forehead, "Please?"
You want to tell him there is nothing to win back, you'd always be there. If time was the issue, you'd wait – no problem. But there is that part of you that's hurt that wants him to fight for you. The part of you that wants him to beg for you back, the part of you that wants him to hold you tight and cry with you about how stupid he's been when you've been equally as stupid. Maybe in a different way, but you're both idiots in your mind.
You look into his eyes through thick lashes, the heat of his gaze making you want to melt into the ground. Chan, despite the history between you two and his bad habits, had always been both the angel and the devil on your shoulders. He could lead you down any path and you'd blindly follow, but you knew you were the same for him. The truth of it all was that your trust in Chan has never wavered, even when the pain of his actions settled into your bones.
"Okay."
"Promise?" His eyes are wide as he holds his pinky out, and you sigh, closing your eyes as you nod and link your fingers. "Promise."
You both kiss your thumbs and touch them to each other, before you wipe the stamped lipstick off his cheek. "Don't tell your parents anything or I'll get Soonyoung and Mingyu to put snow down your pants tomorrow."
He rolls his eyes, "You still haven't let me introduce you to them, so good luck. I wasn't going to tell them in the first place, anyway, because they'd make me go to my room after Dumb and Dumber go back into town tomorrow afternoon. I still can't believe they didn't ask for the holidays off."
You roll your eyes, moving the makeup wipe to your lips as he traces circles into the skin of your hip under your shirt. "Double pay, probably. My mom is shelling out double pay at the restaurant these next few weeks."
He hums in response, "Did my mom say anything I should know about?"
You snort, "Wouldn't you like to know."
"I would, thank you. Tell me."
"I have to wash my face, Chan."
You give him a pointed look as you push past him, moving to your bathroom as he sighs, trailing after you. "Okay, you can wash your face and speak."
"Chan, get out of my bathroom. They're probably waiting for you at the dinner table."
"If they're waiting for me, they're waiting for you." He reminds you, leaning against the doorframe. You huff, reaching for your face wash as you turn the faucet on. "Go. I'll be out in a minute."
He sighs, before pushing off the doorframe and leaving without a word. You feel your chest heavy with worry as you lather your face wash into your skin, but you force yourself to push all your rushing thoughts to the back of your mind. If Chan is making the moves to make things right, you have to at least give him his flowers for that. He wouldn't pull a fast one on you, he's not that kind of guy.
Right?
DECEMBER 24, 6:05AM.
Dinner between the two families had been rather entertaining. Your mother was enamored with the earrings Mrs. Lee got for Rosie, and the parents discussed carpooling groups for the Christmas Eve dinner at your mother's restaurant. You and Chan would be the only ones not lumped into your father's SUV, and you couldn't help the way you glanced at Chan with a wince. He had a slight grimace on his face as he agreed quietly, the two of you holding up the façade of your fight so as to not make anything obvious.
He snuck a few kisses to your lips as the two of you did the dishes, before the two of you turned in for the night. You showered and brushed your teeth, only to have to wait for Chan because you kicked him out of the bathroom before he could offer to save water by showering together. He'd pouted, but it didn't matter. There was a line you couldn't cross…and that's it, right?
Either way – Chan had pulled your back into his chest at some point throughout the night, not that you were complaining. Yesterday morning's shenanigans seemed to have continued – but this time, his hand was up your shirt as he grinded himself against your clothed cunt, nipping his teeth against the skin of your neck. You were about to turn over to kiss him when you heard the heavy knock of your father's hand on the door. You nearly shoved Chan off the bed with how quickly you sat up and jumped over him, answering the door with a flushed look.
"Dad, don't do that! I nearly shit myself." You hold your hand to your chest, and your father holds out two cups of coffee. "You have a shower, you'd survive."
"Don't be gross." You grimace, carefully taking the cups and setting them down on the dresser. Chan sits up, eyes squinted as he stretches his arms over his head. "Good morning, Chan."
"Good morning, sir." He mumbles, before running his hands over his face. Your father gives you a quizzical glance, seeing your eyes a bit low as he snorts. "You guys might want to wake up, the snow outside is insane and Rosie will want you guys to help her build a snowman."
"You can't help her? It's barely six." You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms as your father smooths your hair down. "I'll give you an hour."
"Two hours." Chan groans from the bed, flopping back down and tugging the duvet over his shoulder. You snort, taking a quick sip from the steaming white mug. You crinkle your nose at the bitter taste, only to hear your father laugh softly. "Hour and a half. Deal?"
"Deal." You nod tiredly, and he nods as he moves to shut your door. "Set an alarm, or I'm coming in here with pots and pans."
You only nod again, holding the coffee cup to your lips as he shuts it tightly. Looking over your shoulder, you see Chan sitting up on his elbows, a scowl on his lips. "Seriously?"
"It's the holiday season and they haven't seen us all year, it's only normal that they want to spend time with us." You roll your eyes as you set down your cup, sliding back under the covers as he grunts. "They can't wait until the sun comes up for that? I love our families, but I don't wanna be outside in subzero temps."
"It's not even subzero, dumbass. It's like, seventeen degrees out." You rest your head on your pillow, looking up at him with tired eyes. "Subzero or seventeen, it's still the asscrack of dawn."
"Never too early to have your hand up my shirt though, is it?" You say pointedly, and he scoffs as you shift uncomfortably in your sticky shorts. "So if I pull your shorts down, you won't be wet? You weren't complaining."
"I never said that, but you're complaining about it being the asscrack of dawn yet you're feeling me up in your pretend sleep." You shake your finger in his face, making him sigh as he lays on his side. "Sometimes I just like touching you, okay? It doesn't always have to end in something, baby."
"You mean you like riling me up so I'll be the one to pounce. You're not slick, I know your tricks." You drape his arm over your waist as you face away from him, feeling his lips brush the shell of your ear. "So should I continue or are you going to play hard to get?"
"You know, you just reminded me to shove snow down your pants. Maybe then you'll calm down."
He scoffs, pressing a kiss just under your ear before pulling you closer to him. You nestle into his warmth, feeling his hand slip under your shirt. He doesn't move it, his thumb caressing just above your navel as his breathing slows. You close your eyes, but not feeling the thick veil of sleep creeping up on you. Huffing, you turn on your back, making Chan stir slightly but he says nothing.
You stare at the ceiling, the early morning sun barely peeking in through your blinds.
"You're thinking too loud."
Looking at him from the corner of your eye, you snort. "Sorry, did my thinking disturb you?"
"Go back to sleep, we're not going to get a chance to rest until after dinner." He sighs, before you roll onto your side to face him. "I can't."
He hums, opening his eyes with a sigh. "Better start trying, baby. It's been like twenty minutes since your dad left."
Rolling your eyes, you shift lower to press your face into his stomach. His hand cards through your hair gently, his fingertips grazing the skin of your neck as they dip below the collar of your shirt. "Comfortable?"
"It's alright." You retort, making him laugh quietly. "Just alright?"
"You don't need your head to grow any bigger, Lee."
"Humor me, will you?"
"Never." You huff, fisting the material of his sweatshirt. His breathing slows once more, but yours still can't match his. Frustration festers in your stomach, and you find yourself tracing circles into his sweatshirt before pushing it up slightly, bunching it around his ribcage. Your fingers make contact with his warm skin, drawing shapes into it with your dull fingernails when you feel him softly tug at your hair.
"Don't start something you can't finish, baby."
You scoff, your breath warm against his skin. "Shut up."
He only hums, your fingers continuing their tracing when you find yourself pressing your lips to his skin softly. Once, twice, three times as you move around his slim waist. He shifts slightly, a shaky sigh falling from his lips as you nip at the skin around his navel. Your palm pushes his hip down until he gets the hint, moving to lie on his back as you push his sweatshirt higher. Your thighs rest on his as you straddle him, and you feel the outline of his cock against the soaked fabric of your shorts.
You can feel his eyes on you as your tongue pokes out from between your lips, licking a stripe up his sternum before pressing a kiss between his pecs. You pepper kisses across his chest, feeling his breathing ragged beneath your wandering hands. Your thumb lightly ghosts over his right nipple, and you feel him jolt beneath you.
"Y/N, what are you doing?" He groans, making you smirk against his skin as you flick the tip of your tongue against his nipple, his hands flying to your hips to hold you steady. "Baby."
"Stare at the ceiling or something, stop interrupting me." You shrug, before pulling his sweatshirt higher. "Take this off."
He obliges, nearly ripping the piece of clothing over his head before sitting up slightly, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you into a searing kiss. You let out a squeak of surprise, his tongue snaking into your mouth at the opportunity. Your hand snakes up his torso, your fingers pinching lightly at one of his nipples. His hips jerk roughly against you, a moan spilling into your mouth as you pull away quickly, clamping your hand over his lips with a scowl.
"Shut the fuck up! Do you want them to hear you?"
He licks your palm, making you grimace as you wipe it on his shoulder, his hand on your neck pulling you back down to his lips. "I don't give a fuck who hears me as long as you're the one making me sound like this."
"Yeah, well I have shame. Shut your mouth before I put something in it." You snip, but his other hand snaps the waistband of your shorts against your hip. "Yeah? You'll shut me up?"
"You're a sick freak." You scoff, shoving yourself off him. "Go lock the door."
His eyes widened as you began to undo the drawstring of your shorts, your thumbs sliding under the waistband with a pointed look. "Hello? Lock the fucking door, Chan."
He nearly falls off the bed getting out of the sheets, making you snicker to yourself as you shove your shorts down your legs. You ignore the few strings of arousal connecting you to the ruined cotton and the way the cool air of your bedroom makes you wince, reaching for your phone as Chan slides back into the bed.
7:15am.
"We only have fifteen minutes." You flick your shorts to the side as you move back over Chan, his eyes wide as he glances at them. "Baby." He breathes, holding them up by the waistband.
"Shut up, I'm ovulating or something." You roll your eyes as a blush coats your cheeks, making him snort. "Or something? Just admit you like it when I feel you up in my 'pretend' sleep." He makes air quotes with his fingers, making you scowl as you take the shorts from his hand.
"Open your mouth, since you can't stop running it."
He sticks his tongue out at you, before happily opening his mouth. You stuff the crotch of the shorts into his mouth, ignoring the way his eyes flutter at the taste makes your core clench around nothing. You try not to look at him as you settle yourself onto his chiseled torso, the same faint tattoo mocking you as you try to figure it out. Biting your lip, you gently roll your hips against him, the feeling of the hard muscle against your clit enough to make your legs tremble slightly. He groans around the shorts, his hands moving up your thighs as you grind down against his stomach.
With every rut of your cunt against his lower stomach, you can feel his painfully hard cock poking the meat of your ass. You ignore the way he winces every time, moaning softly around the soaked shorts as his hands move higher on your thighs, his grip only making you whine. It's not long before his stomach is covered in your arousal, your whimpers filling his ears as he covers your mouth with his hand before taking the shorts out of his mouth.
"I can make you cum faster than this." He whines as your thumbs circle around his nipples, but you roll your eyes, "I like it this way."
"I know b-baby, but I'm two seconds from blowing in my pants." He sighs shakily as you move his hand from your mouth, pinning it above his head. Your lips brush against his as you lean forward, looking into his glossy eyes. "I'm not fucking you, you have to earn that."
"Sit on my face." He breathes against your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of them as you shake your head. "We won't have enough time–"
"Two minutes, you know me." He begs, weaseling his arm out of your grip to push you up his torso as you huff. "Chan, it's risky–"
"Everything about our entire relationship has been risky, why stop now?" He whispers, and you look at him to see a slightly dejected look in his eyes. He wants to please you, you know he does – and you want him to make it up to you. All those lonely nights missing his face between your thighs like a starved man, all the useless vibrators that got you nowhere near the orgasms he pulled out of you.
"Make it fast." You mutter, moving to kneel over his face. He nods silently, his arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulls you down, his nose bumping your clit and making you jerk. "Chan!"
"Shh, baby." He murmurs, nosing at your pussy like a dog after a bone. "You smell so fucking good, missed this."
You squirm as he places a kiss on your clit, your fingers holding onto the metal headboard for stability as he flicks his tongue against it teasingly. He moans into your wet heat, his pouty lips wrapping around your sensitive bud as you force yourself to swallow your whines, rocking your hips against his face, feeling your end coming embarrassingly fast.
"Chan." You breathe out, reaching down to pull at his hair as he furrows his brows, his tongue messily collecting your arousal with soft grunts. "Mmh?"
You don't say anything, hoping he just knows what you mean as you let a whine slip, your thighs tightening around his head. He forces them apart, using his strength to grind you against his tongue. You're a whimpering mess above him, your thighs trembling as you fall forward against the headboard. You're gripping the metal with your hands as you come undone with a whisper of his name, feeling your stomach cave in as he keeps licking at you.
A knock at the door makes him stop (and you jerk), his arms holding you firmly against him as he clears his throat. "Yes?"
"Are you guys up? Why is this door locked?" It's your mother, and she jiggles the doorknob as Chan laughs, lying on the spot. "I'm sorry, I'm changing! Y/N is about to get in the shower, she'll be out in twenty minutes, I promise."
"Tell Y/N to wear leggings under her pants, it's freezing out there." She's not suspicious, and Chan gives you a look of relief as he answers. "Will do! Thank you!"
"You're welcome!"
The two of you sit in silence as you wait a few moments, before you feel Chan's tongue snake through your folds. You try to push off his face, but your legs feel like jelly as he fucks the tip of his tongue into you. "S-Stop, we have to go."
"I bought us twenty minutes, gorgeous. Let me do what I gotta do." He mutters, practically making out with your clit as you squirm away. "Chan, we have to get up."
He sighs, his hands massaging your thighs. "Can never relax, hm?"
"Be so fucking serious." You scoff, mustering all your energy to get off his face. He watches as you lay on your stomach with a groan, "I can't even get up. Fuck you, man."
"Please do. I never want to cum in my pants again, this shit feels so gross." He grimaces, sitting up and running his hands over your thighs, digging his thumbs into the sore muscles. You peek at his pants, your fingers coming to lift the waistband when he swats your fingers.
"Come on, we have to shower or they won't buy it."
"Any time I've showered with you, you've tried to slide your dick between my asscheeks. I don't trust you." You snort, and he only lands a soft smack to your outer thigh. "It's a wonderful ass, can you blame me? But, for the sake of time and your so-called shame, I'll skip out on it."
"Ugh, fine."
Chan stays true to his word, the ten-minute shower consisting of nothing but soft kissing under the showerhead and soapy hands sliding around naked bodies. Him finishing in his pants isn't a lie, either – and you apologize by letting him tongue at your nipples for two minutes. Every touch landing where it's not supposed to, pulling soft whines from each other as tongues slipped from mouths to collarbones before he reminded you that you couldn't mark each other above the neck if you wanted to remain undiscovered.
Chan toweled his hair dry and got changed quickly to appease your awaiting parents, but didn't leave the bathroom without a kiss…or three, to your lips. He lingered a bit as you dried your hair, a warm smile on his face as he watched your scrunched face in the mirror – when you caught his eye. "What?"
"I love you."
He doesn't wait for you to respond, only tucking his coat under his arm as he exits your bedroom. You pretend it doesn't make your knees weak as you pull two pairs of leggings on, and your snow pants. You pretend it doesn't fill your stomach with butterflies as you tug on two pairs of socks and your heavy boots. You pretend it doesn't make your cheeks warm as you pull on one of his t-shirts under your sweater, and you pretend it doesn't make you tingle with excitement as you shove on your coat and tuck your scarf under your chin.
You slip out of your bedroom with your lip balm in your hand, only to see Mrs. Lee and your mother scolding Chan as he sits in one of the dining room chairs, your mother's hair dryer blowing hot air in his face. He's wincing as they let him have it, a pout on his lips as he sees you.
"Tell them you hogged the hairdryer!" He begs, making you smirk. "I'd be lying, wouldn't I?" You reach out to ruffle his hair, sticking your tongue out at him as you make your way to the kitchen. You see Rosie and your father holding hot packs to their faces, your little sister's nose red from the cold.
"Have fun out there, babycakes?" You ask, leaning on the island with a smile as she nods quickly. "Mingyu and Soonyoung helped me make a snowman! You and Channie have to help me, too. It has to be bigger!"
"You met Mingyu and Soonyoung already? I haven't even met them!" You feign offense as she nods, your father rolling his eyes. "If you had been up earlier, Chan could've given you a proper introduction."
"I was not going to be up at six in the morning to make a snowman, I'm sorry." You shrug, before checking your watch. "It's only eight, how are you guys so chipper?"
"We don't have to wash all the dishes after supper. So I guess you're off the hook for not being up earlier." Your mother snorts from the kitchen entrance, a red-cheeked Chan following behind her. He sticks his tongue out at you, making you snort. "Nice hair, man."
"Shut up." He rolls his eyes, and your mother sighs as she slides two plates of breakfast food in front of you. "Eat up, we've got a busy morning."
You and Chan glance at each other, knowing she means that the entire family has to work to tire Rosie out enough that she takes a nap sooner rather than later. If she goes down later, everyone will be late for Christmas Eve dinner.
Which will make your mother very upset, and God forbid you make your mother upset during the holiday season!
You and Chan practically scarf your breakfast down as Rosie excitedly recounts how Mingyu and Soonyoung kept fighting over what carrot would make the best nose for her snowman. She smiles cutely as she holds up a carrot your father was holding, "But I saved the best one for our snowman, guys!"
Your heart melts as she says that, your lip jutting out in a pout as you shovel the last of your waffles into your mouth. You take your plate and Chan's to the sink as she continues speaking, careful not to get your sleeves wet as you wash them quickly. Chan dries them as she gets to the part where Mingyu spit a raisin at Soonyoung, making you choke on your water. Rosie stops mid-story, tugging your father out of the kitchen – insisting she was all warmed up and ready to go back outside.
"Save me!" Your father mouths as he allows your little sister to drag him out, making you snicker to yourself. Chan slides the plate into the cupboard, running the rag around the sink basin as the kitchen grows quiet. You swallow the last of your water, only to feel Chan's fingers on your jaw.
"Just a quick one." He utters quietly, his eyes darting to the entryway as you roll your eyes, pecking a chaste kiss onto his lips. He can't help but hold you in place, kissing you again slowly when you hear the door open. You push him away, sliding your empty glass onto the island as Mr. Lee yells into the house. "Get out here!"
You both nearly trip over each other trying to exit the kitchen, Mr. Lee shoving two pairs of gloves in your hands as he shoves the two of you out. Chan shivers next to you, looping his arm with yours as you carefully make your way off your porch. You tug the gloves on, giving him the other pair as you brave the winter air.
"It's colder than a witch's tits." You hear someone say, and your head whips around to see two guys sitting in two folding chairs next to an abomination of a snowman, holding cups of coffee between ungloved fingers. Chan rolls his eyes as he tugs you towards them, their eyes averting to you and the one with blond hair nearly spits his coffee out.
"Don't be fucking weird, okay?" Chan says, and the blond one scoffs. "You didn't say she was a fucking bombshell, Chan!"
"Maybe because it's none of your business if she is or isn't! She'd never date you, anyway." Chan pulls you close suddenly, and you smile sheepishly at the two men.
"Hi, Y/N." The brunet smiles at you, his eyes trailing you a bit too long for Chan's liking. "Don't look at his teeth, that's how he gets you." Chan covers your eyes with his hand, making you scoff as you pull it down.
"Don't be a baby, Chan." You roll your eyes, before extending your gaze to the men. "It's nice to meet you guys. Who is who?"
"Mingyu." The blond one points at the brunet, who points back at him. "Soonyoung, resident idiot.'
"Hey!" Soonyoung shoves him, making Mingyu snort. "It's the truth, Rosie made him eat a disk of snow with raisins on it."
You laugh as Chan sulks, making you pinch his cheek and coo. "Don't be jealous, Channie. As long as neither of them is taller than you–"
"Suddenly, I need to stretch." Soonyoung says with a grin, and Mingyu rolls his eyes as Soonyoung tugs him up. Soonyoung is only two inches taller, but you find yourself whistling lowly at Mingyu's height.
"You're huge, dude." You look up at him, earning a huff from Chan. Mingyu smiles around the rim of his cup, shrugging as he takes a sip. "You're not the first to say that, but I can fit you in my schedule if you'd like to see what else is big."
"Dude, no fair. He doesn't wash his socks, you know." Soonyoung scowls, making you snort. "Yeah? What about you, Soonie?"
"Enough! We're out here to build a snowman that's better than your absolute monstrosity, not for you two to hit on my best friend until I vomit!" Chan stomps his foot like a toddler, and you laugh, patting his chest. "Chan, buddy, reign it in! Go get Rosie."
He looks hesitant as his cousins make eyes at you. There's a pout on his lips as you pinch his cheek again, whispering in his ear. "Be a good boy and fetch, yeah?"
He should be embarrassed at how quickly his cheeks tinge pink at your words, ignoring his cousins' teasing as he turns on his heel to find Rosie. He watches from his peripheral as they joke with you, how easily they make you laugh and how you fit right in with the duo. His heart warms a bit at the idea of his extended family liking you so quickly, but the idea quickly gets shoved aside as he remembers how flirtatious and greasy his cousins can be.
The next two hours are spent with Mingyu and Soonyoung calling you pretty and cute to bother Chan, and you instigating the compliments to get under his skin. Rosie got tired halfway through building the snowman, and made you promise you wouldn't finish it without her. She gave you the carrot for safekeeping, making you tuck it into your jacket pocket as your father hauled her into the house. Your mother and Mrs. Lee made a quick trip down to the restaurant, and your father and Mr. Lee opted to salt the driveways and sidewalks for the dinner trip later that day.
Chan? He's tonguing his cheek as he packs snow in his hand, hearing Mingyu call you gorgeous as you take a sip from his cup of coffee. He chucks it in his direction, hitting Mingyu square in the shoulder. Mingyu stops talking as he feels the impact, his jaw dropping as he sees the snow sliding off the leather of his thick jacket. He wipes the snow off his jacket with a boyish grin, and your eyes widen as Soonyoung quickly throws a snowball at Chan – who dodges it and lands one of his own on Soonyoung's chest.
You snort to yourself as the trio begin to throw snowballs of various sizes between each other, opting to settle in Mingyu's folding chair with your legs crossed. You hold his cup of coffee, before calling out to the men. "Whoever wins gets to help me pin Chan down and shove snow down his pants!"
Mingyu smirks, running his tongue over his teeth as he zeros in on Chan – who is gaping at you. "Oh, come on! That's not fucking fair!"
"Good luck!" You hold up Mingyu's cup, tilting it towards them as the two men begin to chase after Chan, who has a hefty head start as he hides behind your father's SUV before hopping the fence to your backyard. Your dad snorts as he salts the sidewalk you're sitting on, "You're awful to that boy, you know."
"A little snow down the pants never killed anyone." You retort, making him shake his head. "How're Mingyu and Soonyoung? Nice fellas, eh?"
"If you count them flirting with me to piss Chan off nice, I'd say so." You grin, and he rolls his eyes. "You're something else, honey. Just talk to the kid."
"I do talk to him, Dad. Trust me, I talk. He just doesn't listen." Rolling your eyes, you hear something reminiscent of a battle cry when you see Chan pelting Mingyu and Soonyoung with snowballs as he whizzes past you and your father, making you both double over in laughter as they round the corner into the next neighborhood. It fades to quiet for a moment, before you hear yet another shriek, followed by a fuck yeah!
You and your father look up to see Mingyu holding Chan over his shoulder, thrashing in order to free himself. Soonyoung throws his scarf around Mingyu's waist, effectively tying Chan's legs to the bigger man. Chan slumps against Mingyu, and you almost feel bad as your father shakes his head at you, "Not too much snow, Y/N. Be considerate."
"You got it, boss!" You call after him as he shuffles into the house, and Mingyu grins as he presents Chan to you, turning around to show you the defeated pout on his face. "You hate me, Y/N. You hate me and you're going to freeze my dick off with a chunk of snow."
"I could never hate you, Channie. But, I do want you to suffer just a bit." You smirk, and he sighs. "Put me down!"
"Will you run?" You take a sip of the cup, and Chan's eyes flash with jealousy. "No. But you can't use more than a snowball's worth of snow. Promise me." He holds his pinky out, and you wait until Soonyoung turns around to grab his coffee to peck his cheek. He flushes, but you can just barely tell under his wind-bitten skin.
"No promises, Channie."
Mingyu manages to wrestle his arms behind his back, Soonyoung just teasing Chan as they all watch you gather snow in your gloved hands. Chan whines pitifully in Mingyu's hold as you approach with a decent amount of snow in your hands and an evil smile on your face.
"Y/N, please. I'll beg, I will! Don't do this–" Your best friend squirms in Mingyu's arms, and you make kissy faces at him as your hand pulls at his waistband. The flannel lining is stark red against the white snow, and Chan braces himself as you press a shameless kiss to his forehead.
"Y/N, don't! I'll buy your breakfast for a month! I won't ever drop you during practice again, baby please–fuck!" Chan thrashes against Mingyu as the snow slides down his legs, having foolishly only worn the snow pants over his boxers. "Oh you fucking hate me, oh my God! Let me go!"
He frees himself from Mingyu, who can barely hold himself up from laughing as Chan shakes the snow out of his pants, jumping around like a frog to warm himself up. "Go get in the shower before you get frostbite on your balls!" Soonyoung calls after him as he races into your house, making you snort as you finish off the last of Mingyu's coffee.
"Love that guy, he's so easy to torture." You roll your eyes as you take Mingyu's chair once more, earning a warm look from Mingyu. "How long did you guys date back then? He only told us so much."
You shrug, "Couple months. A really good two months, but…just the two."
You toy with the cup, before Soonyoung sighs. "He's a good kid. Please don't break his heart again, I don't think he can take it." He rubs his neck, and Mingyu nods, kicking snow off his boot.
"It's funny that we've never met you until now, Chan has talked about you as long as he's been able to."
The statement makes you snort. "Yeah, well. Chan's a jealous guy, that's how we even started dating in the first place. He didn't like that his frat brothers were making eyes at me when I helped him move in, but I guess he just never understood that…"
You trail off, clearing your throat when Soonyoung finishes your sentence.
"Understood that he's the only one for you?" He tries, and you sigh, nodding. "Yeah."
"That's cute. Like, so cute. Adorable, even." Mingyu teases, and you lightly punch his shoulder. "Shut up."
"I always thought Chan would end up with you. The amount of times we'd have to kick him off the Playstation because he'd talk about you instead of playing his turn was insane." Soonyoung scoffs, taking a sip from his cup. "I think I've heard your favorite color at least eighty times in my lifetime, tell me it's still green."
"It is still green, ha." You smile shyly, and Mingyu lies down in the snow, staring at the sky. "Well, it's nice to know Chan has someone who clearly cares. I know you guys broke up because of school, right? Too busy and all that."
"I felt so overwhelmed. We broke up and he made the fucking Dean's list, I was crushed when I didn't. Then again, Chan's always been better at masking how he feels when it comes to…things between us." Shrugging, you feel the heat of Soonyoung's gaze.
"Finding out about all those girls must've gotten to you, huh? He was an idiot, I told him he was when he talked to me about it. He cried, too. Dumbass." Soonyoung rolls his eyes, and your own widen. "He cried? Why?"
"He told me two years ago, I think it was summer. I came up here, but you'd gone to a cheer camp for a few days and you came back the day that I left. We got drunk in the backyard and he cried his eyes out about you, and how none of the girls compared to you." He shrugs, and Mingyu pipes up.
"I was there, too. My best friend was apparently the one who told him to fuck other girls, I cannot tell you how big of a fight we got into when I confronted him about it. It was so ugly, and I was pissed for so long."
"Wonwoo is also one to fucking talk, he's been stuck on one of my friends for ages. Last time he visited, I swear he lost his mind seeing her in her bikini." Soonyoung scoffs, and you nod quietly, "Chan is a dumbass, you're right."
"How long did it take you to move on? Did you?" Mingyu asks, propping himself up on his elbows. You frown, shaking your head. "I slept with one other guy, a year ago. It was okay, but you know."
"It wasn't Chan." Soonyoung says softly, and you only slump in your chair. "I felt so pathetic. I still do, sometimes. It's hard not to think about those other girls when he's constantly just…there. He's both the angel and devil on my shoulder, he's consistently encouraging me but then he comes home for the holidays with me and he hurts my feelings."
Mingyu sits up fully, a furrow on his brow as he looks at you.
"What do you mean?"
"Ugh, it doesn't matter. It was stupid, and he apologized but now…now he's acting like he's in love with me, still. And I…don't know how to take it, or if I should believe him." You murmur, covering your face with your hands as Soonyoung hums. "Well, what did he say to make you think he's still in love with you?"
"He said it, verbatim. He says he loves me, he said he wanted to try to win me back. He said that nothing meant anything to him after we broke up, and that he's looked for me in every girl he's been with since." Your voice is slightly muffled by your gloves, and you miss the endeared glances Soonyoung and Mingyu share.
"Then there you have it, Y/N. Not much to question when he's so outright, is there?" Soonyoung speaks around his cup, and you sigh, pushing yourself off the chair. "I guess…I don't know. We're taking a drive after dinner tonight, we might talk then. When do you guys leave?"
"In about two hours. But, give us your contact information, you're funny." Mingyu holds his phone out, and you roll your eyes but quickly type in your information. Soonyoung hands you his as well, and they both send you a text to confirm their numbers. You give them each a hug goodbye, with Mingyu pinching your cheek and telling you to just go with the flow. Soonyoung ruffles your hair and tells you that at the end of the day, Chan is just a man and no matter how much you love him, you've got to put yourself first.
And you agree.
You don't get a chance to check in with Chan after saying goodbye to his cousins, because your father ropes you into waking Rosie up and helping her get dressed for dinner. You're holed away in her room, carefully curling her hair when she asks you about Chan.
"Do you hold hands with him?" She asks you suddenly, and you look at her in the mirror, the bathroom light making her dress glitter brighter. Hers was a soft ivory color, likely one to match your mother's. Your father had told you he'd get a champagne tie and pocket square so you'd all look cohesive, and you'd agreed as he left you to babysit Rosie – only for your mother to bang around in the kitchen moments after he left.
"With who, babycakes?"
"With Channie, Y/N!" She whines as you spray her hair, and you snort. "Sometimes. When we cross the street, or sometimes just because. He's my best friend, we can do stuff like that."
"Have you ever had a crush on him, Y/N?" She wiggles her eyebrows in the mirror, and you laugh, pressing a kiss to her hairline. "Yeah, I have. You can have crushes on your friends, it's very common. It's not always the best idea, though. It can be really hurtful if they don't like you back."
"So were you boyfriend and girlfriend or not? Because you say no but Mommy said yes." She got you, hook, line and sinker. You gape at her, and her eyes are pointed as you scoff. "Okay, fine. We were boyfriend and girlfriend for a little bit."
"A little bit!? Why not forever? Ugh!" She gripes, and you can only hold back your shock as you smear a little bit of sunscreen on her face. "Well, sometimes things just don't work out, babycakes. Plus, Channie and I will always be best friends."
"Daddy told me that he and Mommy were best friends and now they're married. Maybe you and Channie can get married, too!"
You feel your chest grow warm at the idea of marrying Chan, and the fact that Rosie liked him so much that she wanted that for you. You recall your father also telling you the story of how he and your mother met, and why he was so adamant that you and Chan would figure it out. He told you that story so many times over the years, you had it practically memorized.
"Maybe, Rosie." You grin, kissing her nose. "No promises."
"It's okay, Channie promised me." She shrugs, climbing out of her chair as you freeze. "What? What'd you say?"
"I said, Channie promised me. I asked him yesterday when we were playing Barbies in the car. But it's a secret, so don't tell him I told you." She says sternly, making you gape as she abandons you to find your mother downstairs. You take a deep breath, ignoring the way your stomach fills with fluttering as you make your way downstairs. You see Chan sitting at the dinner table, hair mussed from the wind outside as your mother serves him a cup of coffee. His eyes catch yours, and you quickly look away as you jump the rest of the stairs and dart into your bedroom.
You barely make it to your bedroom without the tears spilling down your face, and you lock the door behind you. You slide down the door, pulling your knees to your chest as you think back to all the moments between you and Chan. All the times he said he loved you, all the times he said he couldn't imagine a life without you.
The time in the backseat of his car, almost three years to the date – where he said both over and over again. Where he dragged his lips anywhere you'd let him, whispers of how perfect you were for him and how insane you made him feel. Where he made you cry as he touched you just right, biting at your shoulders and digging his dull nails into your hips.
Where he told you that you'd tattooed your name across his heart and it was yours forever.
Your body shook with ragged sobs, and you forced yourself to get up off the floor as regret only sank further in. You broke up with him. It was the right thing to do, for the sake of your friendship and the idea of any future together. It was the right thing to do.
"Fuck." You hold yourself over the sink of your bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and letting it drip into the basin. Your tears mixed with the water, and you hear a soft knock at your bedroom door, before the doorknob wiggles. "Y/N? Are you alright in there?"
It's your father. You quickly dry your face with a towel, tossing it into the sink before ripping the door open. "Hey, Dad. D'ya get your stuff?"
"Honey, are you alright?" His face is worried as his hand comes up to your cheek, and you quickly nod. "I'm good, I promise. I just had one of those moments, you know. Seasonal depresh and what not."
He quirks a brow at you, "Seasonal depresh?"
"Dad!" You whine, and he shrugs. "Yes, I got my pocket square. Can you check if it matches your dress? Oh, tell me you're gonna go for curls this year, because your mom is and she's mad that Rosie's are 'too tight.'"
He rolls his eyes at the same time you do, making you snort. "Yeah, I'll check. I'm gonna start getting ready now, can you let Chan know so he doesn't come barging in here?"
"He's at his house, he just left. He'll be driving you both, though, so you can be comfortable in your shoes." He nods, and you take the pocket square. "I'll get this to you when I'm done, okay?"
"For sure, honey. I'll be back later, don't rush." He nods, closing the door as he leaves. You toss the pocket square onto the vanity, before looking into it with a slightly defeated look. You grimace, before grabbing a towel out of one of your drawers.
It didn't take you too long to get ready – you got in and out of the shower, and did your hair within two hours. Your makeup was done an hour later, with Rosie barging into your room and demanding you put lipstick on her, too. You rolled your eyes at her, telling her to say please, telling her to say thank you – both of which she did after you swiped the wine red on her lips. She scampered out of your room as you slipped into your closet, your mother appearing in your doorway to offer her help with zipping you up.
"You look just like me sometimes." She murmurs as she zips the dress, her fingers nimbly hooking the clasp at the top. She runs her fingers through the large curls you'd given yourself, smiling at you in the mirror. You give her a weak one in return, when she sighs, her hands on your shoulders.
"I wanted to apologize, baby." Her eyes are worried as you glance at them through the mirror, your fingers fumbling with the jewelry box in front of you. "Apologize? For what?"
"A few years ago, I told you that I thought you were a little too harsh with your words around Chan. I think I went as far as calling you the brute of the relationship, didn't I?" She asks softly, and you look away as you tongue at your lower lip. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry. I spoke to Chan earlier after his cousins left, he came in for a cup of coffee before he went to go get ready for dinner. I asked him a few questions about you, and he told me what he said to you a few days ago." She tucks a stray curl behind your ear, thumbing at the hoops she'd given you so many years ago. "It was really shitty of him to speak to you that way, and I told him so. I also told him that if he thinks he has even a remote chance of fixing things with you, that he better get on it soon. You're too kind for your own good sometimes, darling."
"You think so?" You mumble, your eyes falling on a necklace Chan gave you for your birthday the year Rosie was born. You hadn't had a party that year, insisting Rosie was more important than anything else. He'd given it to you anyway, on the bus the morning of your birthday. You cried like a baby into his shoulder.
"I know so, honey. I know that somewhere in that heart of yours, you're waiting for him to make things right. Sometimes, I don't agree with it, but I also know you. I know you don't give anyone who doesn't deserve a second chance even a moment to speak to you. You're strong like that, just like your father."
You smile inwardly, her fingers lightly pinching your cheek. "I know you're good at taking care of yourself, but I also know Chan can take good care of you, too. I want you to be happy, and I know Chan makes you happier. You should've seen how you came into the house that year you were dating. You were smiling from ear to ear, like the Cheshire cat."
She leaves with a kiss to your cheek, careful not to smudge her own lipstick onto it. She closes the door quietly, but not before you hear the Lees greet your father warmly as they filed into your home. You thumb at the necklace, the simple heart-shaped locket opening to a picture of you and Chan as teenagers. You often wore it open, liking when people asked you questions about the picture. No bigger than a coin, the gold locket has always been something you carried with you even if you didn't wear it.
"Y/N, I'm here for my pocket square!" Your father knocks on the door, and you open the door, holding it out. "Here you go."
"Oh, honey! You look so pretty!" Your father covers his face as you spin, before he takes his pocket square. "Wow, you look so much like your mother sometimes."
"Funny, she said the same thing." You snort, and he uses the vanity in your bedroom to fix his pocket square carefully. "We discussed seating charts, you're sitting between Chan and Rosie. Is that okay, or should I switch one of them out?"
"That's fine. Can you actually send Chan in here? I need to talk to him." You nod, and your father glances at you in the mirror. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Won't take long."
Your father leaves with a kiss to your hairline, and you fumble with the necklace until you hear footsteps outside your door. You lean carefully, hearing a deep breath before a knock. "Come in."
Chan slides through the door with closed eyes, almost like he's bracing himself for something. You snort, "What the hell is wrong with you? Open your eyes."
"Your dad said you need to talk to me, and if you're going to dump me again, I don't need you to look beautiful doing it." He rushes out, making you gape. "Chan."
"I'm serious. I haven't seen you yet but I know you look great. I mean, you always look amazing but I don't think I can handle you dumping me on Christmas Eve when you're in one of those pretty dresses you always wear." He can hardly breathe, and you can't help but laugh.
"Nobody's getting dumped, please relax. I just need your help putting my necklace on."
"I don't believe you, you could've asked your dad." He shakes his head, eyes screwed shut so tightly you're worried they might never open again. You walk over to him, running your fingers through his hair carefully, before thumbing at the small silver hoop in his ear. "You know we're not exactly together, right?"
"In my mind, we've been married since we were in second grade and Hyewon officiated it." He scoffs, and you quirk an eyebrow. "Is that why you promised my sister we'd get married?"
His eyes open wide, his lips parting slightly. "She told you?"
"Oh good, your eyes are open. Help me put this on." You turn around, grabbing the necklace off your vanity. You pinch the chain carefully, holding it out to him when you look up to see his hand covering his mouth. His eyes rake over you slowly, and you feel your cheeks grow hot as he walks around you. You shift uneasily as he makes it back in front of you, "Do I look okay?"
"Okay?" He whispers, making you look in the mirror. You run your hands down the bodice of the dress, "Is it too much?"
"Too much?" He's still whispering, his eyes still running up and down your frame as you grow nervous. "Chan! You're freaking me out!"
"Oh, baby." He murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you, taking your hand gently and making you spin for him. You feel nerves settle in your stomach, when he finally speaks. "You look so beautiful. I truly don't think words can express how absolutely angelic you look, are you real? Please tell me you're real, this would be a cruel dream."
His eyes are wide and slightly glossy as he turns around, and you hear a soft sniffle. You watch his hands move around his face from behind him, your eyes growing wide as he turns back around, teary-eyed as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "No, it's not too much. You're never too much. You look great. Are you ready?"
You gawk at him, "Chan, why are you crying?"
"Nevermind that." He shakes his head, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. Your brows are furrowed, and you hold out the necklace. "Help me put this on."
He glances at the necklace, his cheeks and ears burning a soft pink hue as you spin around, moving your hair to the front. He sighs shakily, carefully looping the locket around your neck and clipping it. You adjust the locket, your lips pursed as you open it.
"Wear it like that." He speaks behind you, his hand appearing on your hip in the reflection. You raise a brow, closing the locket only to hear a whine as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Rolling your eyes, you open it, adjusting it to show the small photo of the two of you. "How was saying goodbye to your cousins? They had a lot to say about you."
"It was fine. We sent them off with your mom's leftover cake, and Soonyoung finished it in the car before they even drove off. Mingyu was pissed." He snorts, and you hum quietly, reaching for the jewelry box once more. You sifted through your rings, Chan pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.
"I missed you." He pouts, and you give him a half-smirk as you peer down at him. "Did you, now?"
"Stop talking to me like that, I'll get hard. You did it earlier too, but I was ashamed then, there were people around." He buries his face into your neck, and you snort out a laugh. "What are you talking about? I'm not talking to you in any sort of way."
"Oh, so telling me to fetch like a dog isn't talking down to me?" He scoffs, cheeks aflame as he meets your eyes in the mirror. You suck your teeth, sliding on one of your rings with a shake of your head. "You liked that? You're something else, Chan."
"I've literally always been like this, you just didn't notice before." Rolling his eyes, he wraps his arms around your waist. This is when you notice his suit jacket cuffed with silver cufflinks, a gift from your father years ago for graduation. You twist slightly, the top two buttons of his black shirt undone to show off a few layered chains. Some were gifts from you.
Your hand pushes him back slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as he lets you run yours all over him. Your fingers tug at his belt buckle, "You look really nice."
"You can do better than that." He chides, and you swallow a scoff but roll your eyes as you pull him to you by his belt loop. You press your lips to his lightly, "You take what you're given, or nothing at all."
He breathes out heavily against your lips, and you move your hand to rest on his stomach. "Are you ready? They're going to want to take pictures before we leave."
He can't reply, the two of you springing apart when you hear a knock at the door. You cough as Chan blinks, before opening it to reveal Rosie. "Hi, pipsqueak."
"Mommy said that if you're not in the living room, she's going to leave you both here." She relays with a roll of her eyes, and you hold back a snort. "Can't have that, can we?"
Rosie asks Chan to pick her up as you slide on one last ring, your fingers fumbling with the lights. Rosie's pink cast is around Chan's neck as he holds her on his hip, and you instinctively slot your fingers with his before remembering your parents will see you. He squeezes your fingers lightly, a sheepish smile on his lips as you let go.
"Wow!" Mrs. Lee is the first person you hear as you step into the living room, your cheeks burning as she clambers over. "Look at you, honey! Oh, you're so grown up." Her hands are tucking your hair behind your ears, the both of you missing the way Chan's eyes fill with adoration as he delivers Rosie to your father. He clears his throat inwardly, watching the way your parents move in front of your fireplace for photos. He can't keep his eyes off you the entire time, even as his parents shove the two of you together for a photo.
"Chan, don't act like you did on prom night. Act like you wanna be here." Your mother scolds him playfully, and you feel your heart flutter as you tug his arm around your waist. His fingers easily settle low on your hip, your own finding his shoulder and you rest your cheek on top. "Smile!"
Chan's fingers squeeze your hip as everyone turns away, sneakily pressing his lips to your temple as you begin to move away. Your eyes are wide as he walks away, grabbing your coat off your father's hands and helping you slide it on from behind. Everyone is trying to help Rosie, and he takes the opportunity to whisper in your ear.
"I'm so in love with you. I wish things were different right now." He sighs, carefully tucking your hair into the hood of your coat. You feel your cheeks heat as you turn so he can zip it up, wrapping your scarf loosely around your neck as he connects the zipper at the bottom.
"I know. Eventually, okay? Just give me some time." You mumble back, tucking the end of your scarf into the coat as he nods defeatedly. You resist the urge to caress his cheek, run your fingers through his hair, kiss him. A weak smile is all you can muster as he straightens fully, adjusting your scarf so the zipper won't snag.
Your parents are looking your way, your mother watching the way Chan carefully zips your coat up. Your father smiles as he makes your mother turn away, "Your keys are in Chan's coat. Lock the door, come on."
The two of you scramble behind your parents, Chan hastily shoving his coat on as you wrap his scarf around him as he walks forward. You tuck it into the coat as he zips himself up, his hand holding you steady in your heels as you step onto the porch. He locks the door quickly, trying the doorknob twice as your father helps your mother down the steps, and he offers his hand when he looks at your feet. "Y/N, why are your shoes open-toed? Are you out of your mind?"
"I didn't have any heels that matched! It'll be fine!" You huff, and he gestures at the snowy pathway leading to your car. "Your toes are going to freeze and then you're going to get sick and die. Do you want to get sick and die, Y/N?" He scoffs, and you feel your scream caught in your throat as he picks you up princess-style. "Chan! Put me down!"
He ignores you as he steps off the porch, carefully maneuvering his way to your car as you huff. Your lip is jutted out in a pout as he unlocks your car, bending at the knee to open your door and carefully set you down on the seat. He buckles your seatbelt in for you as your father pulls out of the driveway, giving you a honk as he turns out of your neighborhood. Chan shuts your door, rounding the front of the car to the driver's side.
"You didn't have to do that." You mutter as he slides in, sticking the keys into the ignition as he shivers. "Yes, I did. Don't be brat, just let me take care of you."
You don't reply, picking at your nails as he plugs his phone into the aux, handing it to you. Shuffling one of his playlists, the two of you freeze as you hear the opening notes of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic flow through the speakers. Chan purses his lips, single handedly unplugging his phone and tossing it into the backseat. "Nope. No music tonight, it seems."
"I thought you liked that song." You reach for his phone, grabbing it off the edge of the backseat and sliding it into the cupholder as he pulls out of the neighborhood. He has a tick in his jaw as he flicks on the turn signal, "I like it when we're in the backseat and you're on top of me, not when I'm driving you to dinner and not when you're in my clothes on the drive to your house."
Your jaw could very well be on the floor the way you're gaping at him, his fingers reaching over to close your mouth. "Chan."
"What? I think about that night all the time." He scoffs, turning onto the main street that makes the drive to your mother's restaurant five minutes longer. His hand floats down to your thigh, settling high on it through the slit of your dress. Tonguing your cheek, you stare out the window as your hand settles atop his.
"You mean the night that–"
"Shut up."
You snicker to yourself, sliding your fingers between his. "You know it's not the worst thing in the world, right? Tons of people have breeding kinks."
He winces as you say it, making a strangled noise of discomfort from his seat before glancing at you. "Y/N, I want you to take a really good look at me right now and tell me that it wasn't weird." He scoffs, and you shrug, facing him.
"It wasn't weird. I liked it." You admit, "I think the slightly weirder part was calling you daddy, but some things you do out of…you know."
You trail off, feeling your cheeks hot as you look out the window. Chan makes a noise of approval, his hand flipping beneath yours to interlace your fingers. He brings your knuckles to his lips, a chaste kiss pressed on top of your rings. "I know, babe."
The rest of the ride is silent, some shy glances shared before you pull into the parking lot where your father is waiting with Rosie. You smile, squeezing his hand in the shadow of the center console before letting go. Chan pulls around the building, looking for a parking spot. "We're still taking that drive later, right?"
"If you're not too tired, or drunk." He snorts, and you gasp, landing a soft smack to his arm. "I got drunk one time!"
"You called me daddy one time, I think that goes to show that you're game for anything at least once." He teases, and you sigh inwardly. "I guess that's true."
"I know it is, I know you like the back of my hand. I love you." He says, mostly to himself as he pulls into a spot just a few feet from the door. Killing the engine, he looks over the steering wheel at your father. "Can your dad see us from here?"
"I don't think so, he's entertaining Rosie. Why?" You unbuckle your seatbelt as he gets out, and you feel the door close as he rounds the car to open your door. You wait, before feeling the cold gust of winter air rush into the car. You shiver, grabbing Chan's phone out of the cupholder and taking his hand to step out. He pulls you close, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ears as you look into his eyes. "Something wrong?"
"No." He shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips as he thumbs at your earlobes. You tilt your head at him, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"
"Don't drink tonight." He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you nod slowly. "Any special reason?"
He shrugs, before looping his arm with yours and pulling you towards the front of the restaurant. You can't help but look up at him with a shy smile as he guides you around piles of snow, before seeing the flash of a camera. You blink rapidly, before looking up to see your father holding Rosie on his hip, her hands holding a camera. Chan greets your father warmly, and Rosie shows him the photo.
"Can I see, too?" You ask, peering over Chan's shoulder when Rosie tilts it away. "No."
Your pout does nothing to sway your baby sister, making Chan snicker at you. The four of you walk into the restaurant, the warm air of the establishment like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. "I still can't believe your parents named both their businesses after you." Chan murmurs as you walk to the reserved room your mother arranges every year, and you snort.
"What can I say, they love me." You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder. Rosie looks over your father's shoulder, a crinkle in her nose as she sees the closeness between the two of you. "Are you sure you're not boyfriend and girlfriend?"
"We're sure, babycakes." You laugh softly, moving to pull yourself away from Chan but feeling his fingers interlace with yours before you can. You glance at him, only to see him sticking his tongue out at Rosie, who blows a raspberry at him. A pit of anxiety opens in your stomach as your father opens the door for you both, letting you slip by when you feel Chan's fingers let go of yours, and a murmur of Can I talk to you, sir?
Rosie enters with you, Chan and your father lingering at the door before they take a turn back outside. Your eyes widen as Rosie leads you to the table, your mother sharing the same quizzical look. "Y/N, where's Chan? Did you guys fight?"
"No, no. He's…he's with Dad." You reply absently, pulling your coat off as your mother helps Rosie out of hers. The table is set and covered entirely with food, the roast pig being the main attraction in the center of the table. You find your seat, pulling Rosie closer to you to fill the strange pit you feel. Chan and your father don't appear for another ten minutes, but they're both rather stoic as they enter – but you see a soft smile on his face as Chan takes his seat opposite your father.
"Everything okay?" Mrs. Lee asks gently, and Chan nods. "Don't worry, all good."
If anyone notices how quiet you are during dinner, they don't say anything. You feel the heat of Chan's gaze more than once, but everyone is too wrapped up in the food and the conversation – to even notice the fact that Rosie fell asleep into her mashed potatoes. You're the one who realizes she's fallen asleep, cooing as you carefully wipe her face and wrap her coat around her as her head lolls onto your arm. You scoot closer, lifting her onto your lap and resting her head on your chest.
"Did she fall asleep?" Your mother asks incredulously, making you snort. "Right into her mashed potatoes. Don't worry, I got it." You wrap your arms around her, leaning back in your chair.
"Your dinner, though?" Your mother points at your picked plate, and you shrug. "I'll take it home. No big deal, I'm not exactly hungry. I could fall asleep right now, too." You shake your head, running your fingers through your sister's hair. Your mother nods, beckoning one of her waitstaff to wrap the plate up for you. His name is Hansol, and he carefully takes your plate and disappears with it.
Dinner continues for a few more hours, and you reach over to Chan and tug on his sleeve. He gives you a glance, concern in his eyes before you tap your wrist. He checks his watch, flashing it to you. Midnight. You wince, looking over to your father to see him glancing at his own watch.
"Oh, man. It's really late, we should get going." He hisses, and your mother's eyes widen as she sees the time. "Shit, I told them we'd be out by eleven. Alright, up. Let's get going."
Your father takes Rosie from your lap, and your mother carefully pulls her coat over the pink cast. You watch tentatively, ready to step in at any moment when you feel Chan's hand on your shoulder. Jumping slightly, you feel the soft fabric of your coat. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Arms, please."
You don't look at him as he works around you, until Rosie is on your father's hip and Chan is wrapping your scarf around you. "You're distracted tonight. Everything okay?" Chan's voice is soft as he zips your coat up, his own already settled on his frame.
"What did you and my dad talk about?" You blurt, and he raises a brow as he follows the four parents out of the room, who are still chattering about everything and anything. He scans your face, concern weighing heavy on his brows before he smiles. "I didn't ask him to marry you, if that's what you're worried about. That's further down the line."
Seeing the way your shoulders settle, Chan loops his arm with yours. "Did you want me to ask him?"
You don't respond, letting him lead you out of the restaurant. Your parents are all still talking as your father buckles Rosie into her carseat, her eyes opening slightly as you pass by. You wave at her, only for her eyes to close again. Smiling to yourself, you wait for your parents to acknowledge you and Chan waiting by the front of your father's SUV.
"Going for a drive?" Your mother asks gently, and you nod. "Home soon, don't worry." You hold your pinky out, only for your father to clasp it with his own. "Take your time. Drive safe."
Your eyes search your father for answers, and he only smiles. "See you at home, honey."
Nodding slowly, you and Chan bid your parents goodnight, your mother's eyes lingering as Chan walks you back to the car. You can feel your chest a bit tight as he opens your door, but give him a strained smile as he gets into the driver's seat.
"Alright, what's eating you? Besides me." He jokes lightly, pulling out of the parking lot. You see your parents' car already at the stoplight in the street, the light turning green just as Chan pulls into the street. "Nothing."
"You're lying." He plugs his phone into the aux as the light turns red, a click of his tongue as he presses shuffle on yet another random playlist. The soft melody of Scared To Live by The Weekend pours out of your speakers as he takes the oh-so-familiar turn down the same road you've taken this drive on every year. It's scenic, it's always decked with Christmas lights and it leads you right to a random cliff that overlooks the entire city. You sigh as he holds his hand out for yours, interlacing your fingers and leaning back on the headrest. You recline your seat a bit, crossing your legs at the knee. He lets go of your hand and you cover your face with your arms, his fingers sliding up and down your exposed thigh.
"You can always talk to me, you know." He murmurs over the music, this time it's Fantasy by Bazzi. You nod silently, hearing a hum from him as he traces circles into your skin with his thumb. The drive is silent aside from the music, Chan's comfort seeping into your body via his hand and your shoulders losing their tension as he pulls into the deserted cliff. You'd found it years before you went to college, and enjoyed retreating there to get high together behind your parents' backs. You also exchanged one Christmas gift here every year, basking in the privacy and security of each other's warmth on the hood of whoever's car you took that time.
"So? What's going on?" He parks the car, lowering the music as he turns to look at you. You peek at him from beneath your arms, a pout on your lips. "Nothing, really. I'm good."
Chan moves your arms from your face, his fingers coming to poke at your cheeks with every word. 'You are such a bad liar, baby."
You groan, "It's stupid. It's so stupid because you're probably not going to have to deal with until you're in your fucking thirties but I've been dealing with it since I was in high school." Your pout makes Chan thumb at your lip, an understanding look in his eyes. "You mean that same conversation your parents keep having with you about having kids and getting married?"
"Yes! Ugh, that's why I was so quiet at dinner. And why I was so pissy on the way here from campus. I do not want to have this fucking conversation again this year, especially when I don't even know what's going to happen when we leave." You fall back into your seat, feeling Chan's hand cup your knee. "I'm so sick of being asked the same shit, I'll get married when I get married and I'll have kids when I have kids. What about my career? No one but you and my dad ask about what I want to do after college. What if I want a master's degree? What if I want a doctorate?"
Chan listens intently, his eyes flowing between worried and understanding. "Well, what if? Do you want to do that? What do you want to do after we graduate? Do you want to move back here, do you want to move somewhere else, do you want to pursue something more? Do you want to work full-time?"
"What does it matter what I want? You want to get married, Chan." You sigh, and he shakes his head. "It matters because you're your own person, not an extension of me. I don't want to get married if you don't want to, and definitely not if we're not well established. Stable present makes for a stable future, and I want things to be just as easy as they always have been between you and me. You call my name, I come. If time is the issue, I'll wait. I waited my entire life before freshman year, and I've waited three years since then."
You peer up at him, "So you're serious about marrying me? You weren't kidding?"
"Respectfully, I don't think you've ever sounded more insane than you do right now." He scoffs, sitting up and pulling you with him. Your lip is jutted out in a slight pout as you thumb the seam of your dress, Chan's fingers grazing your jaw as he makes you look at him.
"I love you, Y/N. I'd wait an eternity for you, as long as you're happy. I want you to feel fulfilled, and I know that you're not going to if I try to tie you down with bullshit. Yes, I want to get married. Yes, I want to marry you. You've seen me through every stage of my life and as painful as it may have been for you because I've been an absolute douche, you stuck by me. I don't know how else to make you understand that you're important to me, and that includes embracing who you are as an individual. Even if you say no to anything I offer, the house, the ring, the kids, the fucking pursuit of happiness by my side…none of it matters as long as I know that you're happy with yourself."
You don't realize you're crying until his thumbs wipe at your cheeks, his fingers tucking your hair behind your ears. "I love you, endlessly. I'll always be here, and I know maybe that's not what you need to hear to be comforted but I need you to know that."
You sniffle slightly, "What if my mother pressures me enough that I make a rash decision? What if she manages to get to me just like she always has?"
"She won't. Even if she did, I know you in ways she doesn't. I know every side of your heart, I know how kind and forgiving it can be and I know how cold and cruel it can be. I know you're strong and independent and you don't need me to ever speak up on your behalf, but if ever your voice is lost on you, I can. I have, and I will continue to do so. Your honor is mine, even if mine isn't yours."
You rest your forehead on his shoulder, wanting the conversation to end. "I forgot your gift at the house. I'm sorry."
"That's alright. I still have yours, if you want to go sit while I get the blanket." He presses a kiss to the shell of your ear, allowing you to change the subject. "I feel bad, though."
"Go sit for me." He nips at your ear, making you jolt as you shove him. He smirks as you scoff, wiping at your face carefully as you open the door and step out. You shudder as the cold hits your feet, but you hoist yourself onto the hood of your car as Chan pulls the thick blanket you brought from your apartment out of your trunk. The metal is still warm before you feel him kill the engine, the motor dying under you as he shuts the door, shoving your keys into his pocket. He drapes the blanket over your face as you feel him grab your ankle. Jolting, you push the blanket off, seeing a pair of socks clenched between his teeth as he undoes the strap of your shoe.
"Where the fuck did you find those?" You let him slide the black sock over your foot, and he shrugs. "Your cheer bag is still in the trunk. I know these are new, though, because I put them in there before we left for practice last week." He shrugs, slipping off the other shoe and putting the sock on, covering you with the blanket once more as he rounds the car to throw the shoes into the backseat. You stare at the clear sky as he slides onto the hood next to you, a soft sigh from his lips as you drape the blanket over his leg.
"I didn't ask your dad to marry you, I promise. I just talked to him about how I felt and what he thinks I should do." You hear him say softly, and you turn to see him looking at you already. Your brow raises, and he holds up a white box. It's from the jewelry store you found Rosie and Mrs. Lee in when you went to the mall, the silver logo stamped on the top. "He said I should be honest and tell you what I want, and listen to what you have to say. So, uhm…this is more for you and I than anyone else, but I…I understand if you don't want it."
He pops it open, a slim gold band slotted into the cushion with a thicker one, presumably for him. The rings are studded with stones, emeralds and sapphires with smaller white diamonds scattered about. You look at him, a certain softness to your gaze that has only ever been present for him.
"A promise ring?"
He shifts under your gaze, cheeks tinging pink as he sits up, sliding off the hood of the car. He paces slightly, "I know it's so…ugh, it's so high school. And we're not even together, and I'm willing to wait–"
"I'm not." You interrupt, "I'm tired of waiting, Chan."
His eyes are wide as you shrug, holding your hand out for the box. "Can I see?"
He hands it to you, your fingers pinching the delicate band and holding it up to your eyes. "Is this what you bought when you were fighting your mom at the register?"
"It's also why your class ring went missing last month, but that's neither here nor there." He admits sheepishly, making you gape. "You took it! You little rat, I knew you had something to do with it."
"I needed it for the sizing! And I got it back! Do you…do you like it?" He asks shyly, resting his hands on either side of your legs as he leans closer to you. You nod, "I love it, it's beautiful. Good eye, I guess."
"Can't you just give me a compliment without making it sound so forced?" He rolls his eyes as you replace the ring, holding the box in your hand. You shake your head, "I'll have a lifetime to do that. Do I get to put yours on for you?"
"You're taking it? You're saying yes, I mean?" His eyes are wide as he scans your face, and you scoff. "Obviously? We still have a lot of growing to do, but I don't take the steps to make a decision unless I know it's the right thing to do. You know that."
"Including breaking up with me on my birthday?"
"Including saying yes when you ask me to be your girlfriend in about two minutes. I should make you wait, but I'm impatient."
He rolls his eyes, leaning slightly closer. You smile as you nuzzle your nose against his, feeling your cheeks heat as he brushes his lips to yours. "I love you."
"You're right, I do deflect a lot."
He laughs, peppering kisses around your face as you scrunch your nose. "Be my girlfriend, please. I'd be nothing of a man without you."
"I mean, I guess if you want me that bad–"
"Respond properly or I'm taking your socks off."
"Yes, I'll be your girlfriend." You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his lips. He kisses you back softly, his hands moving to hold your face carefully. "You know the ring means you'll also say yes to being my fiancée and then my wife, right?" He speaks against your lips, kissing you between words.
"Mhm." You hum in response, before taking the thicker ring out of the box in your hand. "Let me put this on you. You can't take it off, like, ever."
"Wait, you first." He pulls away, taking the ring out of the box and sliding it into his coat pocket. He takes your hand in his carefully, "I think I'm gonna cry."
"That's okay. I've seen you cry before. I've seen you throw up and I still think you're a pretty okay guy." You joke to ease him, noting the way his fingers tremble slightly as they slide the ring down your finger. It fits snugly, and he runs his thumb over it a few times before looking up at you. "Are you sure?"
"Are you?" You hold up his ring, and he nods slowly. "If I'm not sure of anything else in this life, I have the comfort of knowing I'll always be sure of you."
"When did you become so profound?" You tease, slipping the ring down his finger. He scoffs, "What part of you deflect and I don't did you forget? I've always been this way! You've just gotten good at ignoring me because you don't like to admit my compliments make you feel some type of way."
"You just make me nervous." You confess quietly, tugging on the lapel of his coat. "You think you don't make me nervous? I can't talk to you sometimes without getting my tongue twisted."
"Your tongue does better things than talk, Chan."
"I thought we were having a wholesome moment here." He flicks your forehead, your hand moving up to swat his hand away. He grabs it midair, pressing a kiss to your fingertips. "Are we still keeping this under wraps?"
Your eyes widen, "Shit, are we?"
"I mean…my mom knows I got these." He winces, and you click your tongue. "Your mom also told me you're a crybaby who called her and said I broke your heart."
"I may be a crybaby but at least I can tell someone when I love them." He scoffs, making you furrow your brows. "You wanna play that game? Because I have so much shit from Soonyoung and Mingyu, too."
"Tell me you love me!" He whines, and you roll your eyes. "I'm your girlfriend, not your puppet. I'll tell you when I'm good and damn ready."
"Great, I'm ending the year with a girlfriend that hates me." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before sucking his teeth. "I did this to myself."
"If you get me out of the cold within the next twenty seconds, I'll let you go down on me when we get home." You offer, before a shriek rips through you as he throws you over his shoulder.
"As you wish, girlfriend."
DECEMBER 31, 9:42PM.
Chan in fact, did go down on you when you got home. Twice on your bed without even taking your dress off, and once in the shower. Your legs could barely hold you up, but that doesn't really matter when your boyfriend forgets his own strength while pinning you against the bath tile.
Christmas Day was rather uneventful aside from unwrapping gifts, with Rosie screaming excitedly about the extensive sets of Legos and Barbie dolls you and Chan got for her. Your parents gifted you and Chan a vacation to Bali, set for after your graduation, as well as a new pair of earrings. The Lees gave you a rush of nostalgia as they gave you yet another locket, this one with a picture of you and Chan as babies.
Chan watched the exchanges quietly, and the night concluded with you and him falling asleep watching a movie in your bed. His parents never did make him move to his bedroom after Mingyu and Soonyoung left, and your parents didn't mind him staying so long as you were fine with it. You still didn't fuck him, but he was perfectly content with waiting – so long as you didn't mind his tongue between your thighs in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn.
You spent the next few days simply existing within your families. You got your nails done with Mrs. Lee, and took Rosie along with you. Rosie got her cast off and cried when the physician cut through your signature, tears only stopped by a scoop of chocolate almond ice cream on a waffle cone. You spent a bit of time with your mother at the restaurant, tasting a few of her new recipes and coming home to sleep in Chan's arms with a stomach ache from all the food. Per usual, Chan continued his whispered sweet nothings and you shied away from him often, only for him to pull you back into his embrace and kiss you until you couldn't breathe, followed by murmurs of I love you.
The days were quiet, and your families were slowly growing used to having you and Chan around – something that always backfired on them, because the two of you usually left a day or two after ringing in the New Year together. It helped you beat the traffic back, and it helped you decompress from spending so much time with Chan.
Not that you'd need to do that this time…because, well. You know.
"Do I look okay?" You ask your mother for the billionth time, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress. She rolls her eyes as she sprays a bit of perfume in the middle of your back, making you flinch at the sensation. "You look lovely, darling. Please, get a grip! This is just the same people we've rung the New Year in with every year. Nothing new, nothing to be nervous about."
Your mother sprays perfume on her wrists, before dabbing them on her neck. "Go downstairs, check on Rosie. I'm going to be so upset if your father let her have anything that could stain that dress, it was too expensive to ruin."
You sigh shakily, looking at yourself in the full-length mirror your mother had in her bedroom. Your dress was black and glittery, ending at your mid-thigh with an open back that left little to the imagination as it stopped just at the dip of your spine. It had straps that sat off your shoulders with a low-cut neckline, and you only wore a necklace that Chan had bought to play off the rings he'd gotten you. It sat nicely at the base of your throat, the only gift he gave you in front of your parents.
"Y/N!" Rosie called from the bottom of the stairs as you reached the first one, and you smiled down at her as you made your way down. "Babycakes! You look so pretty in your dress!"
"Thank you!" She beams up at you, holding a pink lollipop in her hand. Your father is sitting on the couch, eyes closed as you walk up behind him. "Catching up on sleep, old man?"
"You know it. I love having you kids here, but I'm exhausted from all the socializing. I only have so many things to say." He sighs, and you snort. "Don't worry, just a few more days. Chan and I are leaving on the third, I think."
It's not long before your mother comes downstairs, her dress a sparkly burgundy this year. Her lipstick matches it, and your father presses a kiss to her temple as he helps her tug her coat on. Rosie is settled on your hip, her head resting on your shoulder as the four of you walk over to the Lees, and you already regret the thin coat you chose to layer over your dress. You shiver as you walk up the steps to the porch, Rosie fighting sleep as you bounce her around.
"Don't sleep, Rosie! It's just a little party!" You wiggle her around, her giggle tired as your mother knocks on the front door. Chan appears as he throws it open, ushering everyone inside. His eyes meet yours, widening at the necklace sitting on your skin. You feel your cheeks heat as you walk past him, setting Rosie down and tugging her coat off as he closes the door.
You lower to her height, "Don't fall asleep, okay? You feel sleepy, come find me." You tap her cheeks, and she nods as she trails off to find your mother, who is greeting Mrs. Lee with the bottle of wine you brought over.
Chan helps you stand upright, a soft smile on his face as he pulls you into a hug. "I haven't seen you since this morning. I missed you, gorgeous." He mumbles into your ear, and you roll your eyes as you weasel out of his embrace. "You always miss me. I'm literally across the lawn."
You tug your scarf off, and he takes it, his hand awaiting for your coat. "What did your dad make this year?" You nod in the direction of the kitchen, the rich smell of lemongrass and garlic filling the house. He opens his mouth to respond, only for his words to get caught in his throat as you slide your coat off, his eyes landing on the expanse of your back. It's speckled with glitter, courtesy of your mother, and you swing your hair behind you as you hand him your coat.
"What? Are you okay?" Your voice is concerned as you glance at him, your hands moving to smooth the front of your dress. He blinks, before his mother's voice cuts through the air. "Y/N! Oh my, let me see your dress! Give me a spin!"
She sets her wine glass down on the table, and you give her a warm hug before she spins you around. "You look stunning! Come, we have to take your picture."
You give Chan a glance over your shoulder, his ears red as he snaps out of his daze, hanging your coat on the door as Mrs. Lee pulls you into the living room with your parents. She poses you all in front of her Christmas tree, before it's just you and Rosie. Rosie yawns as Mrs. Lee takes the photo, and you tell her it's best to just let the kid take a nap.
"You can put her down in the guest bedroom, but can I get a picture with you and Channie first?" She nods, and you open your mouth to protest but she calls him over before you can say anything. He looks a bit bewildered as he walks over, clearing his throat as he stands next to you. You feel an awkward air floating off of him as he makes no move to touch you, and Mrs. Lee huffs.
You quickly wrap his arm around your waist like you did on Christmas Eve, expecting his hand to fall in the same low spot on your hip – but you feel it ghosting over your back as you resume the same position. You don't say anything, just smiling as Mrs. Lee snaps your photo. She thanks you, turning away with the permission to drop Rosie in the guest bedroom.
"Wanna tell me what your problem is?" You mutter to Chan, who sucks his teeth. "Wanna tell me why you wore this dress?"
"Oh, so I'm the problem? Good to know." You grit, before you pick Rosie up off the couch, hoisting her over your shoulder as you make your way to the guest bedroom. Chan follows closely behind you without you realizing, and is leaning in the door frame as you tuck Rosie into the bed, carefully covering her with the blanket so as to not be blamed for creases in her dress. You kiss her forehead, walking out of the bedroom only to bump into Chan, who grabs your arm and pulls you into his bedroom with a quick tug.
"Bro." You're frustrated, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pull your arm out of his grasp, only for him to pull you into him by your waist. "Don't call me bro, I literally made you cum on my tongue this morning." He scoffs, his grip is bruising against your skin.
"Who's the insatiable one now? Over a dress? Really?" You roll your eyes, but it seems your boyfriend has no time for your goading as he pushes you against his door, lips pressed against yours in a searing kiss. You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he slides his hands down your back. He pulls away with a nip to your lip, leaving you to pout as you chase after him. "Not just a dress, you in this fucking dress. What were you thinking?"
"Wanted you to see me in it." You confess quietly, your eyes glued to his lips, now slightly stained with your red lipstick. He sighs, "Don't act cute. I can't be mad when you do that."
"Don't be mad at me. Don't you think I look pretty?" Your eyes feign innocence, blinking up at him as he groans in lust-fueled frustration. "Not mad at you, baby. Never mad at you." He rests his forehead against yours, "I want you so fucking bad, it's pathetic."
"Have me." You murmur, nosing at him as he shakes his head. "I can't, not right now. Certainly not in my parents' house."
"Oh, but when it's my parents' house, it's fine??" You snort, making him laugh softly, brushing a kiss against your lips. "For old time's sake, I'll say yes. Keeping up with traditions and whatnot."
"They're gonna wonder where we are." You sigh, before feeling his hands travel further south. You swat them away, "If you're not gonna fuck me, you can't feel me up and leave me all needy. It's not fair."
"I like it when you're needy." He kisses your jaw, and you scowl, pinching his nipple through his shirt. Of course, the rat bastard only leans into your touch, eliciting soft whine from his throat. "You're such a fucking freak!"
"You're literally the reason I'm this way. You're the blueprint." He rolls his eyes, before he turns you over, pushing your chest against the door as he presses his hips into you. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh falling from your lips as he grinds against you. His fingers toy with the hem of your dress, shoving it up slightly when you hear a gasp from his lips.
"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me."
He moves away entirely, and you feel him sink to his knees behind you. He pushes your dress up, the fabric bunching around your hips to expose your bare ass. You'd forgone underwear in hopes of things going this direction tonight, but certainly not this early in the night. But by all means, you're willing to let bygones be bygones as long as Chan keeps touching you.
You can almost hear his internal battle as he pushes you forward a bit, spreading your thighs with his hands. "You're gonna kill me one day, aren't you? In cold blood. I'll be dead because you can't behave."
He's fighting himself as you glance over your shoulder, a look feigning disinterest on your face as you shrug. "Take it or leave it."
He chooses to leave it, but not before sinking his teeth into your thigh, pinning your arm to your back when you reach to swat at him. "Chan!"
"Shut up, they'll hear you." He rolls his eyes as he stands, using his free hand to massage the bitten area. "You can wait, right? It's only two hours."
"I don't want to." You pout, pushing back against him. He lands a quick slap to the meat of your ass, your cheeks flushed as he whispers in your ear. "You're gonna have to, baby. Be a good girl for me, yeah?"
You huff, squirming against him when you feel his hand slip between your thighs. His fingertips drag slowly through your wet folds, just barely breaching your entrance when he pulls them away. "Open your mouth."
You turn to see him licking his fingers clean, your heart beating wildly in your chest as he repeats himself. "Open. Don't make me do it for you."
"Kiss me first."
He does as you ask, tugging the fabric of your dress back down as he snakes his tongue into your mouth. Your hands fist at the lapels of his suit jacket, whining into his mouth before he pulls away. Your lips jut out in a pout, a soft chuckle from Chan before he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Open up."
You do as you're told, sticking your tongue out for him to spit onto. Your eyes flutter shut the moment you feel it, his hand on your jaw pulling you forward to kiss him. Your legs feel like jelly at his touch, feeling him mumble those three little words against your lips.
"I love you. Don't act up and I won't, either." He holds his pinky out, and you reluctantly link yours with it. He wipes the corners of your lips, "Go. I have to…calm down."
"Tell me you love me again." You look up at him, making him roll his eyes as he bites back a smile. "If I tell you again, will you get out?"
"Maybe." You smile back, making him physically turn you, his hands on your shoulders as you turn the doorknob to his room. "I love you, baby. Now, go."
You slink out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you slip into the bathroom. Your skin feels hot as you look in the mirror, your lipstick only slightly smudged – a blessing, truly. You pat your fingers over your swollen lips, before checking the hem of your dress. You tug it lower, making sure it covers everything before ruffling your hair and taking a deep breath.
Two hours. Easy.
Not easy.
It's been an hour and forty-five minutes, and you can feel your patience wearing thin as Chan acts like nothing happened.
He's standing across the room, talking to your mother with a soft smile on his face – just like he has been for the last thirty minutes. His wine is the same color as her dress, listening to her drone on and on about the benefits of turmeric in cooking as well as body products. Your cheek is resting on the heel of your palm, your other hand holding your second flute of champagne as you stare at your boyfriend without a care in the world – when you see a little head start floating your way, a frumpled blue dress catching your eye.
"Y/N?" She calls tiredly, rubbing her eyes as she looks around for you. "Babycakes! I'm over here, come sit with me!" You pat your lap, setting your champagne on the table as she makes her way over to you. She climbs into your lap and you smooth her hair down as she rests her head on your shoulder.
"How was your nap? Any good dreams?" You ask, twirling a piece of her hair in your fingers. She shakes her head, "No dreams. Just sleep." She shrugs, yawning as she buries her face into your neck. You wrap your arms around her, rocking back and forth and humming quietly.
It's not even five minutes when she falls limp with sleep in your arms, and you rest your cheek atop her head as Mrs. Lee makes way to you, her silver dress stunning as she extends her hands. "Do me a favor, honey. Go steal Chan from your mother, we're going to start the countdown soon and I'm sure you want to spend a few moments with him.”
Her eyes twinkle like she knows something, taking Rosie from your lap. You nod sheepishly, standing up and tugging your dress down slightly. You grab your flute of champagne, smiling inwardly as you make your way across the living room to Chan's side. You squeeze your mother's shoulder lightly to get her attention, her voice stopping in the middle of a rosemary and thyme soap recipe she's reciting.
"Yes, darling?"
"Rosie's up. Might wanna check on her, I can't gauge if she'll sleep tonight." You wince, and your mother nods, putting her wine glass down on the coffee table. She walks away, your father joining her in the kitchen when you feel Chan's hand on your lower back.
"Hey." He pulls you into his side, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You try not to lean into the touch, a soft smile on your lips. "Hey. Tired?"
"Exhausted, actually. I do not want to be here right now." He sighs, and you open your mouth to reply when you see Mr. Lee turn the television on to the New Year's Eve countdown from the Lotte World Tower. You smile to yourself as Chan shuffles you both behind the couch, his hand keeping skin-on-skin contact the entire time. You miss the glance your father gives you as you lean your head on Chan's shoulder, the way Chan's fingers run up and down your side.
You miss the way your mother joins him in looking at the two of you, the way Chan's looks at you adoringly. The way your arm wraps around his waist, and your fingers trace circles into his side, the glint of the ring he gave you mocking her in the light. Your mother gives your father a look, one that screams is that what I think it is?
Your father only shrugs, draping his own arm around her shoulders and making her face the television. The reporter is excitedly moving around the prepared stage, talking a mile a minute about all the musical achievements by artists in a rapid fire attempt to fill the last two minutes to the countdown.
Mrs. Lee slots her fingers with her husband, and you find yourself finding Rosie's sleepy eyes on your father's shoulder. She smiles, giving you a thumbs up and you scrunch your nose at her, giving one back. She points at Chan, and you tap him to get his attention for her. He looks up, meeting her eyes and receiving the same reaction. He gives her one back, and she closes her eyes, turning the other way.
"She's adorable." He murmurs as you look up at him, "She is."
The reporter smiles widely as the large number 10 splays on the television. Your parents break into chatter, Chan's parents drifting over to yours slowly. You tug at Chan's sleeve, earning a hum as he looks at you once more.
"Do you ever think about what our kids will look like?" You whisper, and he nods. "Sometimes."
9…
"Do you have names?"
"A few."
8…
"Do you think about our wedding?"
"All the time. I'm going to cry like a fucking baby."
7…
"How do you feel about a summer wedding?"
"Whatever you want, baby. I'd get married in the woods if you wanted."
6…
"Like in Breaking Dawn?"
"That wedding was beautiful. I cried, remember?"
5…
"I do. You cry a lot, you know?"
"Emotional vulnerability is sexy, is it not?"
4…
"You think so?"
"I know so."
3…
"Hey, Chan?"
"Yes, Y/N?"
2…
"Are you gonna kiss me?"
"Yeah, babe. I'm gonna kiss you."
1…
"I love you." You mumble, pressing your lips to his as the reporter boasts a Happy New Year from Lotte World Tower!
His hand is low on your back as he kisses you deeply, your own holding his cheek as your parents cheer and congratulate each other. You hear a soft voice above it all, "Channie and Y/N are kissing."
You pull back from Chan to see your parents gaping at you, and Rosie smiling before she lays her cheek back on your father's shoulder. "I told you they were boyfriend and girlfriend. You owe me fifty bucks, Mommy."
You gawk at her, Chan coughing awkwardly as your mother covers her face. "You bet on us?"
"I assume the two of you managed to talk things out." Your father's voice is level, a warm smile on his face as Chan clears his throat. "Yes, sir."
"And everything is okay…now?" Mr. Lee chimes in, your face growing warm as you nod, "Yes, sir."
"And you're…together? Officially?" Mrs. Lee asks calmly, a grin fighting its way onto her lips as you and Chan flush embarrassedly. "Yes." You say in unison, and Mrs. Lee smiles from ear to ear, holding her hand out to your mother.
"You owe me a hundred bucks."
"Wanna take a drive? I don't want to see money exchange hands." Chan scoffs, and the parents start arguing within themselves – mostly your mother defending herself and your father rolling his eyes as he fishes his wallet out, eager to pay your mother's debts.
"We're outta here." You announce, grabbing your coat off the rack. Your father gives you a nod, "We'll be here a while, it seems. Be safe, honey."
You nod, placing a kiss on Rosie's head before you leave. "Thanks, babycakes."
"You're welcome, sissy." She smiles tiredly, closing her eyes as you ruffle her hair. You slip out, Chan closing the door behind you as you tug your coat on. "We're not actually going on a drive, you know that, right?"
His gaze is pointed, and you roll your eyes as you pull him off his porch, the cold winter air nothing in comparison to the heat on your skin as you fumble for your keys. He keeps his hands off you as you both make your way to your house, your fingers trembling in excitement as you stick the key in the lock and turn it. You push the door open carefully, and he slides in behind you, shutting it with his foot and locking it behind him.
You peel your coat off, handing it to him to hang on the rack by the door. He's oddly quiet as he does the same, before silently taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. He lets you walk in first, locking the door behind him as you step out of your heels.
You feel his hands on your bare waist, pulling your back to him as he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You close your eyes, feeling his lips trail up your shoulder, before his teeth tug on the necklace he gave you. "Can we keep this on?"
"Yeah."
He hums softly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. His hands move to your arms, "Can we take this off? Is that okay?"
You nod silently, letting him slip the straps of your dress down your arms, the fabric pooling around your hips as he sighs, keeping his hands on your sides as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your spine, breathing you in like you're the only oxygen he knows. His teeth tug at the hem of your dress, pulling it over the swell of your ass with ease. The flimsy fabric falls to your feet, his teeth nipping at your hip before you feel him stand, his hands on your waist turning you around.
"I love you." He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed as yours open. You look at him in the moonlight, every eyelash, every tired line, everything that is the Lee Chan you love illuminated before you. Your hands move to his shirt, "Is this where I say it, too?"
Your comment makes him smile inwardly, "If you'd like. I heard you, when you kissed me. You don't have to, I know you do."
You feel so vulnerable under him like this, but you know him. You know he's just as vulnerable as you are, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and untucking it from his belt. Your voice feels lost, but you clear your throat as you push his shirt down over his shoulders, revealing toned arms and the same muscular chest you loved to lay your head upon on sleepless nights.
"I love you, endlessly." You say softly, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze. He nods silently, pressing a kiss to your forehead as your hands move to his belt, carefully tugging the leather strap from the silver buckle. You pull it through the loops, letting it fall to the ground as Chan's hands come to your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently as your hands unbutton his slacks, carefully tugging the zipper down as you brush a kiss to his jaw.
He stops you from pushing his pants down, his lips finding yours with a gentle insanity one can only describe as love. He swipes your hair back over your shoulders as he lets your hands rest on his waist, his lips pouring every single word into your mouth with a passion you'd only ever felt with him. This is the kiss you missed for three years, the soft grip of his hand in your hair as he guides his tongue against yours fluidly. This is the man you longed for unknowingly for your entire life, so loving and soft and sensual as he sucks on your tongue with a quiet moan.
This is the love you'd patiently waited to return to you, the way you felt the cool metal of his matching ring against the warm skin of your thigh as he picked you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as your arms draped over his shoulders. This is the love you'd wantonly waited for, the way he eased you onto your bed, not letting you untangle yourself from him as he continued to kiss you so agonizingly slow, you could feel your arousal slightly soak into the waistband of his slacks.
This is the love you'd yearned for, where he remembers every single one of your buttons. How he doesn't stop kissing you because he knows you love the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his hand only slides from your thigh to your dripping core because he knows you hate when he's not touching you constantly. How he steadies himself above you by pinning one hand above your head, interlacing your fingers as his other hand spreads your thighs for him.
"I love you." He whispers against your lips, not giving you a chance to respond as he carefully glides two of his fingers through your slick folds, earning a shiver as he traces your clit slowly. You mewl in his ear, his skin prickling with goosebumps at how wet you are for him. He presses a kiss to your jaw, "My gorgeous girl. So perfect for me."
You bite back a whimper as his hand lands a rather wet slap to your clit, your body jolting into his as he chuckles. "Still like that?" He does it again, your thighs flinching around his hips as a broken moan leaves you.
He kisses your lips, swallowing any sounds you could've let out as he stops teasing you, his fingers carefully curling into your entrance. You shudder against him, a high-pitched whine from you making him laugh against your mouth. "Feel good, baby?"
His thumb circles your clit as his fingers scissor you open, the pads of his digits brushing that spongy spot inside you that makes your breathing shaky. Your walls are impossibly tight around his fingers and it makes him dizzy, feeling you clench around his hand every time he reaches that spot he knows can make you cum within minutes.
"Faster, please…" You run your hand through his hair, pulling him back down to your lips. He kisses you messily, bullying his fingers into you faster and feeling you pant yes, just like that softly against his lips. "Just like that? Like it fast, baby?" He mocks you, loving the way you nod dumbly.
"Love it, love you, Channie.." Your eyes are teary as he brings you to the edge, his stomach fluttering at your soft whines. You made him feel like he was on fire, overstimulating his every sense with your whimpered begging for more as he nipped at your chest, his tongue swirling around your nipple as he mimics you, "Yeah, love me? How much, princess?"
"So m-much, think about you all day. Want you all the time, f-fuck…" Your thighs tighten around his hips, "Want me all the time? You're so cute. So needy for me, huh?"
You can only nod, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes as your nails dig into his shoulder, a tell-tale sign you're going to cum if he keeps going. He pulls a guttural moan from you, his favorite of them all as you coat his hand and wrist with your orgasm. "That's it, baby. Let go for me." He works you through it, your thighs trembling just like the first night the two of you slept together, your moans becoming nothing but soft whines against his lips.
"S'too much, too much.." You push his hand away with a whimper, your eyes barely open as you watch him lick his fingers clean like he did earlier. You shift under him, blinking your eyes as wide as you can, watching the way his tongue slid between his fingers. "See something you like?" He purrs against your lips, his wet fingers flicking your lower lip as you nod your head.
"You." Your voice is soft, and you see his eyes soften slightly as he smiles shyly. You wrap your legs around him, running a hand through his hair again, tugging slightly. "Want you."
"You have me, baby." He kisses you chastely, relishing in the way you chase after his lips, huffing. "Kiss me like you mean it."
You pull him closer, nipping at his lower lip with your teeth as he connects your mouths. The kiss is wet and messy, and you can feel him rolling his hips into you, the tip of his clothed cock rutting against your clit deliciously. But, you want it off.
"Take your pants off. Wanna feel you." You bite at his lips, and he moans, rutting against you like he can't stop. You whimper, your hips moving in tandem with his as you reach down and snap his waistband against his skin. "Fuck." Chan breathes against your jaw, shoving his pants and underwear down with one hand before he lets go of your hand, pulling them off fully with a hiss.
He moves back up to kiss you, your nails digging into his back as you hold him close, your legs tight around his hips as he grinds his heavy cock against your wet heat. You're messy but that's how he likes it – your thighs twitch with overstimulation as he ruts his cock against you, leaning up to watch the way he leaks beads of precum onto your skin. "So fucking pretty." His thumb finds your clit, smirking at the way your thighs close slightly.
"So wet, too. Messy, messy girl." He grunts in your ear, "Can I put it in? Can you take it?"
"Please." You breathe out, making him meet your eyes. "Please what, baby?"
You scoff at his teasing smile, but you don't miss the adoration in his eyes as he plants a kiss to your lips. "Use your words."
You don't respond as you pout slightly, his lips brushing against yours. Your eyes are shy as he tries to find your gaze, a hiss from behind his teeth as your fingers reach between you to wrap around his shaft, his hands fisting the sheets around your head as you align him with your entrance.
"Please? Want you." Your eyes are wide and watery, too much for him to handle.
He caves, moving your hand out of the way to sink into you – his tip barely breaching your walls when you hear a whimper from Chan, his eyes glued to your glistening folds. Your head falls back with a groan as he slides in deeper, a whispered chant of fuck, fuck, fuck from his lips as you clench around him. You whine, digging your nails into his bicep as you push his hips down the rest of the way with your legs, hearing him groan at the way you swallow him perfectly.
"D-Don't, don't move. Just…wait." Your eyes are screwed shut, Chan's running all over your body. A singular bead of sweat runs down your neck, his fingers instinctively reaching to wipe it. You lean into his touch, your eyes still closed as you take his hand in yours, kissing his fingertips. "I love you."
"I love you too, baby." He murmurs, and you shake your head as you lean your forehead to his, holding his hand to your chest. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, "This is how I feel every time I see you. There has never been a minute of my life that I haven't been so pathetically in love with you."
He doesn't respond, his eyes glazed with unshed tears as yours open. You blink at him silently, your arms moving to wrap around his neck as you press a kiss to his nose, then his cheeks. "Obsessed with you." You mumble against his skin, feeling his hands wrap around your thighs with a shaky breath.
"Missed you, my baby." Your admission is followed by a kiss to his lips, Chan's eyes fluttering shut as you drag your lips down his jaw. "I missed you, my love." He whispers in your ear, the pet name one he only used during your relationship. His teeth graze on your earlobe, before he plants a kiss on your neck as you run your fingers through his hair, pulling him to your lips. You slot your lips with his carefully, swallowing a whimper as you feel his hands push your thighs apart more.
"Ready? Want me to go slow?" His voice is shaky, making you run a hand through his hair. "Whatever you want, baby."
He nods, giving an experimental roll of his hips – his chest swelling with pride as your eyes roll back with a soft groan. You let him set the pace, the delicious drag of his cock making your hands fist the sheets as your head falls back against the mattress. His fingers are bruising around your thighs, his eyes glued to your face, biting back his moans as you whine pathetically.
"Feel good?" He murmurs as he thrusts into you a little harder, before letting go of your thighs and pinning your hand above your head, interlacing your fingers. Your eyes are closed and you can barely feel your head nodding as your limbs buzz with lust, a moan meeting his neck as you mouth at it. "Need words, baby." He leans to nip at your lips, feeling your other hand tug at his hair.
"Feels s'good, daddy, fuck.." Your voice is no higher than a whisper, and Chan swears his brain short-circuits as he buries his face in your neck. He feels dizzy as he breathes in your perfume, hearing you whimper as he bullies his cock into you faster.
“So. Fucking. Wet.” He groans, his teeth biting at any surface of your skin as he grips your hips bruisingly. "Missed you so much, baby. W-Wanna fill you up, shit. Make you mine f-forever." His ramblings are only slightly incoherent, your cheeks warming as if you're not both naked right now, the only thing remaining is your jewelry – all of which he's given you.
"Y-Yeah? Want it, want you to fill me up..." You rasp, tightening your legs around his waist as he whimpers loudly. Your fingers rake through his hair, pulling his head away from your neck and meeting his eyes. They're full of a certain craze you've only ever seen during your relationship, a dark look of lust that swirls from the depths of the brown in his irises that makes you shiver as you press your lips to his. It's messy and rough, his hand circling the base of your neck to steady himself. Your own wrap around his wrist, sliding your tongue into his mouth with practised ease.
He sucks on your tongue messily, whining as you clamp down around him. You feel his hand loosen around your neck, sliding up to cup your face softly, your own moving to his back. Your nails dig into his shoulder as he thrusts into you, the tip of his cock brushing you just right that you moan into his mouth.
"Right there? There?" He pulls back, pistoning his hips into you as you nod frantically, your eyes filling with tears as your nails drag down his back. He tries not to close his eyes at the sensation, loving the way you bite down on your lip when his thumb pulls it out from under your teeth. "Wanna hear you, baby. Wanna know who's making you feel good."
You can hardly speak through your whines, his vision going blurry as your nails dig into his hips. His lips find the shell of your ear, "Come on, baby. Tell daddy who's making you this wet."
Your cheeks heat as you whimper into his skin, your lower lip dragging against his sweatslick cheek. You tug at the small silver hoop in his ear, "Y-You are. Always m-make me feel s'good, daddy. W-Wanna cum for you..."
You trail off as his teeth nip at your neck, your voice reduced to breathy whines as he bites down on your chest. His tongue quickly licks over the indents of his teeth, as his hands move to your thighs, pushing them apart as he towers over you. Your eyes open only enough to see the wad of spit drip from his lips, your hips jolting as it slides down your clit.
"Don't need it. Just like seeing you squirm, baby." He murmurs, pushing your knees to your chest as he continues to fuck into you. Your eyes fall on the ruddy blush on his cheeks, his own glued to the way your cunt swallows him perfectly. His fingers tighten around your legs, his lip tucked under his teeth as he screws his eyes shut, but you can't stop looking at him.
The slope of his neck, littered with nips from your teeth that'll disappear by morning. His broad shoulders, slick with sweat and covered in deep, red marks from your nails. His chest, littered with faded love bites from the past few mornings waking up by his side. His forearms, flexing with every push of his hips, similar to the way they do when he holds you up against the shower wall. The sheen of your arousal on his fingers, the gold ring on his left hand that matches yours covered in a mix of spit and your cum. It's overwhelming, the way your insides feel fuzzy and the way your vision zeroes in on his ring, the glint in the moonlight mocking you.
"I can't wait to marry you." You mumble, covering your face with your arms as Chan jerks to a stop. You can still see him through a crevice in your arms, and you watch the way he swallows carefully. "W-What?"
"I said, I can't wait to marry you." You repeat slightly louder, your eyes widening as you feel him twitch inside you. He scoffs quietly, "Babe, you can't say that." His eyes close, and you hear him take a deep breath as you sit up on your elbows.
"Why? I want to marry you." You huff, your mouth opening to say more when a sudden thrust from Chan's hips knocks the wind out of you. His whimper fills the room as he spreads your thighs out of habit, "I w-won't last if you say t-that."
You can barely speak with the way he's drilling his cock into you, his thumb working tight circles into your clit as your head falls back against the sheets with pleasure. You manage to string your words together, your stomach filling with that familiar heat as you speak, "W-We have the rest of o-our lives, b-baby…"
He whines loudly as his hips are flush to yours, shuddering slightly as he fills you with his release. He has a pout on his lips as he overstimulates himself through his orgasm, leaning into your soft whines, brushing his lips against yours. "I love you." He whispers as you clench around him, the band in your lower belly snapping as you whine pitifully as his hand slides in yours.
The air around you settles, Chan reaching to brush your hair out of your eyes and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I love you, baby."
You nod loosely, a mumble of I love you tumbling against his clavicle. You feel him pull out slowly, a hiss from the both of you filling the silence. Wincing lightly, you go to sit up but his hand on your chest stops you. "Lie down."
You don't question him as he slides one of your pillows under your head – but your brows are furrowed as he kisses down your body, sinking to his knees as he reaches the edge of your bed. You sit up slightly, "Chan, are you–"
He doesn't reply, looking you in the eyes as he flattens his tongue against your sloppy cunt. Your eyes widen as he looks away, his arms wrapping around your thighs carefully. You're far too sensitive for this, but you can't seem to look away as he sucks your clit between his pouty lips. "You're fucking f-filthy, Lee Chan."
"Open your mouth." He shrugs as he speaks into your skin, and you scoff out a laugh. He raises a brow as he looks up at you, making your cheeks flush. You sit up on your elbows, his arms pulling you closer to his face before fucking the wet muscle of his tongue into your spent hole. Your gasp is almost unnoticeable, your eyes starry as you watch him collect the mix of your releases in his mouth.
Your thighs tremble in his hands, your mind fuzzy with overstimulation as you whine softly. He pulls away, rising off his knees and sliding his thigh between yours as his hand finds your cheek. You instinctively open your mouth as he looks into your eyes, his thumb pulling at your lower lip as he spits his release onto your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut at the taste, feeling him snake his tongue into your mouth in a wet kiss. He pushes you back against the pillow slowly, his hand moving from your cheek to interlace your fingers as his lips trail down your jaw.
"I think your parents are home." He murmurs, and you try your best to zero in on any sounds that could allude to such. He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, "Do you want to stop?"
You don't respond, hearing the jingle of the doorknob as Chan tugs on your earlobe with his teeth. You cover your mouth as a breathy moan slips out, feeling Chan smile against your skin. "We can stop, baby."
You shake your head frantically as you hear your mother sigh and the creak of the stairs under their footsteps. Your father's footsteps are heavy behind your mother's light ones, and you hear the door to their bedroom open, the hinges desperately in need of an oiling. It closes, and you breathe out carefully.
"I have so many questions but I can ask them later. Can you go again?" You mutter, feeling him scoff against your skin. "Is that how you're going to ask me?"
"I can always just ride you until you cry like I did in the back of your car three years ago." You huff, feeling Chan pinch your hip. "Can you even hold yourself up?" He smirks down at you, making you furrow your brows.
"Watch me."
"I intend to."
JANUARY 1, 5:44AM.
The only reason you and Chan stop is because he's made you soak through your sheets twice, the edge of your bed sopping wet as he carefully carries you into the bathroom. How he's even able to stand up is beyond you, your legs loosely wrapped around his bare waist as he leans to turn the water on in your shower.
You wince as he sets you down on the edge of the tub, his fingers expertly releasing the clasp on your necklace and draping it on your bathroom counter. "Don't want it to snag in your hair." He murmurs as he helps you back up, your legs hardly functioning as he makes you step into the tub.
The hot water feels great against your hips, your lips parting against Chan's chest in a soft groan as he holds you to him. He laughs softly, and you feel the pads of his fingers digging into the sore muscles. "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe that last position was too much, hm?"
"Fuck all the way off." You mutter, resting your cheek on his chest as he coos at you. "How's that for three ways to Sunday?"
"Great. It was great, wonderful. If fucking someone three ways to Sunday was an Olympic sport, you'd win gold every time." You confess quietly, your eyes barely open as you hear him pop the cap of your shampoo. "You know, you talk a lot when we have sex."
"Mmh, do I? What did I say?" You feel his fingers card through your hair, making him snicker. "For one, I think you're the one with the daddy thing. You said it more than once and I'm honestly a little impressed with your commitment to the bit…if it is a bit."
"Shut up. Wash my hair like a good boyfriend." Your cheeks grow hot as he laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to your hairline. "You also asked me when I'd marry you, and that you'd marry me tonight if you could."
"When?" Your head snaps up to look at him, and he shrugs, a teasing smile on his lips. "If I recall correctly, you were face down–"
"Enough." You turn away, pressing your forehead to his chest once more. "You're not supposed to make fun of me, I was vulnerable."
"M'not making fun of you, baby. I'm absolutely enamored with you, I'd also marry you tonight if you'd allow it." He shrugs as he tilts your head back to rinse your hair, and you pout up at him. "I have a question."
"Shoot." He feels your hands trace his torso, before you flick his hip. "What is this?"
He looks down, the faded tattoo you'd been wondering about peeking through your fingers. He sighs, "It's a tattoo, babe. What else would it be?"
"Well for one, it's shitty. Second of all, of what?" You run your thumb over his skin, making him snort. "It is shitty, because I was drunk and I got it done with Soonyoung and Mingyu at their friend Seungcheol's apartment. It's also shitty because Seungcheol wanted someone to practice his fine line technique on and I was so wasted that I volunteered."
"You've never been that reckless unless you're with me. Where was I? And what is it!?" You insist, and he snorts as he pours your body wash on your loofah. "It's your name. I kept saying it because I always think of you when I'm drunk and Seungcheol assumed it was what I wanted. It was actually very pretty when it was new, it's just faded now. There's a little red splotch somewhere, it was a heart."
He nods as you gape at him, "My name?"
"It was two years ago. I was actually going to call you before Soonyoung threw my phone in the pool and told me I didn't deserve to call you if I wasn't going to beg for you back. I was always willing, I was just scared you'd reject me because of how much of a douche I'd been."
"How'd you explain this to your hookups?" You blurt, and he smiles. "I didn't. They always knew. I don't know if you want me to talk about that, though. Your feelings are important to me and I was so shitty to you then."
"You're a dumbass, both for not just talking to me and for getting this done at someone's apartment. You should get it redone at an actual parlor, I heard Hansol does tattoos now." You trace the faded ink, and he snorts. "I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Just branding me like that."
You don't say anything as he runs the sponge over your body, your eyes pointed as he scoffs. "But I'm the freak."
"I counted thirty six positions, you are the freak. God forbid I want a little something to kiss before I go down on you." You roll your eyes, and you hear him choke as he pushes you back slightly under the water. "Careful, you'll sound like me if you keep that up."
"Oh my God, I fucking asked you if I was too rough! You insisted I keep going!" He whines, landing a soft smack to your thigh as he washes your legs. You snicker, holding onto his shoulders, looking down at the red lines you'd inflicted. "Oh, your back is gonna hurt, babe."
"Well worth it, in my opinion. I honestly thought I was going to lose my mind yesterday." He sighs as he stands upright, your arms wrapping around his waist as he presses a kiss to your hairline. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get my shit together, my love."
"You know you've never called me that outside of those two months we were together?" You murmur, and he nods. "Mmh. Can't call you something you aren't, can I? I mean, you'll always be the love of my life but you weren't exactly mine and I didn't deserve you then, anyway."
"And you do now?" You ask softly, and he shakes his head as he switches you out to stand under the showerhead, wincing as the hot water hits his back. "No. I'm always going to be undeserving of you, especially after the shit I pulled. But I have no problem spending my lifetime proving that I love you."
You don't reply, holding onto him silently as he cleanses himself. Your eyes linger on the flexing of his muscles, the way his face twitches as your body wash stings the aftermath of your nails digging into his back. "I'll be nicer next time." You assure him as he rolls his eyes, a mumble of no you won't from his lips as he presses a kiss to your hairline.
The sun is beginning to peek into your bedroom by the time you and Chan exit, and you sit in your bathrobe as Chan strips your sheets. He makes your bed in silence, hiding his yawns with shakes of his head and fishing through your drawers for his old clothes. He finds a pair of sweatpants and an old cheer shirt of his, tugging them on before easing your tired form into your own pajamas. You nearly trip as he slides your shorts up your legs, his fingers cheekily pinching the swell of your ass as you swat at him.
"Unlock the door." You remind him as he slides you under the fresh blankets, and he nods, his breath minty from your toothpaste as he presses a kiss to your nose. He unlocks it quietly, checking the time on his phone before sliding in next to you. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven. Rosie's gonna barge in here." He mumbles as you settle on top of him, your head on his chest as his hand slips under your shirt with a sigh. "I love you."
"I love you, Channie." You murmur into his shirt, your eyes heavy as he pulls you impossibly closer, planting a kiss on your cheek without a word.
3:41PM.
You're the first to wake up, feeling like a train hit you as your muscles take in the absolute marathon you put yourself through with Chan the night before. You grimace as your back pops, stretching carefully so as to not wake up your boyfriend – who is curled into your chest, his arm hanging off your hip. Biting back your smile, you carefully run your fingers through his hair before sighing inwardly.
Sitting up slowly, you see something on your dresser. It's a framed photo, and a Polaroid tucked into the corner of the frame. You squint at it, unable to make out the shapes without rubbing at your eyes. Chan stirs next to you, a pout on his lips as he peels his eyes open. "Lay down, I'm cold."
"Hang on." You slide out of bed, wincing as you stand up. Your eyes land on the photo once more as you stand in front of your dresser, and it's you and Chan in a gold frame. It's the night of the Christmas Eve dinner, and it's slightly blurry but you can see the way you're smiling up at Chan shyly, and the way his eyes are starry as he looks down at you. It's the photo Rosie took, the one she didn't let you look at.
The Polaroid is also of you and Chan, in your bed with the same clothes you have on now. They must've walked in in the morning when neither of you responded, because you're both sound asleep in the photo. He's holding you close, and your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your promise ring glinting against his neck in the flash of the camera. Your foreheads are pressed together, cheeks flushed in the soft morning light.
The note sits under the frame, and you look closer at the frame. Between You and Me, it reads, and you feel your cheeks heat as you slip the note out.
We've been trying to teach Rosie how to be careful with her money, because your mother started giving her an allowance a few weeks ago. She wanted to get you a Christmas gift but didn't know what you liked, and instead of asking…she took your camera from when you were a little girl and snapped a photo of you and Chan at Christmas Eve dinner. She told me when we were getting the photos developed that she thought Chan was really important to you, and that she knew she was, too – so it was like a win-win situation, to give you a gift of the things you cherish the most.
She's pretty good at making something out of nothing, and she begged me to take her to that old thrift store you loved in high school. She found this frame near the old book section that you walked through a lot, too. So profound for a child, but I digress. The Polaroid is from me, consider it an apology for allowing your mother to make such insane bets when we all knew that the two of you were bound to fall in love. P.S. Rosie's pretty good at capturing beautiful moments. Do you think she'd make a good wedding photographer? ♡
– Dad.
Your vision is blurry as you feel the heat of Chan's body behind you, his fingers carefully picking the frame up and looking at it. "You're so in love with me." He murmurs, and you half expect to look up and see him smiling – but his face is serious, his thumb ghosting over your face in the photo. You swallow nervously as he stares at the photo, clearing your throat.
"I am. Is that…okay?" You whisper, and he nods silently, closing his eyes as he sets the photo down. "We're taking that home, right? We can't leave it here. I want to see it everyday."
He's not looking at you, holding the Polaroid gingerly in his hand. You watch as he sets it back down, his fingers plucking the note from your hand, leaning against the dresser as he reads it. He's blinking back tears and you feel your chest warm as he sighs, running his hand over his face. "We need to get Rosie that Lego set your dad said no to. The really big one, what was it?"
"Rosie has never even seen Titanic. She just wants it because she thinks the boat is cool, and my dad said no because it's seven hundred dollars." You snort, and he shakes his head. "Don't care. She needs it. I need to buy it, where are your keys?"
"We'll take my dad's, I don't feel like moving her booster seat."
You smile to yourself as your boyfriend hands you a pair of jeans to slide on as he roots around for his socks, and you quietly slip out of your bedroom after tugging them on. You see your parents sitting around your dining room table, a few drinks and a deck of cards spread out between the four of them. Rosie sits quietly in Mrs. Lee's lap as Mrs. Lee explains the game, and you clear your throat.
"Good afternoon." You say softly, and the parents turn their heads to look at you. They're smiling, and Rosie lights up, wiggling out of Mrs. Lee's lap and running towards you. "Did you like my present!? I made it for you!"
"I know, babycakes. I loved your present." You pick her up, holding her on your hip as she moves your hair out of your face. You turn to your father, who has a knowing look on his face. "You mind if I take her for a bit? Chan wants to buy her something."
"No sugar. She got a filling this morning." Your mother murmurs over her cards, taking a sip of her drink as she nods. Rosie huffs in your grasp, about to protest when Chan appears behind you. "Hey. Ready?"
His cheeks are ruddy as he greets your parents, and none of them say a word as you tug on your boots as he makes Rosie fetch her coat. She's nearly bouncing off the stairs as she runs back down, and Chan helps her put it on as she eagerly asks what she's getting and why she's getting it.
"Titanic." Chan shrugs, and your father nearly spits out his drink as you shove the two of them out of the door, grabbing his car keys off the hook. "Y/N! Don't buy her that, it's too expensive!"
"Can't hear you, Pop! See ya!" You grin cheekily, slipping out the front door and seeing Chan and Rosie giggling as he buckles her into her seat. Your heart warms at the sight, and you make eye contact with Chan as he shuts the door. He smiles, tilting his head towards the passenger side door as he opens it for you. You climb in silently, his eyes watching your every move. "You okay?"
"I love you."
EPILOGUE – JANUARY 7, 5:30AM.
"Do you have to go?"
You'd already stayed four more days than you'd originally planned, and you were really cutting it close by driving back on a Sunday. Rosie's eyes are tired and pleading as you hold her on your hip, Chan struggling to shove the last bag into your trunk as you snicker. "We do, babycakes. But don't worry! I'll come home with Channie in April for your birthday! Isn't that fun?"
"I guess." She pouts, resting her head on your shoulder. "Will you call me everyday?"
"Yes, I'll call you everyday." You nuzzle your nose to hers as Chan huffs, slamming your trunk shut. "Babe, someday you're going to have to pack this car and you'll understand why I sleep on the way back to campus."
He's red in the face as your mother ventures outside to retrieve your little sister, Mrs. Lee in tow with a bag full of goodies for the trip back to campus. You smile softly at your mother as she takes your now crying sister, your heart aching as you wipe her tears.
"Don't cry, Rosie. We'll be back soon, I promise." Chan nods, holding his pinky out for your little sister to take. She sobs into your mother's parka as she does so, and your mother gives you a warm smile. "You guys take care of each other, okay? No more breaking up!"
"No more breaking up." You both repeat, your cheeks flushing as Mrs. Lee gives you both a hug goodbye. Your father appears, holding up two tumblers full of hot chocolate and Mr. Lee hands Chan an envelope. "Pocket money. Don't let Y/N starve on the way home, she told us you only fed her beef jerky."
"I did not!" He begins to protest, but you clap your hand over his mouth with a wide smile. "Thank you, Mr. Lee. I appreciate you worrying about my appetite."
The goodbyes are not nearly as sappy as they usually are, but you know it's because they're looking forward to graduation. It will approach fast, you know you'll lose yourself in the excitement of it all and best of all, Chan will be right there with you. You're in the car waving to Rosie until you turn the corner, before your shoulders sag against your seat. You pout, making Chan smile as he reaches to pinch your cheek.
"Rosie will be okay, baby."
"I know, I know. I just wish I was around more to see her grow up. She won't think I'm as cool by the time I'm finally around to hang out and stuff."
"Babe, she's seven this year. She's gonna think you're cool." He rolls his eyes as he stops at a red light, connecting his phone to the aux and handing it to you. You sigh, unlocking his phone to see a photo of you and Rosie at the Lego store on New Year's Day as his home screen, paired with the same sentimental baby picture that rested in your locket as his lock screen – that one never changed. You say nothing as your cheeks warm, opening his Spotify and pressing shuffle as he turns left to take the exit to get onto the expressway.
You both tense as you hear the beginning notes of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic. He gives you a sideways glance as the lyrics start pouring through, and you clear your throat quietly.
"There's an exit…up ahead. It leads–"
"Into the woods, yeah. I'm just gonna–"
"Yeah. Should I-"
"Start taking your coat off, mhm."
"Got it. Are you gonna–"
"Yup. Didn't bring any condoms with me."
Your cheeks flush as you queue the same stupid sex playlist you made three years ago as he silently takes the exit before the one for the expressway, tonguing his cheek as he drives into the still-dark solace of the woods. You have your shirt off by the time he finds the same spot you found three years ago, and by the time he kills the engine, you're in the backseat.
"Hey, Chan?"
The opening notes of Kiss It Better by Rihanna fill the car as he all but rips his coat off.
"Yes, Y/N?"
"I love you."
He smiles, kissing you tenderly as he lays you down in your backseat.
i love how you kinda have chan be a douche but y/n isn't completely blameless especially when she goes to her dad and he tells her the truth. the words might've hurt and she probably didn't want to hear then but she needed to and her pride was going to keep getting her in trouble if she didn't actually talk to him. they both let their fears and their hurt dictate how they made decisions and it nearly cost them their love for each other. i love how in the end she's constantly saying she loves him where as in the beginning she only said it a few times. i have so much to say but i'll leave it at this lol
summary: When your roommate Seungcheol decides that he likes your coworker, he wants your help in pursuing her. Unbeknownst to him, you have been in love with him for years.
word count: 8.7k
warnings: roommates AU, friends to lovers, angst, unrequited love until it isn’t, mentions of drinking, smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, dirty talk.
Towards the end of your shift, it’s almost easy to block out the sound of the phone ringing or the printer humming. To be fair, it isn’t really a bother since these things sound like white noise to you after working in the same office for the last six years. Pair that with your exhaustion after a long week, and you are more than ready for the clock to hit 5 o’clock so you can get the hell out of there.
There’s a brushing of clothes above you and you tear your bleary eyes from the screen to look up, finding arms clad in a pretty pink sweater draped over the edge of your cubicle wall. Mina sighs down at you, leaning her cheek against her forearm and pouting slightly. You give her a sympathetic look.
“It’s almost time to clock out. Hang in there.”
Mina rounds the wall then, entering your space and leaning against the table. You turn your stare back to the screen, feeling irrational anger as you eye the spreadsheet open in front of you, looking way more complicated than it needs to be. You find yourself glaring at it.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Mina makes small talk. You decide that you would rather engage with her than do even a morsel of more work. You swivel in your chair to face her.
“Not really. This week has been so exhausting I think I will just stay in.” You wondered if Seungcheol would be up for a disgustingly long movie marathon. Maybe not. He can’t sit still for too long.
“I should start packing up.” You announce, pulling your bag out from under your desk so you can shovel your belongings into it. Mina eyes you as you move.
“Is your roommate coming to pick you up?” She gestures to the picture you had taped to your wall, Seungcheol with his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind and cheek resting on the top of your head. It was graduation. He had dyed his hair blond for the occasion. You had called him ridiculous. You had also secretly thought he looked amazing with blond hair, and your heart had raced when you saw the color on him for the first time, nearly as pale as his skin, and had cursed the gods for creating someone who could look good in literally anything.
It was your favourite picture of the two of you.
You nod at Mina’s question. Seungcheol’s car is in the shop, and since his workplace is way farther than yours, you lent him your car for the week, provided he drops you off and picks you up from work. It was a good arrangement, and you contemplate continuing it even after his car is fixed. It would save a ton on gas money.
Mina hums, looking a bit giddy. “He’s quite the eye candy, isn’t he?”
You purse your lips, trying not to give anything away. Of course Seungcheol is eye candy. He’s the most handsome guy you know. But funnily enough, you like him best when he just rolls out of bed, hair all over the place, eyes swollen from sleep and mouth twisted into a pout. He’s endearing, and he is smart, and he is understanding to a fault.
You’re in love with him. She doesn’t have to know that.
When the clock strikes 5, you and Mina are the first ones out of the door. She tells you about her weekend plans as you descend the stairs, foregoing the elevator, something about karaoke with old college buddies and drinks at a local bar. You hum along, spotting the silver of your car and sharply turning its way. Seungcheol is waiting outside the car for some reason, despite how cold it is, biting his lip as he stares at something on his phone. The sound of footsteps makes him look up and he smiles, eyes flitting to Mina.
“Hi.” She waves at him despite the close proximity. He waves back and echoes the greeting.
“Hello to me too, I guess.” Your words are dry, and Seungcheol sticks his tongue out childishly. Mina giggles, and his attention is caught on her again. Something in your chest sinks a bit.
You don’t listen to them exchanging pleasantries. You are tired, exhausted in fact, and you don’t have it in you to watch Seungcheol flirt with your coworker. He’s a naturally friendly guy, and anyone with eyes can see how attractive Mina is, so you can’t really fault him for that. It’s only when you hear his question that your mind snaps back to the present.
“….. maybe I can take you out sometime?”
You stare at the side of his face. Then at Mina’s. Neither of them looks back, and you realise acutely that you have no place in this conversation. Before you can think about it, your mind is already responding.
“I’ll be in the car.” You mumble, walking past them and pulling open the passenger side door. You settle in and pointedly avoid looking at both of them from the window, pulling your phone out to give the illusion of being busy. Instead, your head is spinning.
This shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t. You have known Seungcheol since the first year of college. He has been on countless dates, with people who you know and people who are complete strangers. You may be hung up on him, but he isn’t yours. He can date who he wants.
But something about it being Mina.
You have known Mina since the first day you started at this company. She was still fairly new when you arrived, so you two had bonded over not knowing anyone else. Mina was bubbly, impossibly friendly, and you two had formed an alliance of sorts at work. But it was still strictly confined to work. You two had no overlapping interests, so the friendship never progressed. Both of you seemed fine with that. You were work-friends.
Somehow, this felt like a violation. Like she was encroaching in a part of your life she shouldn’t be involved in. With someone who you were deeply possessive of despite having no claim on him.
You scowl at your phone screen. Way to make it about yourself.
The car door opens and Seungcheol falls heavily into the driver seat, bringing with him the chill of the winter air. He tugs the door closed and rushes to turn on the car, adjusting the heating.
“Ah, I’m excited.” He grins over at you. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a hot coworker our age?”
You roll your eyes at his words. “For this very reason.”
He pouts as he turns the car into the road, focusing straight ahead, but you still feel his indignation.
“Come on! I don’t date everyone you know.”
“Right. You just sleep with them.”
He reaches towards you and grips your cheeks hard, pinching until you squeal and tear his hand away, glaring at him.
“She seems very nice.” He is referring to Mina.
You sigh. “She is. So stay away from her.”
He really isn’t some kind of heartless player, you both know this. So he doesn’t really react with offense to your words. Instead, he ploughs forward.
“Tell me about her. We have a date tomorrow.”
You stare blearily at the road. Are you really going to be Mina’s hype woman? In front of the man you love? Is the universe laughing at you?
“She likes cute things. She’s kind of a romantic. Go classic. Flowers, dinner, a nice walk.”
He nods as if taking mental notes. “Okay, good.”
You feel the sudden, desperate urge to start bawling. You tamp down on it. Seungcheol changes the subject, thankfully, and you try not to think about tomorrow.
When you get home, you pour over the contents of the refrigerator and wonder what you can make for dinner from the bits and scraps you can find. You make a mental note to get groceries, and Seungcheol starts cutting and prepping some vegetables while you look at the meat options.
Dinner is a casual affair. He regales you with stories of his day. His company is going through a bit of a rough patch in terms of profits, so there’s always drama to report. You move around each other seamlessly. The aroma from the food slowly starts filling the kitchen as you cook, and you laugh particularly hard at one of his jokes. He grips your waist to keep you from falling, and squeezes the tiniest bit before letting go. You smooth the hair out of his eyes. This is a normal Friday night.
Seungcheol’s side presses into yours as you eat despite the ample space on the couch. He has always been affectionate with you. It had started as a thing of comfort during stressful college times and had eventually just before the norm for you both. Some sitcom is playing, neither of you care for it, as he wonders if he should get a haircut. You wholeheartedly oppose it. He fishes for compliments, and you gladly give them to him. He laughs when you compare him to his dog back at his parent’s house.
Mina is the last thing on your mind.
……………………………
“You could’ve just said no.” Soonyoung’s mouth is full of popcorn so his words are muffled, though you hear him clearly. He doesn’t wait to finish them, adding another handful in. You don’t even flinch. You are pretty used to his eating habits at this point.
“It’s not my place to.” You retort, looking at the screen but not really watching. You reach into the bowl on his lap, surprised by how empty it already is.
“We’re ten minutes into the movie!” You glare at him. “You’ve nearly finished the bowl. Can you slow down?”
“You’re right, but you still could’ve said no.” From your other side, Jihoon chimes in. He’s scrolling on his phone instead of looking at the TV. Neither you nor Soonyoung minds. He usually shows up to movie nights because he wants to hang out. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whatever you two choose to play. It usually ends up devolving into conversation anyway, mostly your woes about Seungcheol.
“He cares about you too much.” Jihoon continues. “If you seriously didn’t want him to date someone you know, he wouldn’t hesitate in dropping them.”
You sigh, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “I know that. I know. But I really don’t think I can do that. It’s not fair to him.”
Jihoon hums, eyeing you from the corner of his eye. “None of this is fair to either of you, but you don’t listen to me anyway, so what’s the point?”
You pointedly ignore his jab. Jihoon is very much in favor of you telling Seungcheol how you feel. He has been advocating for it for years. Now, after so long trying to convince you, he has pretty much given up, sticking to little digs here and there. You’re too stubborn to listen.
“I think this is good.” Soonyoung chimes in, and you turn your head to look at him incredulously. He nods, as if affirming himself, before continuing.
“Mina is different for you. She’s not some casual acquaintance. Seungcheol dating her should light a fire under your ass to move on. Look, it’s been years. If it hasn’t happened yet, what makes you think it will happen now?”
“It won’t.” You respond, though you feel irritated. “I know it won’t happen.”
“So, what are you doing?” Soonyoung’s tone has softened, even if his words are harsh. “What’s the point of staying hung up on him?”
You know he is right. You know it. But as you contemplate his words, Seungcheol emerges from his room, and your eyes find him. He looks good, white button up shirt, dark brown slacks, and he is smoothing something into his thick head of brown hair, pushing it off his forehead.
“I think I should just go for roses, if we are going to keep it classic.” He sounds urgent, and your eyes remain trained on him as he fastens his watch and smooths a hand down the shirt to straighten it.
“You look great.” You manage to throw out, and he gives you a smile that has your eyes melting in their sockets. He reaches a hand out to ruffle through your hair affectionately, and Soonyoung’s words fly out the window like he never said them in the first place.
“Don’t wait up!” He teases, and you roll your eyes. He says goodbye to Jihoon and Soonyoung, flying out of the door as quickly as he came in. Soonyoung sighs.
“You’re screwed.”
………………………………….
You don’t remember when exactly your friends end up leaving. Predictably, the night had progressed to all of you just talking, the next movie playing automatically when no one paid attention to it. Before you know it, your eyelids are getting heavy and both of them are wrapping it up, ready to head home. You wave them goodbye and fill a glass of water for yourself, carrying it to your bedside table and flopping down on your bed. You fall asleep before you can even think about doomscrolling on your phone.
You don’t wake up until almost 10 the next day, grateful for the lack of annoying alarm. You stare at the light filtering through your curtains, willing yourself to get up. The apartment is quiet. You wonder when Seungcheol got home last night. You wonder how his date with Mina went.
You walk past his closed door, then the bathroom where the shower is running. It seems he woke up just now too. You put on a pot for coffee, enough for two cups, before opening the refrigerator door and contemplating if you want breakfast or if you can wait and just pick something up for lunch later. You hear bare feet padding into the kitchen, and turn around to give Seungcheol your suggestion. When you take in the sight in front of you, the words die in your throat.
Mina waves at you awkwardly, her hair still wet and flowing over the towel draped around her shoulders. She is wearing a very fancy purple dress, and you realise it’s probably what she wore to the date last night. Despite her bare face and your frantically beating heart, you can’t help but think of how beautiful she looks.
“Sorry.” She has the decency to look embarrassed. “Seungcheol said you don’t usually wake up before noon on the weekends.”
You jerk out of your shock, letting out a laugh you hope doesn’t sound too strained. There’s more sounds of doors opening and closing, and then Seungcheol is stepping into the kitchen, shirtless and clearly just woken up. He smiles at Mina in a way so sickly sweet that you have to physically turn away, staring at the refrigerator again. Bile rises up into your throat. You wonder where your running shoes are. In the foyer or your room? You couldn’t bear to walk past the kitchen again on your way out. The refrigerator door shuts a bit too forcefully than you intended.
“Oh, we don’t have enough coffee.” You hear Seungcheol say.
“Sorry.” You choke out, not knowing who to look at. The air in the kitchen is painfully awkward, or maybe it’s just you, and you put your mug on the counter. “I just poured it. I didn’t drink it yet. You can have it.”
Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “What about you?”
“I was just heading out.” You lie. It’s so obvious nobody believes you that Mina just ends up looking at her feet. “Jihoon just texted. I’m gonna head over to his.”
Seungcheol doesn’t comment on the fact that your phone is nowhere in sight. You leave the kitchen quickly, heading to the foyer. You are relieved to spot your shoes, shoving them on and realising your hands are shaking, before you slip out of the house.
……………………………………….
“What the hell?”
Soonyoung tugs at your arm until you stumble into the apartment, shutting the door quickly behind you to keep the chill out. His hand is warm on your bare arm, and you realise only then that you had been running on the streets in nothing more than a T-shirt and sweatpants. No wonder the old lady down the road looked at you weirdly. It is nearly December.
Soonyoung doesn’t speak as he leads you inside, rushing to grab the blanket draped over the couch and wrapping you in it. It’s warm, and one look at the plate on the coffee table tells you that he had just vacated the couch in the middle of breakfast to answer the door.
“Sorry.” You manage to throw out, though you don’t feel it. You don’t feel much of anything. You can’t get Seungcheol’s face out of your head, how he melted when he saw Mina. She had spent the night. After the first date. Seungcheol doesn’t do that. That’s not like him at all.
“You want pancakes? There’s batter left over.” Soonyoung doesn’t wait for an answer, trudging to the kitchen to begin working on them. Now that he has mentioned it, the house does smell like vanilla. You sit on the stool at the kitchen island, still swimming in the blanket, taking comfort in the soft fleece. Jihoon starts when he walks into the kitchen, clearly not expecting to see you. You feel a wave of remorse for crashing into what was likely a peaceful Sunday morning. It doesn’t last long. You sink back into the hollow feeling in your chest.
“He brought her home.” You supply without prompting. “She- they were in the kitchen. And he was looking at her. And I couldn’t stay there.”
You don’t know if you make sense, but by the way Jihoon’s eyes soften, you know you don’t have to.
They sit with you as you eat. Your motions are almost mechanical. Someone’s phone vibrates. Soonyoung stares down at it.
“He’s asking if you’re with us.” He comments, glancing at you. “No wonder he’s worried. You walked out into the street wearing a shirt.”
“He doesn’t get to be worried.” Your voice wavers. Incredibly, you feel anger surge up inside you. Unwarranted, irrational anger.
“He’s still your friend.” Jihoon nearly whispers.
“I don’t-” Your voice catches. “I don’t think I can be his friend. I don’t think I can take this.”
Soonyoung laughs, but it isn’t unkind. “You can’t stay away from him.”
Your face crumples because he is right. You had stuck with Seungcheol because no one in your life understood you like he did. You had known him for so long that it was hard to imagine a time when you didn’t. You two were inseparable. You had spent all of college attached at the hip, and had gotten an apartment together immediately after graduation. You had years of history.
You still remember your first job interview, how you had bombed it completely and came home near tears that you would never get a job and your degree would be wasted. Seungcheol had indulged your wild imagination, comforting you, even rubbing your feet and running you a bath. You remember when a bakery opened around the corner and both of you fell in love with the blueberry croissants, to the point that it was all you ate for a week straight. Then both of you got so sick of them that you didn’t touch another croissant for months.
You remember when Seungcheol got a promotion at work, and you had spent the evening making him a three course meal to celebrate, all his favourite dishes from home. He had raved all through the meal, nearly in tears when he bit into the meat you had smoked all on your own, claiming it melted in his mouth. You had complained about the skillet and how the meat stuck on it because it was so old. The next day you found a brand new one on the kitchen counter, with a note that said you had to cook more food on it for him as a thank you.
There was a set of red Russian nesting dolls on the shelf in the living room that you bought at a flea market. Seungcheol thought they were hideous but you loved them. He always had something to say about them when he saw them, and it was never anything nice.
“Those are the eyes of someone planning murder.” He had said once, staring at the largest one. You snorted.
“They have every right to, after the way you’ve been shit talking them.”
When the smallest one got lost, Seungcheol spent the entire afternoon looking for it with you. When he found it, you nearly yelled with joy, planting a messy kiss on his cheek and promising him a reward.
(There was never a reward. He never brought it up.)
You remember when Seungcheol brought a girl home to the apartment one night. He had been seeing her for months by that point, but it didn’t hurt any less when he introduced you to her. It didn’t hurt less when they went into his room, and you heard the shuffling of clothes, and the dampened squeaking of the bed. Their efforts to keep quiet.
The walls were thin in that apartment.
In fact, they were so thin that you were woken one night to the sound of Seungcheol constantly shuffling around outside, footsteps heavy on the floor of the living room. When you poked your head out to look at him, he was surprised.
“Trouble sleeping?”
He just nodded. You opened your bedroom door farther, gesturing for him to come in. That night, he had curled into your side, half his weight heavy on your torso, cold toes pressing into your shins. You let him, feeling how he slowly relaxed as you ran your fingers through his hair, his breath evening out. He was so warm. You slept better than you had in weeks. And by the looks of him the next morning, so did he.
You loved him more than you had ever loved anyone else. You also felt more pain from him than anyone else. None of it was his fault. This was a monster of your own making, and now you were living with the consequences of it.
You don’t go home that day until well past sunset, and when you get back, Seungcheol is cooking dinner. It’s something spicy, by the smell of it, and you park yourself next to the counter. He looks at you expectantly, though you can see the worry etched on his face.
“Sorry about this morning.” You give him an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see Mina. I guess it’s just a little weird to see her here because I see her at the office all the time.”
Seungcheol’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “That’s my fault. I should’ve texted and warned you.”
There’s a small silence before he continues. “I guess…. you will get used to it slowly.”
Oh. You blink and nod, sending him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Of course.”
Seungcheol has been the dealer of a lot of pain in your life. But you would rather have that than nothing at all.
……………………………………
Mina does start coming over more often, unsurprisingly. When it isn’t her in your apartment, it’s Seungcheol who leaves to spend the night at hers, and you try to adjust to cooking one portion instead of two. You slowly get accustomed to her presence in your life outside the office, but funnily enough, you two talk less now. She seems to be more engrossed in work, and when she isn’t doing that, she’s on her phone (You try not to think of Seungcheol texting her). It isn’t until a few weeks later that you realise what exactly caused the shift in her.
You are baking in the kitchen, which you rarely do, but you know Seungcheol loves your brownie recipe and you had nothing else going on, so you start making a batch. He whooped in celebration when he found you folding flour into the batter, draping himself over your back to look down into the bowl. You are trying to push his arm away from the bowl to stop him from licking the batter, and failing terribly, complaining about how heavy he is, when a throat clears behind you. Seungcheol rips himself away from you at the speed of light, and you are confused by his reaction until you see Mina’s gaze hardened, lips twisted, staring at you both. You nearly shrink back, bending over the bowl immediately to avoid looking at her, ignoring the sound of Seungcheol shuffling towards her and following her out of the kitchen.
You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s only understandable. You and Seungcheol are uncomfortably close to the outside eye. He thrives on attention and physical affection, and you love giving it. Seungcheol had only been serious with maybe one or two girls, so it hasn’t been an active problem. Clearly it is now.
You hadn’t noticed before, but thinking back, there is now an established distance between you two. You had chalked it up to Seungcheol just not being around as much, but you wonder if it was intentional on his behalf. Perhaps Mina had told him to. You feel a zip of irritation at the thought, but you tamp it down quickly. You have no claim on Seungcheol’s affections. That is all her. You are not entitled to his love even though it feels like you are.
As Christmas nears, you begin struggling with this new ‘distance’ a lot more than you thought you would. Seungcheol sits with the littlest of gaps between you two on the couch now, and you miss the warmth of his arm and leg pressed to yours, the cushion on his broad shoulder that you could rest your head on. He plays with your hair less, hugs you less, and never offers to rub your feet after a tiring day at work anymore. The pet names are all but gone, not even the teasing use of “cupcake”, which he knows you hate, and conversation gets so formal you wonder if you did something to secretly offend him.
You realise how ingrained Seungcheol is in every part of your life when his absence suddenly leaves your days empty. Winters in particular feel too lonely, when there is no noise from your desk fan to fill the space, when your windows have frosted over and you sit on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. Not coffee, hot chocolate. Seungcheol loves it when you make the real stuff, not the powdered one that comes in little packets, but the one with whole milk and melted chocolate. You indulge yourself by adding marshmallows in your mug, and you wonder if you are just doing tiny things to fill space, in your mind and around you.
There is less of Seungcheol in the apartment too. His shoes aren’t in the foyer, and his jacket isn’t draped over the back of the couch for you to find and scold him over (‘the cupboard is right there!’). Your idea of commuting together pretty much evaporates, and you are back to separate cars. His perfume, a characteristic scent he has worn since college, doesn’t waft unbearably in the corridor outside his room as often as it used to. When it does, now occasionally, you pause in the space, breathing him in.
You miss him.
You remember that first morning you had seen them together in the kitchen, when you had looked back on your times with him and decided, you would rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.
Is he even your friend anymore? Or is he just your roommate?
On the last day of work before Christmas holidays, Mina shows up at your cubicle for the first time in a while. It catches you off guard, but you try not to let it show.
“Seungcheol and some of his friends at work are going out for drinks later. You should come.”
You bristle at the words, at her tone. Why does she sound like she’s doing you a favor by inviting you? Or are you just paranoid now, biased against her? You agree nonetheless, and are left wondering why Seungcheol wouldn’t just ask you instead of relaying the word through his girlfriend. The thought sends knives searing through your chest.
Distance.
He picks you two up after work, insisting he would drop you off at your car later. On the way there, you watch their heads from the backseat, and you contemplate, for the first time in years, if you should look for a place of your own and move out. It wouldn’t work, obviously. The rent in this area is too steep for one person. You wonder if Soonyoung and Jihoon can take you in, dismissing the option almost immediately. Their place isn’t built for three people. And you have burdened them enough with your problems already.
You are still in your head a bit when you arrive at the bar, and exaggerated cheers stun you from your musings when you approach the table. You smile at Jeonghan, Joshua and Mingyu. You had known them almost as long as Seungcheol did, but you obviously saw them way less. They worked with him, and were some of the most fun people to have drinks with. You decide you will let loose tonight, shunning the woeful thoughts in your head. You had spent too long suspended in this feeling of not being wanted.
It quickly devolves into chaos from there. Mingyu doesn’t let you breathe between the first three shots, claiming you need to ‘loosen up first’. By the time you get around to updating them about your life, you are already swaying, making Joshua laugh and throw an arm over your shoulder to still you. His entire face is flushed a comical shade of red, and you wonder how much he had drunk already in such a short time. You can feel eyes on you, and you choose to ignore them, feeling like your company is wanted for the first time in weeks.
“How’s the new place?” You ask over the music at Jeonghan, who is busy mixing two or three drinks into whatever atrocious concoction he wants to drink. Jeonghan and Joshua had shared an apartment for the longest time, and had just upgraded to a better place some weeks ago. Something with a balcony like Joshua always wanted.
“Oh, it’s great! Empty, though.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“It’s three bedrooms.”
You stare at him, and in your inebriated state, you don’t think of the consequences of your next words. “I could move in with you.”
Three sets of shocked, wide brown eyes look at you. You flush under the attention and thank the gods that Seungcheol has gone to the bar with Mina for more drinks.
“You’re moving out?” Mingyu scowls at you, and you feel almost offended by how accusatory his tone is. You shrug.
“I’m thinking about it.”
Joshua worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Are you sure? I mean- does Seungcheol know?”
You fidget a bit, regretting saying anything at all. You weren’t being entirely serious, fuelled by alcohol and the slight anger you had been harbouring towards your best friend. Jeonghan doesn’t say anything as you sputter over your words trying to answer his friends, his eyes boring holes in the side of your head. His silence unnerves you. He is closest to Seungcheol out of all of them.
“Maybe you should.” He finally says, and his words are unexpected. “Change might shock both of you awake.”
“Maybe you should what?” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through your confusion at Jeonghan’s words.
You don’t answer him, grabbing a shot glass instead of saying anything, immediately downing it and reaching for the next one already. Jeonghan doesn’t stop looking at you.
“Move out.” Jeonghan answers him, and Seungcheol’s head immediately shoots to your direction. He looks stricken, like he can’t believe his ears.
“You’re moving out?” He asks you, and you shake your head vigorously.
“Then why is he saying you are?” His tone turns accusatory, and you frown at him.
“Even if I am, what’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal?!” Seungcheol looks positively angry at your words, standing up abruptly to leave the table. You all watch him make his way over to the bar, plopping down on a stool.
You have to give Mina props for not saying anything at all about Seungcheol’s massive overreaction, instead just giving you all a smile and excusing herself from the table. She doesn’t walk over to Seungcheol though. You watch her make her way to the door of the bar and disappear out of it. Jeonghan whistles.
“Well, that happened quicker than I thought it would.”
You tsk at him, reaching for another drink. You had expected Seungcheol to react badly, but not as bad as this, and not in front of his girlfriend. You feel a bit bad for Mina. But you feel almost worse for yourself. You will have to deal with him when you get home.
Or you could get shitfaced, and avoid confrontation altogether. You choose option 2.
Jeonghan ends up driving everyone home, since the rest of you decided no work tomorrow meant drinking until you can’t see straight. You whine at him to not leave you with Seungcheol, who has gotten even more pouty after drinking, cheeks flushed and eyes barely open. Jeonghan pointedly ignores your pleas and dumps both of you in front of your building.
“C’mon.” Seungcheol holds an arm out. “Hold on to me for support.”
You snort at him. “You aren’t exactly stable.”
“Hold on to me right now or I’m going to lose it, cupcake.”
You boo at him but do what he says, gripping his bicep, and slowly you two begin the impossible trek upstairs. He is humming a familiar tune when you finally push the apartment door open, raising his arms above his head in triumph.
“We’re so good at being drunk.” He grins at you, and you giggle back, unable to resist digging your fingertips into his dimples. His gaze is hazy but his eyes sparkle bright regardless. You can feel yourself forgetting being angry at him already, just happy to feel his so close, his hands on your arms and waist, his head falling on your shoulder, his body heat so near your own skin.
Taking your shoes off takes much longer than expected, Seungcheol is tugging on your boot at one point, and then both of you make a beeline to your room, still in suspiciously wet socks, collapsing on top of the covers.
You don’t know if you imagine it. If you’re just drunk and in your feelings, but Seungcheol mumbles something quietly. It’s barely above a whisper, but in the dead of the night it sounds as loud as a siren.
“Don’t move out.”
You turn to look blearily at him. His hair is spread like a halo around his head, falling over your pillows. He hadn’t cut it in a while, determined to grow it out. He reminded you of a prince. His eyes are trained on you through the strands of brown falling over them, and they look clearer than his drunk state might suggest. Despite the blush high on his cheeks, his skin looks like porcelain. You turn your gaze to the ceiling.
“I can’t be around you, Cheol. It hurts.”
He watches you, unblinking, until he moves a bit, shuffles closer to you so you can feel his breath in your cheek.
“And I can’t live without you. It hurts.”
You smile bitterly. “You’ve been fine with Mina.”
He scowls and shakes his head. “Mina isn’t you.”
You turn your head to him then, and his nose brushes against your own. At this proximity, you watch the streaks of brown in his eyes, dark and welcoming, like bottomless pools. You want to kiss him so badly it makes the pit of your stomach ache. Instead, you let your eyelids flutter shut, resigned to being so close, but never close enough.
When you wake up the next morning, you are swaddled in what feels like ten blankets, and it’s only when your haze clears that you realise it’s actually Seungcheol attached to your back like a koala bear, one leg pushed between your own and arms so tight around your middle that you are unsure if you feel nauseous because of the hangover or because of the pressure he is putting on your stomach. You dig your elbow back into his ribs, and he groans.
“I’m gonna be sick.” His voice is throaty, and despite your raging headache, your breath hitches.
“If you yarf on my bed I’m making you clean it up.”
He lets out another pained noise, pushing away from you and groggily standing up to walk straight out of the room. Minutes later, you hear him throwing up in the toilet. You sigh.
You can’t bring yourself to think of last night, how normal it felt to be around Seungcheol like that after weeks of not speaking more than a few words at a time. You have missed him terribly. And you think once more of how painful it was trying to move on from him while living in the same place, surrounded by everything you two built together.
Mina isn’t you.
You can’t bring yourself to think about what he meant. You are exhausted. You feel sick and your head is pounding. And your throat feels dry as sandpaper. You slowly get up to trudge to the kitchen, downing two whole glasses of water and feeling much better afterward. The shower is running at this point, and you check your messages while you wait.
When you hear the bathroom door open and close, followed by footsteps and another door, you realise Seungcheol has disappeared into his room. You take that opportunity to use the bathroom yourself, letting the water wash away last night, the feeling of his fingertips, still like ghosts on your skin. You wonder what it would’ve felt like if you really had pushed forward last night and kissed him.
You would never do that. But still. A girl can dream.
By the time you reemerge, the apartment is eerily quiet. Seungcheol’s bedroom door is wide open, and his shoes are gone from the foyer. Good. You needed space anyway. If he hadn’t left, you would’ve.
He doesn’t return until late that night. You meander through the apartment. Ordering lunch and wasting time on the internet. Jeonghan texts to ask how you’re doing, you reply shortly. You still aren’t particularly happy with him for telling Seungcheol that you were considering moving out. Hell, you are sure it wouldn’t have amounted to anything anyway. You would’ve chickened out and stayed there, not exactly a fan of change. All this should never have been mentioned in the first place.
When the door finally opens, it’s well after sundown. Seungcheol is breathing heavily and he pushes his shoes off, and you glimpse a thin sheen of sweat over his hairline.
“You were running? It’s freezing out.” You comment, watching him from the couch. He pushes his hair off his forehead and it stays there, likely because it’s wet too. The seriousness on his face makes you pause.
“I broke up with Mina.”
You gape at him. “You what?”
He makes a beeline for you, both hands gripping the back of the couch on either side of you with a thud, knee on the seat holding him up, before his lips are crashing into yours. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, mind and body scrambling to catch up with what is happening. Your hands automatically rest on his shoulders, gripping hard. You don’t know if you want to pull him closer or push him away. His teeth nip on your bottom lip, and the sensation zips through your body, making a decision for you.
You kiss back hard, using his sweatshirt to pull him closer until he is collapsing on top of you, both of you sliding down the couch. Your leg hooks around his waist, and you breathe in his sigh. It hits you, mid kiss, that you are finally kissing Seungcheol. After so long of imagining it, his lips are on yours, softer than anything. He tastes like that mint chewing gum he often carries around, and you can still smell his shampoo, now mixed with the heady scent of his sweat cooling on his skin.
He pushes you into the cushions, and his weight feels therapeutic, like a weighted blanket on your limbs after a long, tiring day. His hand grips your thigh hard, encouraging you to hitch it up further around his torso. His skin is slightly sticky from the sweat, and his hair is falling over your eyes. His tongue is dancing with your own, running over your teeth and the roof of your mouth, engulfing you so completely that you feel like you cannot breathe. You feel a rush of emotion.
“I’ve wanted this,” you manage to mumble into his lips, voice cracking, “for so long.”
He breaks away from you for just a second, enough to look down at you, but you already miss him. He brushes a hand over your cheek, and you realise you really are crying.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, voice clogged with such intense regret that you feel another wave of tears coming. “I’m so sorry. It should’ve been you. It was always you. It could never be anyone else.”
He means it, you can tell. And it makes you tug him down until you’re kissing him again, reveling in the feeling of how his lips meld so perfectly with yours. His cheeks sink under the pressure of your fingertips, his eyelashes brush delicately against your skin. He engulfs all of your senses until you don’t know where you end and where he begins.
When it isn’t enough, because it could never be enough for you, you are too greedy for every inch of him, you paw at his clothes. You want them off, want to feel his bare torso attach itself to your own. It’s a desire so acute you nearly scream. Seungcheol obliges, pulling his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion and throwing it away somewhere neither of you care to look at. He doesn’t reattach to your lips until your sweater is gone too, and then his arms are snaking under your back to pull you flush against him, kissing you briefly before his mouth is traveling down past your face to nip at the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath sends shivers down your spine, tensing up at the sensations. His tongue flicks out to swipe at the skin below your ear before he is biting down at it, softly at first to test the waters, before digging deep enough to elicit a satisfied sigh from you. You run your fingertips delicately up his spine, basking in the way he shivers under your touch, lips still sucking, now harsher, as if determined to mark you as his. You let him, encourage him even. You are his. You have been his for so long, and he is finally laying his claim.
His hands fiddle with the waistband of your pajamas, fingertips dipping in and out in little intervals. Your hips buck up, impatient, and he chuckles, biting down on your collarbone in warning.
“Be good.”
His voice is firm and deep, and you know he means business. It makes you want to rebel even more, and you buck up again. He grips your hips tight, holding you in place, lips leaving you with a last, delicious slurping sound before he is looking you in the eyes.
“Is that how it’s going to be, baby?” His hips come down, grinding into you, and you can feel that he is rock hard already. A thrill runs up your core at the feeling, and suddenly you want him to be completely naked. You want to see his cock, feel its weight in your palm, on your tongue, inside your pussy, stretching you until you can’t think straight. You can feel how wet you are already, clenching desperately around nothing at all. You feel hot all over, and the remaining clothes you have on feel like they are too much.
“Please, Cheolie.” You whine, trying to jerk up again. It doesn’t work, his hold is too strong. “Take my clothes off.”
He tsks then, smirking down at you. He’s enjoying this a little too much, watching you squirm under him. But it seems he wants you just as bad, because then he is sliding down your bottoms and panties at the same time, leaving you bare for his eyes to wander over. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing them back until they are touching your chest and you are laid open for him. You have the decency to flush at the hungry look in his eyes, but you bask in the attention anyway. You like how his eyes roam over your naked body, how they zero in on your sopping cunt. You arch your back slightly and his gaze flickers up, lips twitching with amusement.
He lets you go long enough to discard his own pants, and you don’t have time to admire him in his nude glory before he is pulling you close again, bending over you to bury his face in your neck.
“I want to pamper you and spoil you,” he whispers. “And I will, promise. But I need to be inside you so bad right now.”
You buck up into him again, his cock sliding through your slit in a delicious drag that has your legs twitching. He pulls back to grind into you again, but the tip catches on your hole and pulls groans out of both of you, and you can’t take it anymore.
You scramble to reach for him, lining him up and encouraging him to push forward, spearing through you in a way that makes your jaw go slack and your toes curl.
He’s big. Thick and curved up slightly so that the head of his cock presses urgently into the spongy spot inside you. His hips press flush into your skin and he stays there for a second, voice broken and pitched in a way you had never heard before. He has a flush high on his cheekbones, and his eyes struggle to remain open. You watch a drop of sweat roll down the side of his face, watch the slight tremble of his biceps as they frame your face. You are in awe as you watch him fall apart in real time. All because of you.
When he pulls back just a bit just to thrust into you again, you clench hard, feeling the familiar tug in the pit of your stomach. He curses roughly, breath coming in staccato.
“Don’t-” His jaw ticks. “I’m gonna cum. I’m so serious. Don’t do that.”
You let out a breathless laugh, only responding by clenching again. He groans and pulls out again, and this time he wastes no time in setting a punishing pace. You immediately arch up, head falling back as your body locks at the feeling. He seems to know exactly what angle to take, what spot to hit, despite this being the first time you two are having sex, and you would wonder why if all rational thought wasn’t leaving your head at that very moment. You gasp and moan with very thrust, unable to hold back your sounds. Seungcheol is only encouraged more, propping himself up by his hands on either side of your head to thrust harder.
Your world spins and turns on its angle, and you feel heavy with sensation. Your hands try to hold on to something, scraping against the rough material of the couch, but there’s nothing. There’s only Seungcheol above you, thrusting hard and heavy into you until you feel full enough to burst. Your cunt weeps, leaking around him, and Seungcheol’s stare is hard locked on where his shaft sinks into you over and over, collecting a thin rim of white foam around it. He curses again and you cry out at a particularly hard thrust.
A thin layer of sweat is slowly forming over your body, despite how cold the air around you is. Your breath comes fast and staggered, and breathing is the least of your concern at this moment, frankly. You are laser focused on how he is tearing your poor pussy open over and over, and on the feeling of his strong thighs just under your legs, stiffened with the strain of his movements, his strength that you had wondered about for so long, now on full display. You wonder if he will break you. You hope he does.
His hair covers half his face, and your eyes zero in on the cushion of his lips, parted, tongue poking out just a bit, and you want to bite them. You want to mark him up, scratch at his back, dig your teeth into his bottom lip until he is locking up and pouring ropes of his cum deep into your cunt. You reach up to dig your nails into his biceps, trying to tug him down to your mouth. You catch the skin of his jaw and you nip at it, making his hips stutter a bit.
“Greedy girl.” His voice is rough with need, clogging his vocal cords, making him sound as wrecked as you feel. “My cock isn’t enough for you?”
“‘S so big,” you whine, batting your wet eyelashes up at him. Predictably, it drives him crazy, his motions get rougher. “You’re so big, Cheolie. I can barely take it.”
He chuckles. “I disagree, baby. You’re taking me like a champ.”
His hands wind into your hair, pushing it from your face so he can take in your sweaty forehead, your flushed cheeks. He tugs hard until you are arching up, and chills run through your scalp.
“Opened up for me so well. You were just made to take my cock, weren’t you? Just perfect for me. God, I could fuck you for hours.”
You sob when his hand reaches down, pressing on your clit hard before he starts rubbing. You jerk up against him, but he is unphased, continuing to dig his cock through your insides while his fingers insistently pull you closer to the edge. Your orgasm, simmering just below the surface, catches fire, and you can’t even warn him before you wail and gush all over his cock, limbs locking in place as his cock drags over your wildly contracting walls, prolonging the feeling. You can hear him curse again through the roaring in your ears, and then warmth floods your walls until you feel full with it. White hot lava rolls through you, and you try hard to breathe through it, eyelids fluttering open to watch as Seungcheol rides through his own high with you.
All is silent for a few seconds apart from the heavy breathing. Seungcheol lowers himself gently down on you, burying his face in your neck. He kisses the skin softly, and you tilt your head to let him plant more along the surface. You feel him slowly soften inside you. Something wet trickles out of your hole. You flush at the feeling.
“We’re going to have to shower again. In this cold.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh, and he looks up to grin cheekily at you. “I won’t let you get cold, sweets.”
You slap his shoulder playfully, making him laugh more. He pulls out of you, not bothering to offer a hand, sliding his arms under you to pick you up. You let him, burrowing your face into his neck, trying hard to fight off a growing smile.
ᯓ★ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It would be fate that you would be filming a documentary of the same F1 team as your former high school sweetheart: Joshua Hong, F1 golden boy. He still remembers you as Birdie— the one that flew away without saying goodbye. Now, years later, you have to look him in the eye as he recounts what his life has been like without you.
ᯓ★ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: f1 driver!Joshua Hong x filmmaker!reader
ᯓ★ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, smut, childhood sweethearts, lovers to exes, F1 au
ᯓ★ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, kissing, breast play, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, squirting (dont look at me), clit stimulation, unprotected sex, praise kink?, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pet names, dirty talk (if I forgot anything lmk)
ᯓ★ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 17.9k (I haven't yapped this much in my life)
ᯓ★ 𝐀𝐍: It's finally hereeeee! This fic is for the collab "It's Light Out", hosted by @camandemstudios. I have not written anything about F1 before so my knowledge was very limited going into this lol but thank you to @straylightdream for giving me some pointers to help me understand it better and also for the guidebook provided by Cam and Em's server <3. Thank you to V @hannieween bby for saving me yet again and catching the things I was lacking and making it better. Also Ema @hannieoftheyear and Altair @haologram for looking at this with me and letting me babble and stressing them out when I came into their dms about this lol. This is my first fic for Joshua so I hope I did him justice 😭also, the reader goes by her nickname, Birdie :)
playlist: love me harder- cigarettes after sex, can't get you- jaehyun, to say hello- the marias, all i really want is you- the marias, bodies- keshi, you feel like- hojean, baby- jay b
You should’ve known it would be him.
The name Joshua Hong stares at you in big, bold font as you look at the production schedule for today. The production company you work for is filming a documentary on the Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team, and your team has been assigned to cover the drivers at the Miami International Autodrome. It would be fate that you would have to have a 1×1 interview with your former childhood sweetheart— someone who you’re sure hates your guts. You swallow the ironic laugh forming in your throat and shake your head.
“Everything good?” Your producer, Vernon, asks, not bothering to look up from his tablet.
It’s just an interview. It can’t be too bad.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “I’m just going over the schedule.”
What else could you say to him? That Joshua was your first love, your biggest love, your first everything? Do you tell him you broke his heart and ghosted him when you were supposed to start the rest of your lives together? Yeah, you don’t think so.
“I’m going to go grab Wonwoo and get started filming around the tracks before I find Mr. Hong,” you announce halfway out the door.
You don’t wait for a response as you walk down the hallway, your heart beating hard as you anticipate seeing Joshua again after all these years. You doubt he is the same boy with kind eyes and soft spirit that you knew him to be. You left him without saying goodbye—a coward’s move, you know.
And now, years later, you have to face the consequence of your actions with a camera and a press pass, having to look him in the eye as he recounts what his life has been like without you.
The track winds around the Hard Rock Stadium; you literally couldn’t miss it. You filmed a few shots with Wonwoo around the track, the aqua blue surrounding it fitting the whole Miami vibe: palm trees and sunny skies, a clear contrast from where you and Joshua grew up.
“Did we get everything here?” Wonwoo asks, lowering his camera.
“Yeah,” you nod slowly, glancing around the track. “Mr. Hong should be heading to the media room like his assistant said.”
“Why do you keep calling Joshua ‘Mr. Hong?” Wonwoo chuckles with a teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s so formal and stuffy. Relax a little.”
“Pfft, I am relaxed,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively. “We aren’t exactly friends, you know.”
If only Wonwoo knew why you were keeping it professional, why you’ve been trying your hardest to keep your distance.
“Sure,” he raises an eyebrow, a skeptical smile on his lips. “One day, you’ll tell me why you’re acting all cagey.”
Wonwoo has this uncanny ability to read people well, and you wish, at this very moment, you could turn it off. He’s been your right-hand man since you’ve been with this company. You work well together and consider him a close friend.
“I am not acting cagey!” you huff. “We’re done here. Let’s go get some film in the garage and then meet Mr. Hong after .” You leave no room for debate, and Wonwoo doesn’t press it further.
You offer to help Wonwoo with the equipment, but he shakes his head, motioning for you to go ahead without him. As you scan your surroundings, your eyes wander aimlessly until they settle on the row of garages, each numbered from 1 to 36. Small beads of sweat form on your forehead as Florida's humid weather makes you instantly regret wearing anything but white. The air is thick and heavy, adding to your discomfort as you navigate through the scene.
“Garage number 17… where are you—”
Your breath falters, forcing you to a complete stop. There he was, your former high school sweetheart, no longer the scrawny kid you were madly in love with. He’s taller, more handsome, with broader shoulders, and sports a black undercut that suits this new man he’s become. You stand there for a moment, studying him in awe as he talks to his teammates, Lee Jihoon and Lee Chan, two equally attractive men who lean against the table as they engage in a deep conversation.
You involuntarily shift your leg, making your presence known earlier than you would’ve liked. Fuck.
“S-sorry,” you sputter, your nerves getting the best of you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”
“No, no, it’s fine. We were finishing up anyway,” Jihoon says, dusting the back of his pants. “You’re—”
“Birdie.”
Hearing your childhood nickname from Joshua’s lips brings chills throughout your body. You remember when he gave you that nickname in elementary school when you claimed during recess that you could fly and jumped off a tree. Needless to say, you did not fly; instead, you ended up with a fractured wrist and a bruised ego. But Joshua was impressed anyway, saying you were trying to leave your nest and soar like the pretty bird you were. You were his pretty bird.
“Hi, Joshua,” you say slowly. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has.”
You can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, how well you have progressed in your respective careers, or how well he masks it; the hurt and pain are still there.
“Birdie?” Wonwoo’s voice creeps up behind you.
“Yeah,” Joshua smiles. “It was a nickname I gave her when we were kids. She loved to spread her wings and fly, be damned who she left behind.”
You still, detecting the venom wrapped in his seemingly nice statement. Maybe you deserve that.
“Okay, then,” Jihoon speaks up, dissipating the thickening tension that was starting to take over. “I will leave you to it.”
He claps his hands together and leaves with Chan, nodding to you and Wonwoo before exiting the garage. You turn to Wonwoo, who returns your gaze with raised eyebrows, your face heating with embarrassment. You didn’t expect Joshua to welcome you with open arms, but you have never experienced him being… mean, especially to you.
“I was told that I could meet you at the media room,” You gesture towards the garage. “We were just going to get some quick films before we met with you.”
Being near him again made you anxious; your already sweaty hands getting clammier by the minute. The way his eyes peered into your soul made you uncomfortable, like he was reading the deepest parts of your mind and trying to uncover your secrets.
“I’ll meet you there,” Joshua announces, walking off before you can respond with a simple “okay.”
You glance over at Wonwoo, who gives you a subtle, sympathetic smile. “You good?” he mouths.
You nod stiffly, rubbing your temples. He didn’t check to see if you were coming; despite it being a record-high day in temperature, the iciness in his interaction made it clear: Joshua Hong absolutely hates your guts.
Joshua is rattled. He knew a documentary was being filmed and that he would have to answer a few questions about his life and his passion for driving for the team. But he didn’t know that it would be you, of all people, taking charge of this. When you arrived at the garage, you caught him off guard, and a flood of emotions washed over him. He was happy to see you at first, your sunny disposition brighter than anything the sun could put out.
But then he remembered you left him.
That happiness turned into indifference and then hurt. Anger even. You were supposed to be the one he was supposed to spend his life with. The person he was supposed to grow old with, marry, and have kids with. He wanted a future with you, and you disappeared without even telling him goodbye. He hasn’t had a serious relationship since, and he has come close, but he decided in the end that they would all spread their wings and fly away like you did. You did the one thing that he was afraid of the most: being left behind.
Shaking his head, he entered the press room, where he found controlled air and silence as he waited for your arrival. He was glad no one was there, as it allowed him to recollect his thoughts and rein in his emotions for the interview. Sitting on the sectional sofa, he cocks his head back, replaying the interaction in his head over and over again. He knows he was a dick, it’s unlike him, and he should apologize, but it felt good, so good, to give you an inkling of what he felt when you ghosted him.
After a moment of silence, the door opened, and you stepped through, followed by Wonwoo and his equipment. Your eyes met briefly before he looked away, your makeup concealing the slight redness and puffiness around your eyes. Shit, he cursed to himself. Did he make you cry?
“Hey—”
“I’ll be asking you about your journey into racing,” you talked over him, keeping your tone bright and professional like nothing happened. “Your career with Mercedes, your thoughts on this season.”
“Ah, so the easy stuff,” Joshua remarked.
You gave him a kind smile that didn’t meet your eyes and nodded, returning your attention to Wonwoo as he finished setting up his camera. He felt a dull ache in his stomach, slowly regretting the way he had treated you earlier.
Joshua couldn’t help but watch you as you paced back and forth, reading your notes. You weren’t the baby bird he knew you to be all of these years ago. No, you were more beautiful than ever— your navy blue button-up and white jeans filled you out in all the right places. And despite everything that had happened, he found himself wanting you more than he could have imagined.
“Okay, we’re going to get started,” you announced, taking a seat on the sofa that positions you off-camera. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I have ever been.”
Joshua noticed you bit your lip, and a slight smirk curved on his mouth. You still have the same mechanisms when you’re nervous.
“What drew you to racing in the first place? Was there a specific moment or person that sparked the dream?”
He should have seen that coming. He lay back slightly, thinking over his answer carefully. “My parents took me to a birthday party at a place that had go-karts. My mom didn’t want me to drive one, but my dad insisted, and something sparked in me when I got behind the wheel and drove around the track. I felt alive.”
You nodded, jotting down some notes on your scrub pad, your gold bracelets clinging against each other. “So it’s pretty safe to say that racing is something that you have always wanted to do, right?”
“Yeah, it’s the one consistent thing that has made me happy. My mom didn’t want me to race. She thought it was too dangerous, and my car would blow up or something like that. But I had someone in my corner who believed in me. She said I had a fire in me that deserved to be shown to the world. I believed her, and it got me where I am.”
He watched you shift uncomfortably in your seat, your foot tapping lightly against the floor as you purposely avoided his gaze, keeping your eyes on your clipboard.
“People talk about how easy it is to get caught up in the noise of the sport and how isolating it can be. How do you overcome that?”
Joshua shifted in his seat, fingers drumming on the table. He took a deep breath, furrowing his brow as he gathered his thoughts. “I learned how to tune out the noise and, eventually, the silence too. It’s easy to do when you see people and things for who they are.”
You paused, finally meeting his gaze. “Has something happened that gave you that mindset?”
“Yeah, there’s something that comes to mind.”
Joshua caught a flicker in your gaze, the way your eyelids dulled slightly as your breath hitched, and Joshua knew in that moment that you knew exactly what he meant.
“You’ve become a fan favorite on and off the track, the face of the Mercedes team. Do you think your public image matches who you are privately?”
Joshua lets out a throaty laugh. “I only let people see what I want them to see. They can come to their conclusions, but ultimately, I know who I am.”
You nodded, scribbling on your pad again. “Is it hard, keeping the two separate?”
“Nope,” he shook his head. “I am conscientious about my life and who I let in. Past experiences have made it that way.”
His mouth twitched at the edges— half amusement, half sadness. Ever since you left, he has made it a point not to let anyone get close like you did. At that level of heartbreak and pain, he vowed never to experience it again.
“This is one of the biggest races in your career. This track is the very track where you won for the first time. How does it feel, coming back here again?”
“This may sound off, but it feels like home. I keep thinking about that moment when I raced to the finish line and held my trophy. I have had many since then, but this one is undoubtedly my favorite.”
“I can imagine how this one would be your favorite,” you agreed, tapping your pen on your knee.
“How would you know?”
He regretted those words the second they came out of his mouth. He didn’t mean to let his thoughts and feelings exude through this interview. But how would you know what that felt like for him? You weren’t here to witness his rise to glory and see where he is now.
“Joshua…”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he raked his fingers through his hair. “Do you have any more questions?”
You stared at your pad, drawing a hard line on the paper. “Yes, one more.”
Joshua nodded as a gesture for you to continue. You took a deep breath, slowly gazing at you as you prepared the last question.
“If you could go back to your younger self, the little boy who grew up in a small town and dreamed of racing around the world and taking care of his family, what advice would you give to yourself?”
This question hurt the most. He doesn’t speak at first, staring at the carpet a second too long. It feels like the air suddenly got thin, slowly suffocating him on the inside. There are so many things he would tell his younger self— about love, losing a parent, and what his life would become. But one thing sticks out the most:
“I would say, ‘Don’t count on forever. Forever isn’t promised to anyone, and people can change their minds and fly away, like birds when the seasons change.’ ”
When he finally looked at you, he saw it— the tiny shift in your posture, the flicker of guilt in your eyes. This was supposed to make him feel good, taking silent jabs that only you would understand. But instead, he sits there, feeling worse than before.
“That’s a wrap,” Wonwoo said softly from behind the camera, turning it off.
Joshua stands abruptly, his throat tight and dry from thirst. Making his way to the door, he looks back at you again, whose eyes meet your eyes as she gives you a curt nod.
“Thank you, Joshua, for your time.”
He nodded and exited the press room, wanting to get as far away from here as possible. He needs a distraction.
Do you still love Joshua? Honestly, you don’t know.
But being around him is stirring up feelings that you thought you had buried and gotten over a long time ago. One look in his eyes reminds you of the time he finally worked up the nerve to ask you to be his girlfriend in the sixth grade. Or when he kissed you for the first time while you were eating ice cream at the local beach. Or when you both graduated from high school and he drove you up to the mountain late at night, overlooking the view of the city, where you promised each other forever. You had it good, so good, but you chose to leave to discover who you were as a person and reach new heights. To soar.
And you did that. You’re one of the most sought-after filmmakers in the world. You don’t regret it, and you have definitely lived, but sometimes, in the back of your mind, you wonder what it could’ve been if you had stayed? Could you have been a WAG?
The thought makes you shudder.
“You good, boss?”
Looking up from your phone, you gaze at Wonwoo, who is slowly putting away his equipment.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “I’m good. It’s just been a long day.”
“An eventful one, I would say.”
You raise your brows at him, who smirks and shakes his head. “When were you going to tell me you used to date the face of the Mercedes F1 team?”
“Never,” you mutter, exhaling deeply. “I just thought I could get through this project and move on, like everything else.”
Wonwoo lets out a low whistle, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. “Well, the thing about the past catching up with you is that it doesn’t care about production time.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” You let out a weak laugh, followed by an exasperated sigh. You both step out of the press room, the Miami heat clinging to your skin even though the sun has already started to set. You are thoroughly exhausted, and your thoughts are balled together in a clusterfuck.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Wonwoo says softly, placing a supportive hand on your shoulder. “It’s obvious there is some history there, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but maybe try talking to him? See if you can clear the air?”
“I’ll have better luck parting the Red Sea,” you quip, shaking your head. “I’ll just have to push through. It can’t get worse than this, right?”
Wonwoo shrugs and walks with you to the parking lot, the sky shifting into the blue hour. The wind slightly blows, and the smell of the ocean and palm trees surrounds you as you walk to your car. In the distance, you hear an engine roar, and instinctively, you look up, seeing Joshua on the other side, accompanied by a woman in a dress a little too tight, hanging over his shoulder. You know you shouldn’t care; it’s been years. But your heart still constricts, and the dull ache in your stomach becomes stronger.
“Are you okay?”
You gaze at Wonwoo, who gives you a sympathetic smile.
“Let’s just get out of here.”
The hotel room was heavy with humidity and the echo of last night’s choices. Joshua stirred in his sleep, dreaming of one of the best nights of his life.
It’s the night of your graduation, and he took you to the spot you claimed for many years as your own: the lookout. It was the edge of the mountain that overlooked the small town you were from. You could see your high school, the beach, and if you squinted hard enough, your houses. It was your favorite place to be. You were barefoot on the hood of his beat-up car, chin tilted toward the stars, a locket glinting softly at your throat. Joshua sat beside you, one knee up, his hand warm where it brushed yours—careless, then intentional, then still.
“I love you,” Joshua murmured, looking at you like you were the constellations themselves.
“I know, silly.” You rolled and faced him, your index finger caressing the right side of his cheek. “I love you, too.”
Joshua leaned in and kissed you, the feeling of your lips against yours setting his soul on fire. The ring he planned to propose to you with burned in his pocket, and it took all the restraint in the world to not pull it out and put it on your finger. But deep down, he knew that night was not the time, and he would savor the idea of marrying you just a little bit longer.
“I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”
You didn’t say a word back; you just kissed and kissed until you both felt content, cuddling underneath the stars. Joshua felt like he could fly with you that night, and he would have never imagined that shortly after, you would be the one to clip his wings.
Bzzt Bzzt!
The constant vibration of his phone on the nightstand woke him from his slumber, relentless in its rhythm, until he groggily reached for it and pressed the side button. Joshua lay flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face, blocking the sliver of sunlight that seeped through the blinds. The brunette beside him, Trixie, was still asleep; her perfume clinging to the sheets like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.
He stared at the ceiling, nursing a slight headache and an aching heart. He was supposed to have moved on by now, evolved, and left you behind. Content. But now you are back in his orbit, disturbing his peace, consuming his every thought. Not even his dreams are safe—you, laughing in the passenger seat with your shoes off, legs on the dash. You, tearing up as you watched the town sparkle like it was yours for the taking. You leaving a couple of months later without a goodbye. His mother’s voice is in his head, telling him she will find someone better for him and that you were never good enough. She never did, and he wasn’t surprised; no one could measure up to you, and he gave up on even trying.
His phone buzzed again on the nightstand. Tiredly, he reached for it, swiping open the text message from Jihoon.
Jihoon: Press day. Meet by the paddock entrance at 12.
Joshua reacted with a thumbs-up to the message, watching as the bubbles of an incoming message from Jihoon followed.
Jihoon: What’s the situation with 'Birdie’?
Joshua stared at the screen, unsure how to answer that. He can barely wrap his head around it himself, let alone have the extra brain power to explain it.
Ignoring the message, he exhaled and sat up slowly. Trixie stirred beside him but didn’t wake. He padded into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turns on the shower, stepping in and letting the hot water hit his head and the rest of his body. It didn’t do shit to clear his head as he stood there, thinking of you and the way you looked yesterday in those white jeans.
He noticed you kept your distance, as if you were doing him a favor, as if professionalism could mask the history you shared with each other. As if you hadn’t been told that they were going to be together forever and that he was the one for you. Like you didn’t vanish without even having the decency to call, text, hell, even send a letter.
Joshua dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched as he remembered the slight hitch in your breath when he said your name yesterday. Birdie. He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Not really. But the way you froze? The way guilt flickered across your face before you smoothed it away with a fake smile?
It felt good… And then it felt awful.
“G’morning, handsome,” a voice lifted behind him, light as sugar.
Trixie stepped into the shower without invitation, wrapping her arms around Joshua with her bare chest pressed against his back. She smelled of roses and vodka, something that he was pretty used to. Trixie was a friend he could see whenever he wanted to have some fun and release some stress. Trixie didn’t expect anything but a good time and occasionally a conversation. She was familiar and easy to get along with, which he appreciated.
Trixie placed kisses on his neck, her hand moving with purpose along his cock and stroking him slowly. He didn’t stop her.
His breath stuttered, and he relaxed, allowing her to please him in the way she knows how, whispering dirty things in his ear.
“Were you thinking about me?”
He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Trixie worked her hands like magic, kissing his neck the right way and bringing him temporary bliss. When he came, he let out a low groan, spilling himself all over her hand, dripping onto the shower floor. He was supposed to feel lighter and better, and yet he feels more hollow than before.
“You’re normally not this serious after blowing a load,” Trixie giggled, already grabbing the body wash.
Joshua forced a smile. “I guess I am still waking up.”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded, lathering the sponge and washing his back. “When are you gonna stop playing and lock me down?”
Joshua turned his head toward her, offering a smirk he didn’t mean.
“Now, baby…”
Trixie rolled her eyes and laughed. “I know, I know. Can’t blame a girl for tryin’.”
She kissed his jaw and finished washing up, leaving him in the steam of the shower and his own thoughts. He exhaled, glancing at the fogged-up mirror across from him. His reflection was a blur, but even through the dissipating steam, he did not recognize himself.
The golden hour light shines through your hotel bedroom as you sit on the bed, reviewing footage from the documentary. You’ve been at it for hours, combing through every shot and finding yourself stuck at the interview portion, where you were face-to-face with Joshua.
Joshua is very handsome on camera and even better looking in person. It’s almost too easy to fall for his charms, his smile, and his soft, spoken voice, but you know him. Watching the scene, he seemed polite, but you couldn’t help but jump at the subtle jabs he took at you. “I am conscientious about my life and who I let in. Past experiences have made it that way,” and “Don’t count on forever. Forever isn’t promised to anyone, and people can change their minds and fly away, like birds when the seasons change.” Those sentences haven’t left your mind since. It didn’t help that he practically stormed out of there after the interview was done, leaving nothing but a trail of ice in his wake.
You would be a liar if you didn’t admit to yourself that you hadn’t thought about him over the years, wondered how he was doing. Missed him even. Of course, you see him in the news, and your family still lives in your hometown, so you hear tidbits about him here and there. But it’s not the same as talking to him, getting into his mind, and seeing how he is doing firsthand. You know, ultimately, you made the right choice by not staying in that small town and pursuing your dreams, but you never wanted to hurt Joshua. You loved him, and all these years later, as much as he hates you, you still care about him.
He was your best friend, the one person you had on this Earth that you could tell anything to, and he would never judge you. He never told you a lie, loved you like no other, and made you feel safe. Yes, you were teenagers then, but it didn’t feel like teenage love; it felt like destiny. That’s why it was hard to tell you wanted to leave and pursue your dreams of filmmaking. You knew if you told him, he would drop everything for you, and you would not be the reason why he didn’t soar on his own to be who he is now.
Your phone rings loudly across the room, breaking your focus but providing a much-needed distraction. Scrambling to grab it, Vernon’s contact flashes on the screen, making you pause before you answer.
“What’s up, Vern?”
“Nothing much, Birdie,” Vernon says in a teasing tone.
“Ugh, you heard about that, huh?" You groan, plopping on the bed. The last thing you wanted was for everyone else to know about your history with Joshua and the messiness that came with it. “I’m going to beat Wonwoo with his camera.”
“Actually, Wonwoo isn’t the one who needs the beating,” Vernon discloses. “It was Chan. I heard him talking about it in passing with Jihoon.”
“Oh god,” You let out a frustrated sigh.
“Yeah. So what’s the story there?” Vernon presses further.
You roll your eyes, blowing a raspberry in the air. “There is no story. He is my ex-boyfriend from high school. We broke up, and now, years later, I am here interviewing him for this documentary. Your documentary, by the way.”
“Geez, why are you getting all snippy with me?” Vernon chuckles through the speaker. “Obviously, there is more to the story, but you can keep that to yourself.”
There is a slight pause, with shuffling noises heard on the phone, which makes you sit up. “Vernon, I’m sure you didn’t call to ask me about my sordid love affair with my ex-boyfriend.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” Vernon discloses, hearing the door shut behind him. “I need you to stay and film some of the races.”
“How many?”
“Uh, enough to cover all three days?”
You drop the phone on your face, making you wince in pain. You planned to leave Miami tomorrow night and put all of this behind you. Maybe this is you flying away, but this is warranted. Staying here is suffocating you slowly.
“What happened to ‘sticking to the schedule,’ Vernon?
“Pfft, I make the schedule,” Vernon chuckles. “Listen, I got a call from the powers that be, and they want it included in the documentary. What can I do?”
You want to argue back, but you bite your tongue instead. You signed onto this project as a favor to him, who looked out for you when you were just starting in the business and needed some guidance. You could technically say screw it and leave, but you don’t want to do that to your friend.
“Fine,” you let out a sigh. “I assume Wonwoo will be around to help?”
“Well, of course. I sent him down there to film some of the press day earlier. He should be sending that to us both shortly.”
“Alright,” you clear your throat. “I’ll coordinate some things with Wonwoo and send them to you.”
“Sounds good,” Vernon replies. “And listen, I appreciate you being cool about this. I will owe you one.”
“Oh, you bet your ass you will,” you chortle, disconnecting the call.
Your stomach rumbles loudly, followed by an ache that says if you don’t eat something, your body will take you out. You could have ordered room service, but if you stay in this room any longer, you will go crazy. The sun has completely disappeared over the horizon, wiping out the last bit of natural light you had. With a sigh, you slip on your shoes and quietly leave your room, opting to take the elevator to the restaurant in the hotel. As the elevator descends, you can almost taste the warmth of a freshly cooked bread and soup, something you crave to satisfy your soul.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you instinctively pull it out, reading the email from Wonwoo containing the files from the event. Your head is down when you bump into someone’s back, almost losing your balance and falling over them. You shove your phone in your pocket, feeling mortified and embarrassed for not paying attention.
“I’m so sor—”
You find yourself face to face with the one person you hoped to avoid at least for the day—Joshua, whose eyes briefly widened with shock before changing his expression to indifference. The transition brought a sharp ping to your stomach that made you almost want to keel over.
“Oh,“ Joshua remarks, straightening his shirt. “I didn’t think you would still be here.”
“Me neither,” you reply. “It just got extended through the weekend.”
“Hm,” he nods. “Sounds like you aren’t flying away by your choice.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, irritation slowly creeping in at that jab. If only I could fly away right now, you thought to yourself. You know you’re the villain in this story, breaking this golden boy’s heart and changing the trajectory of his life, but your patience is wearing thin. How many times is he going to keep poking the bear? Is this fun for him?
You glance behind Joshua, meeting the gaze of Jihoon, who was talking to the waiter ahead. As if he sensed tension, he turned around and saw you and Joshua coming over to you shortly after.
“Hey, didn’t think I’d see you here,” Jihoon greets you. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” you smile at him. “I am hoping to get a quick bite to eat before I go back to work.”
“Ah,” he bobs. “Well, I talked to the hostess, and they have one table left, and the wait time after that is about 30 minutes to an hour.”
Your stomach aches again, prompting you to place your hands on your abdomen to alleviate the hunger pain. Joshua looks at you curiously, and you quickly turn away. You should have stayed in bed and ordered room service.
“Well, there goes dinner,” you say. “I guess I’ll head back to the room. You guys have a good night.”
“No, wait,” Jihoon says suddenly. “Why don’t you share the table with us? No sense of having to wait an hour for food.”
“Oh, that’s not—” you and Joshua both say in unison.
“It’s fine,” Jihoon insists. “Think of it like car pooling, but it’s with a table.”
“Excuse me,” the hostess calls out to your group. “The table is ready.”
Jihoon thanks the waiter and turns back to you and Joshua, arching an eyebrow with a feign of impatience. “Don’t you guys want to eat?”
You bite your lip nervously, your eyes shifting to Joshua. “I can go somewhere else and eat, honestly. I don’t want to rain on your parade.”
“You’re fine,” Joshua says, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna be the bad guy who didn’t let you eat.”
He walks off before you can respond, your mind buzzing with noise and three little words: what the fuck.
You follow them into the dining hall, choosing a seat at the very back to avoid the curious eyes that were watching the three of you as you walked by. The room was filled with lively conversation and the sounds of clinking glasses, plates, and cutlery in a dimly lit setting. A waiter quickly approaches and places fresh bread and oil in front of you, filling the air with the delicious aroma of freshly baked goods. Your mouth waters at the enticing smell.
You break off a piece of the bread, hands trembling slightly, and dunk it into the oil—olive and herbaceous, with a subtle heat that kicks at the back of your throat. It’s delicious, and for a few seconds, it distracts you from the awkwardness settling at your table like a third guest.
Jihoon, always the natural buffer, flips open his menu with casual ease. “I heard the mushroom risotto is decent,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the page. “And the steak’s apparently overrated. Just saying.”
You hum in acknowledgment, focusing on chewing your bread rather than the awkwardness of sharing dinner with your ex. Speaking of Joshua, he is quiet— not brooding, just unreadable. He’s barely touched his many, just skimming through the first page and setting it down like there wasn’t more to see. You avoid eye contact like the plague, insisting on looking at the interior of the restaurant and everyone around you.
“Did you get all the footage you needed today?” Jihoon asks.
“Yeah, we did,” you reply, brushing breadcrumbs from your hands. “I am still sifting through the footage, and I am staying to film some of the races. I am reviewing the interview now.”
“Oh, that,” Joshua finally spoke, catching you off guard. “How did that come out?”
“Uh, it came out fine,” you say carefully. “I think your answers were concise and to the point.”
“Good,” he nods. “I would hate for any of my words to be misconstrued as anything other than the truth.”
“Why would it be misconstrued?” You fold your arms.
“No reason, really,” Joshua shrugs nonchalantly. “I just want to be up front about everything, since it wasn’t always afforded to me.”
You glance down, chuckling softly to mask your irritation. You’re not naive; you can feel the bitterness hidden in those words.
Jihoon frowns between the two of you, a hint of confusion flickering across his face. “Okay, what am I missing?”
“Nothing,” you and Joshua say at the same time.
Jihoon raises an eyebrow and shrugs while you pop another piece of warm, crusty bread in your mouth. This is not an ideal situation to say the least, but you’re starving, and this piece of bread is your saving grace until this is over. Tiny bubbles of anxiety churn in your chest, urging you to focus on the menu in front of you. You scan the options, heart racing a little, and impulsively select the first dish that catches your eye.
The waiter comes back, and you place an order for tomato soup, while Woozi settles for the salmon risotto, and Joshua orders chicken linguine. With a nod, the waiter quietly takes your menus, leaving you three alone until the food arrives.
“So how do you two know each other?”
You look up slowly and glance at Joshua, wondering if he will throw you a bone and say anything. He makes no effort to speak, and annoyance stirs in your chest once again.
“We grew up together,” you disclose, sitting back in your chair. “He was my neighbor and we went to the same schools.”
“Ah, so you guys are old friends?” Jihoon asks curiously.
"Well, you could say that," you respond nervously.
“Come on, Birdie. We were more than just friends,” Joshua says casually. “We dated from sixth grade through senior year. Does that time mean nothing to you?”
Jihoon’s eyes widen, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he looks everywhere but you two. Your mouth is agape, and your face heats up in embarrassment, your throat tightening as your words seem to fail you.
“N-no, that’s not it,” you falter. “It did mean something to me. It does, I mean. I just don’t see the point of bringing it up now. It’s been years.”
“Wow.” Joshua scoffs, folding his arms. “So what was I? Just a fleeting moment to you until you flew away from the nest?”
“W-what? That’s not true.” You feel the anger rising throughout your throat. “Really, Joshua? Do you really want to do this here?”
“We might as well,” Joshua challenges.
“Actually, guys—” Jihoon interjects. “Maybe do this later? People are staring.”
You glance around the dining hall, meeting the concerned eyes of fellow guests. You didn’t mean to raise your voice, but you’re tired of being picked on. Not once did he bother to ask for your side of the story or speak to you as a human being. You know you have no right to be mad; you’re the bad guy. But the relentless series of jabs, each one stinging you like a bee. You’ve had enough.
“Jihoon, I appreciate your hospitality and inviting me to eat with you both,” you say, wiping your mouth on a napkin. “But I’m going to leave. See you tomorrow at the races.”
You get out of your seat, pushing your chair in and refusing to meet Joshua’s eyes. You pull out cash from your wallet, setting it down for your portion of the meal. You know that if you stay longer, you will say something you will regret. As much as you feel bad for leaving the way you did, you refuse to be disrespected.
“There you go, running away again,” you heard him mutter under his breath.
You let out a low chuckle, turning slowly towards him. “Yes, I am running away. I won't be where I am not wanted. Do I need to ask you for permission to use the toilet next?”
You leave before he could respond, the heat of anger consuming your heart and mind like a wildfire. The adrenaline rushes throughout your body as you storm out of the hotel and into the night, needing to let the steam blow out of your ears. You instantly regret your parting words to him, guilt eating at you like a parasite. The crazy thing is that you aren’t entirely mad at Joshua. Annoyed? Yes. But most importantly, you’re angry at yourself for letting it get this far, for having to face what you have been suppressing: you still think about him.
“Joshua, what the hell was that?”
Jihoon came back to the table after telling the waiter to cancel your order of tomato soup. Joshua sat at the table, stewing over your parting words before you walked away. You were angry? He was the one left behind, from the future that they could have had. You were his best friend, the closest thing he could hold dear to his heart, and you just cut him out of his life like he was nothing. Then you skip over the essential parts of your history like it was nothing, while your very presence makes him want to go up a wall.
“She drives me crazy,” Joshua said bitterly. “So many other documentaries she could have done, and yet she had to do the one about MY team. It’s like she likes rubbing it in my face.”
“Rubbing it in your face?” Jihoon said, confused. “Did it not end well?”
Joshua looked at him solemnly and let out a deep breath. “She wasn’t just any ex; she was the one. I wanted to marry her; I had a ring for her and everything. We had been together since we were kids, and we promised that after graduation, we would stay together forever. She was my best friend.”
He paused, fiddling with the napkin on the table. “One day, we were supposed to go out on a date by the beach, and I planned to propose to her right then and there. But she never showed up. I went to her parents and found out she had moved across the country the day before, without telling me where she was going or what her plans were. She had even told me she loved me the night before.”
Reliving that day felt like a stab to the heart. The look in your mother’s eyes when she had to break the news, watching him fall apart at their doorsteps. Joshua was torn up for weeks, barely getting out of bed unless it was to work on his car or run errands for his mom. He always knew at a young age that he wanted to be a racer and see the world, and he hoped that he would be able to do that with you by his side. Was he not enough? Why didn’t you talk to him? Why did you leave?
“Love aside, man,” he sniffed dryly. “She was my best friend, and she ghosted me. That’s not how you treat someone you care about or love. I know it sounds silly, still being mad about it years later, but hearing her willing to skip over our relationship, our bond, like it was nothing. I don’t know, it sets me off, man.”
Joshua exhaled deeply, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he raked his fingers through his hair. This surge of feelings felt foreign to him; he’s the poster boy of being cool, calm, and collected. He thinks rationally, with a clear head, and always keeps his emotions at bay. But you stir something in him like a tazmanian devil, leaving his heart and every string attached ruined in your wake.
“I’m going to go,” Joshua announced, getting up from the table. “Just tell the waiter to put the food in a to-go box and bring it to me later?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jihoon said with concern in his eyes. “Are you going to be alright for tomorrow? The team is depending on us.”
“I’ll be fine,” Joshua reassured him. “I just need to get some air. This week has been fucked.”
Jihoon nodded firmly as Joshua walked away, leaving the dining hall with a whirlwind of thoughts. Rather than heading to his hotel, he decisively chose to take a walk to clear his mind under the night sky. He turned toward the park, sitting on a weathered wooden bench directly in front of the shimmering lake. White ducks and their young swam by peacefully, the complete oxymoron of the unrest Joshua was feeling inside.
Jihoon was right—he needed to get his head together, erase you from his mind, and wipe away the seeping connection that is pouring into his heart. He was supposed to be over you, moved on, and evolved. But instead, he is here, in turmoil over the girl he thought he would never have to see again, making him address the repressed feelings he had hidden for so long—you still hold most of the space in his heart.
Fuck, he muttered to himself. Why did it have to be you of all people?
He remembered the day you both graduated from high school and how proud you looked when you held your diplomas. You had the look of love in your eyes that seemed sincere. Did you know you were leaving him then? Was it all a joke to you when you thrived in college while he was in his hometown, in mourning? Did you care when his mom died? A torrent of thoughts flooded his mind, each one intensifying the slow-burning ember of anger that smoldered within him.
Joshua exhaled deeply, feeling the craving for a cigarette intensify with each breath he took. He had quit smoking a few months ago and had been managing well, but the current situation was pushing him to his limits, making him want to relieve the pressure. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Trixie's number, his thumb hovering over the call button. However, something held him back—his better judgment urging him not to make the call.
I’ll just sleep it off… I have a long day ahead.
He made his way back to the hotel, pushing the images of happy faces and hand-holding out of his view like a blur, the humid air slowly suffocating him. A moment later, he found himself at the front of the hotel, slipping into one of the elevators and pressing the close button rapidly, wanting to be alone. The elevator hummed as he pressed floor 12, the centralized cool air and music distracting him as he went up, his chest feeling lighter when he thought about his soft bed and the quietness it would bring.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened slowly at his stop, peace finally finding him as he stepped out, and he laid eyes on his room. That peace, however, was short-lived when the elevators next to him opened, and you walked out, your shocked eyes meeting his, full of the same fire that he felt inside.
“Joshua.”
“Birdie.”
You walked in the opposite direction from him, making your way slowly toward the last room on the right. Questions still burned in the back of his mind, and he needed closure to understand why you did it. It was now or never; otherwise, he would be left searching for answers for the next ten years.
“Birdie,” Joshua called out. “We need to talk.”
You stare at him, debating if you want to have another round of him calling you every coward in the book. Your peace is shattered, your nerves are frayed, and all you want is to lie in bed and pretend this never happened. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You just push things away, don’t deal with things… You just fly away.
Letting out a deep breath, you straighten your shoulders, deciding to face the elephant in the room. “Your room or mine?”
He gestures for you to follow him to his room, turning and walking to room number 1231. A month ago, if someone had told you that you would be interviewing your first love again and entering his hotel room, you would have wondered what they were smoking. Life truly is ironic.
You walk into his hotel room, which is identical to yours, but it features a breathtaking view of the city, overlooking the park that shines under the bright lights. His belongings are neatly put away in the closet and drawers. The room is adorned with a sense of order, and it smells of clean, fresh linen. It evokes nostalgia, recalling the many times you spent in his childhood bedroom, always smelling clean without a speck of dust. Some things never change.
You take a seat on the chair by the window, studying him as he takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet. Your hands rest in your lap, your thumbs twiddling idly as he gets settled, unsure of how to start this conversation or what to say. Do you tell him you're sorry and you missed him all these years? That you never meant to hurt him? Does it even matter now?
“Joshua, I—”
“Why did you leave?”
He sits on the bed, legs open with his hands slightly behind his back, studying your every move. You feel vulnerable and exposed, like someone who has to answer for their crimes in front of a judge, but instead, it’s to a former love you still care for. You hate it.
“Were you unhappy with me?” Joshua presses further. “Did you not love me anymore?
“No, Joshua, it wasn’t that—”
“We used to be able to talk about anything.”
“I know, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“You were my dream—”
“THAT WAS THE PROBLEM!”
Your chest rises and falls like a wrecking ball, breaking every wall you had that held back your emotions. “That was the problem. You would have given everything up for me. If I told you that I was accepted into one of the most critically acclaimed schools in the country, and I was moving across the country, you would drop everything for me. “
“But why—”
“I’m not done,” you raise your hand, interrupting him. “I knew about the ring, okay? I went into your room one time when you were at practice to get the hoodie you asked for, and I saw it. I know that ring was passed down through generations in your family, and it just felt too real. I even tried it on. I felt like I was suffocating, and I needed to breathe. Find myself. Fly away, as you call it.”
The hurt in his eyes is evident, a soft reminder of the seventeen-year-old kid you promised to give your life to. For the first time in years, you feel your heart break.
“I could have handled it better instead of ghosting you, and I am sorry. I will be sorry for the rest of my life. But I don’t regret leaving, going to my dream school, I dreamed of going to, and being who I am now.”
Your breathing slows, and your body feels lighter after releasing what has weighed on your heart all this time. A quiet exhale escapes your lips, leaving your mind clearer than ever before. You observe Joshua processing your words, a mixture of hurt and understanding on his face, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions that you can’t describe other than pain.
“Birdie, I,” he stumbles over his words. “Why didn’t you talk to me? Tell me how you felt? I would have done anything you wanted. I knew you liked films, but I didn’t think you were that passionate about them. It makes sense why you made me watch all three Godfather movies.”
Your mouth curves into a slight grin, reminiscing about that day. It was on Sundays during junior year summer break, and he would just come home from an early church service, suited in a nice shirt, dress pants, and shoes. His mother didn’t like you much, said you were corrupting his good boy, but Joshua always stood up for you, and she begrudgingly allowed you two to be, with open doors, of course. You brought three DVDs for the trilogy and you begged him to watch them with her, promising to do whatever he wanted for a week. He didn’t need that; he just wanted to make you happy. To be yours.
He sat through all three movies with no complaints, listening to you ramble about each scene and asking questions when needed. It was the first time you realized that you LOVE film, and you wanted to be the one creating them. You wanted to make people feel the way you did when you watched it for the first time. It spurred you to join the film club in high school, helped you get the necessary recommendations for colleges, and led you to apply off a whim to the top school in California. When the acceptance letter arrived, you thought it was a prank and called the admissions office three times to make sure. You were excited, happier than ever, and you did plan to tell him your plans and figure out where to go from there.
But then you saw the ring. Everything changed after that.
“I was afraid of disappointing you,” you confess. “You had our future mapped out, and I knew that racing was your thing and you were going to pursue that while I went to the community college. Get an apartment, make it big in the racing world, and be something great. But getting that letter, it was the one thing that was mine, something that wasn’t tied to anyone else. It showed that I could have a future in doing something that I wanted. And I had to take that chance, Joshua. It didn’t mean I didn’t love you or didn’t care about you.”
You watch him run his fingers through his hair, watching him try to make sense of how you felt and understand the decision that you made, his brows furrowing deeper.
“I loved you so much,” Joshua says softly. “You were my best friend underneath it all, and you just left. You didn’t write me a letter, call, text, or anything. I had to find out from your mom that you left. Do you know how much you hurt me? How FUCKED I was?”
A moment of silence fell between you two, the tension thick and swallowing you both alive.
“Did you know about my mom? Hmm?” Joshua probes, inching towards you. “Did you even care that she passed? Did you ever care about me?”
His words feel like a dagger to the chest, cruelly piercing your heart and leaving an indelible ache. It doesn’t matter what your answer would be to that; he is determined to hate you anyway.
You can’t take it anymore; you need to leave.
“I-I’m sorry, Joshua,” you say quietly, the weight of your words hanging in the air. “I’m going to go.”
You rise from the chair and make it halfway to the door before you feel your hand being pulled back towards Joshua, a wild look in his eyes. “You don’t get to run away this time. Face this.”
“What do you want me to stay?” You’re frustrated; every raw emotion simmering just beneath the surface. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry? That I have regretted leaving you the way I did ever since I left, and I have NEVER stopped thinking about you over the years? Wondered how you were doing and if you were happy? Well congratul-fucking-lations, Joshua, you got it—”
You are cut off by Joshua abruptly, pulling you into a fervent kiss that is all-consuming and heartfelt. It leaves you breathless and weak in the knees.
“Joshua—”
“Stop,” he pleads, his eyes soft. “Just stay with me… please.”
Your mind is screaming at you to leave, to pretend this never happened, and go on like the professional you are. You got your closure, and he understands why you left. But your heart is beating a different tune, begging you to stay, to give in, and to quit fighting.
“Kiss me again.”
His lips crash against yours, igniting a rush of electricity that sends shivers down your spine. You let him take control, following his lead until the backs of your legs are touching the soft covers of his bed. His hands caress your face, leaving your skin tingling, and you haven’t felt more alive.
Your thoughts are none; the cravings of your heart and body take over your movements as you help Joshua out of his shirt, revealing a bare chest that was made for marking. He continues to kiss you ravenously, his tongue sliding into your mouth and playing with yours. Suddenly, your shirt feels too hot and restrictive against your skin. You break the kiss quickly to take it off, revealing a black lace bra that you randomly wore, which also happens to be his favorite color.
“Get on the bed, baby.” Joshua’s voice is barely above a whisper.
You nod quietly, scooting on the bed backwards, lying back as he climbs on top of you. He kisses you again, leaving you with a fervor that you have never felt before. You weren’t a virgin by any means, but you haven’t had a lot of experience either. You focused on work throughout the years, allowing yourself to have fun every once in a while if you felt like you deserved it. But this, the way he is touching you, moaning in your mouth as he positions himself in between your legs, has your blood pumping hot.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, trailing his index finger across your face. “So angelic.”
“Am I?”
His eyes shift for a moment, soft and pure, as if he is looking at the most precious thing. “Let me show you.”
He kisses you again, moving down towards your neck, sucking on your skin that is bound to leave you with purple hues that you will have to answer for later. Joshua is enamored with you, reaching behind you and unhooking your bra in one go like a pro, almost like he has had plenty of practice doing this. You quickly remind yourself that this is not the same Joshua you knew years ago. This one is more evolved and experienced— but one thing remains the same: he is still eager to please.
“You’re perfect.”
You bite your lip, unable to form a coherent thought as you fall deeper into a pool of bliss with his tongue swirling around your nipples. He groans against your breast, like he is savoring the taste of your sweet-smelling skin. You have never been worshipped or wanted in this way, and it leaves you feeling crazed and wanting more.
“This feels good,” you coo, stroking his hair. “I want you.”
“I want you too,” Joshua confesses. “I always have.”
He kisses down your stomach, each one searing and igniting something in you, animalistic, wanting to consume everything he has to offer. Your breath hitches when his fingers play with the hem of your pants, lowering them and sliding them off your legs, and throwing them on the floor. You feel raw, exposed, and when he pulls you towards the edge of the bed, your hands grasp the cover, bracing for his next move.
“Joshua?” You find your voice, barely.
“Yeah?”
You smile softly, a striking contrast to the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. “Do your worst.”
A low chuckle leaves his lips, your panties being pulled to the side, revealing your slick arousal. Joshua’s eyes darken at the sight of you, his thumb brushing gently against your inner thigh.
“You’re wet for me, already? I’ve barely touched you, baby.”
He glances up at you through his lashes, a faint smirk playing at his lips as your panties are being removed and thrown where your pants are. You bite your lip, watching him, the tension in your stomach coiling tighter.
“Joshua…” you whisper. “Don’t hold back.”
"I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pressing an open-mouth kiss to your thigh. “We have years to make up for.”
The wet heat of his mouth is pressed against your clit, sucking on before lowering his tongue down to your center. The sensation is overwhelming; his tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the sweet taste that no one else has come close to doing right. He moans between your legs like he is satisfying his craving. Your hands fly to his hair instinctively when he goes faster, and a lewd moan slips from your lips, sending you further into a deep bliss.
He’s filthy, lapping up your juices and tongue fucking you in ways you didn’t know existed. Your fingers grip his hair tighter, your hips figuring out the rhythm of his tongue and riding it, more moans from him sending vibrations throughout your body.
“Yeah, just that,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”
He eats you with an insatiable hunger, leaving you delirious, making it harder to think, harder to breathe. The pleasure builds, spreading like fire through your veins, until you can’t hold back the sounds escaping you.
“JOSHUA!” you cry out.
You fall apart, every nerve snapping like a live wire. You spill over in a way that you can’t stop, making a mess of the blanket and Joshua’s face as he continues to drink in everything you have to offer. Heat floods your face in shame, pleasure hitting you like a euphoric high that you don’t want to come down from. You have never done that before.
His grip tightens at your hips, holding you still as he leaves a lasting kiss on your center. Your breathing slows, and you look at the ceiling, too embarrassed to look at him in the eye.
“What’s on your mind?” He murmurs against your skin.
“Nothing,” you sigh softly.
“Birdie…”
“Okay, fine,” you sit up, meeting his gaze. “I am just trying to grapple with the fact that I got eaten out by my ex, who I thought up until now hated me, and I ended up doing that.”
You point at the blanket, a wet spot as big as Texas, thanks to you.
“Have you ever done that before?” Joshua asks, his index finger trailing down your leg.
You shift uncomfortably, refusing to look into his eyes again. “No.”
“Oh? So I’m your first… again.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Joshua climbs over you, pushing you back towards the bed as he kisses you again. “You have a smart mouth.”
“Yeah? What about it?”
Feeling bold, you reach down to his pants, undoing his belt and the button hiding beneath it. He studies you carefully, a cocky grin on his face that begrudgingly sets your insides on fire. “We have to do something about that.”
He shoves his pants and boxers down and kicks them off his leg, his cock already hard, glistening, and dripping with precum. He lies next to you on the bed, stroking himself while beckoning you to come closer, and you can’t help but think this is a man.
You know what he wants; it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. You lean over him, leaving a kiss on his soft tip. His breath hitches, and you smile, swirling your tongue around the base and slowly swallowing him inch by inch. He curses softly, thrusting in your mouth as if this were the last time this would ever happen.
“Shit,” he inhales sharply, groaning as you hum around him.
His fingers tighten over the back of your neck, grasping it lightly as he fucks your face. Your eyes water with tears as his cock hits the back of your throat, meeting his pace with a carnal for him, to make him feel good. Saliva slicks down your lips, spilling down your chin as your jaw aches under the relentless rhythm.
“Where…” Joshua grits his teeth. “Did you learn how to do this so well?”
Your tongue curls around a vein, one last decadent swirl before you pull off with a wet pop!
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
In a swift maneuver, he turns you over, laying you on your stomach. He smacks your derriere teasingly, watching it jiggle with a wicked look in his eyes that should scare you, but instead, you are more aroused. This Joshua may still have those kind eyes and soft voice that you fell in love with, but he has different, more grown-up up. Thrilling.
“Are you going to stare at my ass all night, or are you going to fuck me?” You taunt him.
“Lift,” he commands, smacking it again.
You do as you’re told, lifting up slightly as he lines himself against your entrance, his tip teasing your lower lips. He enters slowly, stretching you out deliciously as he lets you adjust to his size, your hands instinctively gripping the blanket.
“God, Joshua…”
“There’s nothing godly about how I am going to fuck you.”
His hips snap against you, hands pressing against the blanket as he fucks from behind. Your ass meets his hip with each stroke, desperate to feel every inch of him. He’s ravenous, kissing your back as he whispers dirty things to you, igniting a spark in you that makes your pussy wetter.
Loud moans and the slapping of skin filled the room, the headboard of the mattress banging against the wall as his thrusts became harder and more fervent. You try to hold back, but in the end, you give up, whimpering and screaming his name. You have never been fucked like this in your life, your walls squeezing his cock that leaves you feeling intoxicated and breathless.
“Don’t stop,” you cry out. “Keep fucking me just like that.”
He leans down closer to you, cupping your face towards his and giving you a salacious kiss that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re both sweaty, in the zone with each other, and in that moment, you realize you forgot to ask him about a condom. A giggle slips through your lips, breaking the kiss as you cover your face with a pillow.
“What’s so funny?” He grunts, slowing down his movements.
“I forgot to ask you about a condom,” you reply, biting your bottom lip. “It’s a little too late for that.”
“Mmhmm,” is all you hear before he presses your head further into the pillow, proceeding to fuck you like before. You feel pleasure everywhere, your skin tingling and shocks spreading throughout your body. You are incoherent, screaming into the fabric as your orgasm takes over you, shaking you through your core. Joshua doesn’t let up, the gushiness of your cunt loud and clear as he continues to pound into you, slapping your ass again for his pleasure.
“I-I’m close, baby,” Joshua sputters, kissing your shoulder. “Where do you want me?”
You are shaking, too overstimulated and fucked out to answer, lazily waving your hand to say anything, not caring if he understood what you meant. With a shattered breath, he moans your name, your real name, and pulls out of you shortly before he releases, sending spurts of his hot load on your back and lower. You close your eyes, catching your breath as you finally come down from cloud nine.
“Stay there,” he says softly.
You hear him go into the bathroom, and you slowly open your eyes, looking at your reflection in the picture windows. Your mind is racing with all kinds of thoughts—reality kicks in when he returns, lifting your chin and kissing you with a softness that almost turns you into puddy.
Maybe you still love him, or there are definitely some feelings there… but now isn’t the time to figure it out.
“I have the shower running,” Joshua says, wiping off his mess with a warm towel. “Join me.”
You nod silently, not saying much as you let him lead you into the bathroom by hand. Everything is a blur as he washes you from top to bottom, speaking when you were supposed to and smiling at the correct times. This was not supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to have this contention with Joshua just to end up in his bed days later. You were supposed to film this documentary, scotch-free, and move on with your life. You are a professional, barely a lover. What the fuck are you doing?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Joshua’s voice cuts through your thoughts, the fogginess in your head clearing up, and your focus is back on him.
“Honestly, no,” you confess, stepping out of the stall and grabbing a towel. “What are we doing, Joshua?”
“I don’t know,” he comes out shortly after, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Do we need to figure it out now?”
Beads of water cascade from his hair, glistening as they fall on his chest. You look away quickly, the flashbacks of being thoroughly fucked on the bed flooding your mind. Your body betrays you; your core pulsates at the thought of him inside of you again. God, he’s irresistible.
“No, we don’t, ” you shake those images away. “I’m… going to get dressed and go back to my room.”
He lets out an exasperated huff, frustration flickering across his face as he crosses his arms. “You want to leave again? After all that?”
“Joshua. Come on,” you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “You know me being here, naked at that, is no good for you and me.”
“Why?”
“Use your head. You know why.”
“No, I won’t. I can’t read your mind, Birdie.”
“I wish you did,” you mutter.
“Why?”
“Because you would know I want to do this.”
You pull him into a heated kiss, surprise etched on his face as he realizes what is happening, his arms wrapping around your body like a warm hug. It was needy, desperate, the kind that satisfied your soul deep down. He picks you up and places you on the bathroom counter, deepening your kiss as his hands cup your face. Your hands fiddle with his towel, untying it and letting it fall on the floor. The loose knot you had placed on the front of your towel is pulled away by him with ease, exposing your wet, naked body to him once more.
“Is this what you want?” He whispers, his thumb brushing against your clit softly.
You nod softly, a gasp leaving your lips in response. “Y-yeah.”
He continues to rub it softly, watching your face contort with pleasure as your sweet moans echo through the bathroom. His other hand fists his cock, the tip already at your wet entrance as he pushes himself in slowly, groaning to your tight walls around him.
“Joshua…” you warn him. “Quit teasing me.”
You witness his eyes going dark before he drives into you, holding onto your hip as he gives you what you asked for. Your mouth slips open into a breathless “O’, your eyes snap shut as he fucks you, intending to make you cum.
“Look at me,” he pleads, kissing you deeply. “Baby, look at me.”
Your eyes flutter open, tears streaming down your face from being overstimulated. He kisses them away, quickening his pace while you whimper in his ear, begging him not to stop.
“Harder, Joshua,” you gasp, digging your nails into his back. “Give me more.”
Every fuck you had has left your body, meeting his thrusts as he continues his onslaught, not showing any signs of slowing down. You're sweaty again, breathless, your throat hoarse from the amount of moans and screams you have done tonight. You keep chasing that feeling, the one that makes you feel like you’re going to burst every time he hits your spot, leaving sweet kisses on your neck and chest. As if he read your mind, his fingers snake to your clit, pinching it unexpectedly, which sends you over the edge.
“JOSHUA!” You let out a choked sob, convulsing over his cock as you meet your orgasm again.
He watches you in amazement, his own movements becoming rigid and sloppy, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He kisses you with feeling and depth that didn’t need words to comprehend how he was feeling this very moment. There was a look in his eyes that made you feel warm— the look of someone who is still madly in love.
“Go ahead,” you soothe, unable to form a complete sentence. “Inside me.”
He nods desperately, breathing hard in the crook of your neck as he pours himself into you. You instinctively rub his back as he shudders, coming down from your high, hazy, and energy-depleted. His movements are still, and he stays in place, holding you close like you’re going to fly away.
“Are you okay?” He pulls himself off of you slightly, looking into your eyes softly.
“I’m fine,” you reply, leaning your head back against the mirror. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”
He studies you carefully, entirely pulling out of you, leaking cum dripping from his cock. The weight of your actions settles in deeper than it did earlier, as you realize you may have made things more complicated. You don’t know if you could call yourself in love with him, but you can’t deny the attraction and affection that you feel. As much as you tried to push it in the back of your mind all these years, you did miss him. But how do you tell him that?
Joshua helps you off the counter, making sure you can stand on your own carefully. There is no longer a look of indifference, hatred, or sadness in his eyes. They radiate love, something soft and nostalgic, like you had the first time. Your heart beats for him, yearning to hold him close and never let him go. Figure it out somewhere along the lines. But do you deserve that?
The constant ping pong of logic vs. emotion in your head gives you a headache, and you want nothing more than to lay your head on a pillow and sleep. You feel his eyes burn in the back of your head as you both step back into the stall, washing your bodies clean of the latest round of sin.
“We don’t have to figure it out now, Birdie,” Joshua assures you as he washes your back. “Let’s just talk about it in the morning.”
“Tomorrow is Day 1, did you forget?” you sigh, remembering tomorrow’s schedule. “I don’t want to cause any distractions for you or interrupt your routine. Plus, I have to film and interview you and Jihoon, remember?”
“I know,” he replies, rinsing the soap off your back. “Look, I don’t want to go another ten years without us talking or figuring this out. I still love you, Birdie.”
His confession hits you like a bolt from the blue, leaving you in shock and your head spinning. There’s no way he still loves you after all this time, right? After what you did?
“Joshua, I—”
“You don’t have to reply to that yet,” he interrupts softly, turning you towards him. “Can you just stay the night? Please?”
The alarms are going off in your head, telling you that this is a terrible idea and you should run. Your instinct screams at you, drowning out your rational thoughts. You look at him, and you see hope shining in his eyes, and it feels like knives in your gut. Do you want to give him false hope about what you are feeling, and you don’t even know yourself? How can you face yourself in the morning?
But once again, your body betrays you as fatigue hits you like a bag of sand, and deep inside, your heart has an overwhelming desire to be wanted, and you can’t deny that anymore.
After a moment of contemplating, you take a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
The roar from the crowd of fans was deafening, the wallops and cheers barely registering as Joshua climbed out of the pit. He barely made it, reaching 10th place, which is unlike him. Joshua almost always places first. He pulled off his helmet, sweat dripping from the side of his face and his neck. His Principle, Seungcheol, was hot on his tail, the sound of his boots thundering behind him.
“Hong, we need to talk.”
A journalist from CaratSports beelined towards him, determined to get a statement about the disastrous result out there. Seungcheol cursed under his breath, giving him a mean side eye before walking into the garage.
“Joshua, I have to say, you haven’t placed lower than 3rd place since your rookie year. Do you care to explain what happened out there?”
“No excuse, Rich,” Joshua responded, giving his best face of the franchise smile. “I wasn’t at my best out there. My head wasn’t in the race. I’ll do better tomorrow.”
Joshua wasn’t lying; He was distracted— because of you. You haven’t left his mind since that night a couple of days ago, and the next day, instead of finding you in bed sleeping next to him, you left him a note: “I’m not flying away. We will talk soon.” He had hoped you would find him yesterday and discuss everything, but it seemed you were only interested in filming the test rounds and left shortly after. Was that note supposed to comfort him and make him feel sane while he waited on you, again?
It seemed like nothing had changed all these years.
He gave Rich a polite nod before going into the garage, meeting the stares of Jihoon, Chan, and Seungcheol, who looked like he was going to blow a gasket.
“What the hell was that out there, Hong?” Seungcheol fired at him.
“Nothing, Cheol,” he replied, irritated as he removed his fire jacket. “I wasn’t in it today; I have a lot on my mind.”
"Well, no shit,” Seungcheol retorted, stepping closer to him. “You need to get your head in the game, Hong. You drove like you were in la-la land during the test run yesterday and today’s race. Keep this up, and Chan will be racing in your place sooner than you think.”
“Loud and clear,” Joshua bristled. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Seungcheol shot back. “Figure out whatever the hell is eating you before it costs us more points.”
He stormed out of the garage, leaving Joshua with Chan and Jihoon. Chan looked at him nervously as the younger racer with a promising future approached him slowly.
“Just so you know, I didn’t petition for your spot or anything,” Chan raised his hands. “I didn’t expect him to say that.”
Joshua glanced at him, his irritation fading away. He knows it’s not Chan’s fault, or anyone else's. He drove out there with his hand in the storm clouds, and it almost cost him the race.
“I know, bro,” Joshua reassured him. “I’m the one who messed up today. I’ll get us back to where we need to be tomorrow.”
Chan nodded, his face much relaxed. “Okay, good. Im going to find Cheol and make sure he is good.”
He watches him leave and leans back against the desk, his mind swirling with the day’s events. This was a race he should have easily won, yet thoughts of you clouded his focus. Ever since you popped up in his life again, everything felt chaotic and familiar all at once, throwing off his rhythm and igniting a tension he couldn't shake.
He narrowly escaped the press looking to ask questions about your performance, no doubt. He didn’t have the heart for it today. Plus, Jihoon was talking to the crowd, and he seemed to manage everything with ease. Climbing into his sleek black G-Wagon, he fired up the engine, leaving behind the frenzy of the lot. The tires gripped the pavement as he sped towards the hotel, the city whizzing by in a blur, with a determination to shower, clear his head, and seek you out.
Pulling into the parking lot, he took the back entrance to the elevators, going straight to his room before he could be seen. He passed your door on the way, and he wondered if you were in your room, and if you thought of him at all. He wondered if you felt the same pull that you did, that wanted to be close and never let go. The truth is, Joshua never stopped loving you. He tried to deny and push it to the side, but you being here, living and breathing, makes it impossible to ignore what he has been feeling inside. And he needs you to know that.
Everything happens quickly. He showers quickly, washing away the sweat and shame of barely making the qualifying position. He hurriedly puts on a shirt and grey sweatpants, his tunnel vision never being so clear. His pulse was high, adrenaline from the track and eagerness to speak with you taking over him.
He stepped out of his room, squarely bumping into Trixie, who was dressed in a tight black dress that hugged her curves and heels that were screaming to be taken off. The familiar smell of her rose perfume wafted from her.
“Joshua,” she greeted him, holding a bottle of wine. “Just the man I wanted to see. Are we hanging out tonight?”
Joshua slowed, his steps faltering. If that night with you had never happened, he would have gladly taken up on her offer. But now, the thought of spending a night with someone who isn’t you feels empty. Not worth it.
“Not tonight, Trixie,” Joshua answered, shutting the door behind him. “I was just heading out, and I have a race tomorrow. So I need to focus, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Trixie nodded with understanding. “Maybe tomorrow night, before you leave?”
A pang of guilt resonated with him. In his mind, there was not going to be another night filled with booze and sex. Trixie was fun and was always available for a good time, but it was never serious. Unfortunately, he knows what he needs to do.
“Trixie…” He cleared his throat, fingers tightening in his pockets. “I think we should take a break.”
Her smile wavered, her eyes flickering with confusion. “Is it something I did?”
The guilt tightened his chest. He never wanted to hurt her or be an asshole, but he had to be honest about what had changed.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he reassured her. “On top of me being busy, I’m kind of involved with my ex again, and it’s complicated. You don’t deserve to be tied up in that.”
She pondered his words, and he was unsure of her reaction. But then she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, and her expression softened. “I understand, Joshua,” she said quietly. “Life is complicated, you know? It’s not like we were serious anyway.”
She gave a small shug, a gesture that was more kind than careless. “It’s fine, Joshua. I’m a big girl, I knew what I was getting into.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, the smell of her rose perfume palpable within the bridge of his nose. He watched her walk away, his mind already somewhere else— looking at your room door. His plan still tingled with the phantom memory of your skin, and every part of him was drawn back to that moment with you, in the bedroom and the bathroom.
He strided to your door, placing three knocks before you opened it carefully. You had on a plain t-shirt and shorts, with a pair of reading glasses sitting on top of your head. Your eyes widened with shock before they softened, leaning against the frame of he door.
“Joshua,” you said softly.
He swallowed, throat dry. “Can I come in?”
You blinked, clearly weighing the risk, before stepping aside. He slipped in, shutting the door behind him with care, as though even the sound of it mattered. Your room glowed in a shade of amber, notes and folders stacked over your desk, and your bed was unmade and messy. The air smelled of black jasmine tea and citrus, a hot cup steaming on the dresser. He followed your lead, sitting on the bed, your fingers barely touching.
“You left me again,” he said, turning towards you. “We shared something, and the next day I woke up and you were gone, again. It felt like last time.”
Your shoulders slumped. Your gaze dropped to the carpet. “I left a note, Joshua.”
“Come on, Birdie,” Joshua scoffed, almost offended. “It’s not the same as you being there, and you know it.”
Silence fell between you after that, heavy and suffocating. He watched you twiddle with your thumbs, and he desperately wanted to hold you, to look into your brain and heart, to understand your thoughts and how you felt. Do you think the same way he does? Can something be made from this?
“Well, contrary to popular belief, I did have to get up early and film,” you disclosed. “But also, that night… it scared me.”
Joshua’s eyebrows knitted together, processing your words as it took away chunks of his heart. His hands clenched at his sides, doubt gnawing at him violently. Was he too aggressive? Did he hurt you?
“W-was I too rough—”
“What? No,” you shook your head vehemently. “I wasn’t scared of you. Remember, I asked for it. I wanted it, and I don’t regret that.”
Relief took over him, slowly replaced by confusion as he tried to understand what you meant. You took a deep breath, facing towards him and biting your lip with nervousness in your eyes.
“I was scared of… me. What I am feeling and still feel. This isn’t easy for me, Joshua.”
Joshua’s breath caught, his mind racing with so many thoughts. “So you do feel something? For me?”
Your eyes lifted, wide and vulnerable as you looked into his. “I’ve always felt something for you, after all these years. I don’t know if I would call it love now, but I missed you terribly. I regretted the way I left you as soon as I got on the plane. But I was a kid then, and I thought what I was doing was the right thing for you. Since there was no good way to explain what I did, I worked really hard to move on, focus on my career, and make it worth it. It worked for a while, but now being here, with you in my orbit again, it’s strumming up a lot of things.”
Your pinky touches his, sending chills throughout Joshua’s body. You touched him again, willingly, and he wanted to do nothing more but lie you back on the bed and show what he feels for you.
“Joshua, you asked me if I cared if your mom died, and that hurt me. Deep in my core.” You’re voice was trembling, your eyes watery and red with tears. “I know your mom didn’t care for me much, but I did respect her. She came through for my family in many ways that my parents couldn’t, despite her thinking I was ‘corrupting her son.’”
“Well, why didn’t you call?” Joshua’s voice was wracked with emotion. “I would have given anything to hear from you, to be in your presence again.”
“Joshua, I…” Your voice trailed off as anticipation filled the air. “I was there.”
Joshua looked at you incredulously, your confession rattling him to his core. “What do you mean you were there?”
A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you look up at the ceiling, your eyes blinking rapidly as you fight back tears.
“I came to the funeral,” you explained. “I heard that she passed from my mom, and I hopped on the first plane that I could to the church where the funeral was. I stayed in the back so I wouldn’t be seen, but I was there, Joshua.”
“You—” His voice cracked, a boy’s voice again, the sound of loss layered under disbelief. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because it wasn’t about me,” you clapped your hands in your lap. “What could I have said? It was about your mom. About your family. You had everyone around you, and I didn’t want to make it harder.”
“God, Birdie,” Joshua let’s out a frustrated sigh. “I would have given ANYTHING to hear from you then. Yes, I had family around me, but I was so fucking alone. No one there understood me like you did. God, I would have given anything to fly away with you.”
He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, swallowing hard. “All these years, I thought you didn’t care. That you just walked away and never looked back.”
“I did look back,” you said, voice breaking. “Too many times. But I thought I was doing what was best for both of us. You had dreams, Joshua. And so did I. Staying would’ve meant holding each other back.”
Something inside him fractured. Not in anger, but in grief for all the years wasted in silence, for every moment that could’ve been different if either of you had dared to be selfish.
“So what do you want to do?” Joshua dared to ask, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I love you.”
He watched you shift on the bed, your eyes glistening at his confession. Your hand covered his, anticipation drilled inside his chest as he waited for your response. He does love you; you were the only one for him. All these years, he tried to move on and have meaningful relationships with other people. He might come close, but he just couldn’t move on. The others just couldn’t connect like you and he did.
“Come on, Birdie, it was always supposed to be you, no one else,” Joshua pleaded, laying his heart on the line. “You spent late nights with me, watching me practice racing at an abandoned track with a kart you managed to get online. You tracked my time and encouraged me when I wanted to do better. It was you who stood up to my mom when she wanted me to stop racing and go to medical school to become a doctor. It was YOU who came with me to the gym or met with potential benefactors when you could have been doing anything else.”
Your lips quivered, tears spilling out of your eyes that you desperately tried to hold back. Even now, being in your presence, you filled him up with a hazy nostalgia and hope that can’t be replicated with anyone else. You were, are, and always will be his dream.
“I don’t know,” you said with a shaky breath. “I feel like I don’t deserve your kindness right now. I don’t have any right to be in your presence and listen to you confess your love for me and how much you still want me after all these years. Someone else deserves that.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” his words came out rough, dragged from a place he kept locked up for a decade. “I want you.”
You looked down and bit your lip as you processed his confession, undoubtedly trying to think of what to say. Joshua instinctively moved closer to you, the tension thick and pulling him down like quicksand, but he couldn’t seem to stay away.
“Say, something please,” he murmured.
“God, I missed you,” you whispered.
You kissed him. It wasn’t frantic or desperate, like a couple of nights ago. It was heartfelt, slower, and more tender. This kiss unraveled him from the inside out. Your soft lips tasted faintly of jasmine tea, and he desperately wanted to taste everything that you had to offer.
His hand slid under your waist, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You sighed against his lips, relief flooding through him at your reciprocating feelings.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, pulling back and searching your face. “Tell me this isn’t what you want—”
“I want this, Joshua.” Your voice is pleading but firm. “I want you.”
Joshua groaned, kissing you again as he lowered you back against the sheets. His body hovered over yours, not trapping but sheltering, one hand braced by your head, the other still tangled with yours against the mattress. You arched up to him, your chest brushing his, and he swore under his breath.
Clothes became an afterthought. You tore each other’s clothes off until you were both bare; his hardening cock pressed your abdomen as his lips trailed from your throat to your collarbone to your breasts. He sucked on each nipple with care, his tongue carefully swirling around your mounds like it was the last time. Joshua was enamored with you and would never let you go.
“Joshua,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“I’ve got you,” he promised, sinking lower until he settled between your thighs. His fingers teased along your slick folds, and you gasped, hips jerking.
He slid two fingers into you, and your walls clenched around him. You moaned his name — broken, needy, and desperate. Joshua groaned, lowering his mouth to you, his tongue finding your clit. You bucked against him, your hands fisting the sheets as he tasted and licked like you were the best thing he had ever tasted. Your hands fisted his hair, your sweet moans and trembling thighs driving him mad.
“Joshua, fuck, I’m gonna—”
You came suddenly and violently, filling his mouth full with your juices as your orgasm washed over you. Joshua held you through it, licking you gently until your thighs quivered and your chest heaved. He kissed his way back up to you, and when he looked into your eyes, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. His cock felt the wetness of your folds, and it burned something inside of him—sheer need.
“I want it,” you cupped his face in both hands, pulling him into another kiss. “I need it, please.”
That was all that he needed. He lined himself up, the heat of you slick against his tip, and pushed slowly inside. Your gasp, your nails clutching at his shoulders — it nearly undid him. You clung to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” you begged.
Joshua moved with care at first, slow thrusts that let you adjust, that allow him to savor the impossible reality of being inside you again. But soon the pace quickened, driven by the way you gasped his name, the way you clenched around him, the way every inch of you seemed to beg for him. He was pussy drunk, in love, and it felt like he finally had the girl of his dreams back.
He had dreamed of this moment for many years, hoping you would return to him and that he would have his best friend back. Joshua would never admit this, but he checked on her throughout the years, watched your films, studied you, and wondered how you were and if you were happier without him. And now you’re here, and he’s deep inside of you, ready to give you his all, if you let him.
“Give it to me,” he coached you, placing a kiss on your temple. “Give me all of it.”
Your release hit you again, harder this time, your whole body trembling beneath him. Joshua followed soon after, spilling into you with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. For a long time, neither of you moved. Just breathing, clinging, hearts racing in sync.
Joshua brushed your damp hair from your face, his thumb tracing down your cheek. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
You looked at him tenderly, smiling so softly before kissing him. You didn’t have to say anything; he knows what that kiss meant.
And for the first time in years, Joshua believed he could breathe again.
The Miami sun is unrelentless, searing down on asphalt that shimmered in waves of heat, engines roaring so loud the vibrations rattled through your ribcage. The atmosphere buzzes with cheers from excited fans, and from where you stand along the pit wall, the blurs of cars cutting impossible lines across the track. It should hold your attention after all, it is the Grand Prix.
But you keep thinking about last night and the past few days that you have shared with Joshua. The thought of Joshua’s hands on your face, being inside of you, and whispering sweet things in your ear makes you feel flustered in this sticky Florida heat. Everything is happening so fast like a whirlwind, and you aren’t sure what is left or right anymore. You missed him, and you aren’t afraid to admit it now. But where do you go from here?
“Hey.” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through your haze of thoughts. He lowers his camera, squinting at you from behind his glasses. “You good?”
“I’m peachy,” you say quickly, forcing your eye back on the track. “Just focused, that’s all.”
“Focused my ass,” Wonwoo snorts. “You’ve been filming on autopilot since we’ve been here. You didn’t even flinch when Choi spun out.”
“What the fuck? He did?”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo deadpans. “Pretty dramatic, too. Half the pit nearly had a heart attack. But sure, you were “focused.”
Your face heated up in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I had a long night.”
Wonwoo tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “A long night, huh? Has anything to do with your golden boy over there?”
“Wonwoo, I love you like a brother. But I am going to beat you with your camera.”
He snickers but doesn’t press further. He studies you for a beat and then sighs, lowering his camera again.
“I don’t know all the details, but if something is going on between you two, after all these years…” his voice trails off, adjusting the lens cap in his hands. “Then you should pursue it. Don’t run from it because it’s messy and you made a mistake. Be honest with him and with yourself. It’ll set you free.”
You blink rapidly, your throat tight. Wonwoo always had this way of cutting through the noise, grounding you when you were spinning out. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it stuck.
“Since when did you become Dr. Phil?” You joke, nudging his shoulder.
“When I took this job and saved your ass from crashing out,” he teases back. “Now pay attention, because your boy is in first place.”
Your eyes snap back to the back, and there he was, leading the pack. Joshua’s silver and black car streaks down the straight, flawless in his lines and carving through the gaps like he was cutting air itself. Lap after lap, he creates a bigger distance from the others, his team shouting encouragement, and you stand there with a microphone in hand in awe. When the checkered flag finally waved with Joshua crossing the finish line in first place, the visceral screams from the fans and his team alike were visceral, proud, and it made you smile from ear to ear.
The garage erupted, with the mechanics leaping into each other’s arms and the racing Principle, Seungcheol, punching the air like sweet victory. Chan, their reserve driver, whoops so hard it nearly drowns out the engines. Joshua climbs out of his car, tearing off his helmet, sweat-soaked hair falling into his face. His grin is blinding as he points to his teammate, Jihoon, who came in second place, the crowd, and his team.
And then he saw you.
For a moment, everyone disappeared, and it was just you and him. His eyes lock in with yours through the sea of bodies, and his eyes shift into something soft and something else entirely. Something meant just for you. You watch him dive into the arms of his crew, the weight of victory and pure joy shown in every moment. As you jot down your questions for the closing interview, you let your smile too, proud in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in years.
You think about the time you spent with him this morning, where you lay in bed with your feet tangled with his like nothing had changed. The intimacy he shared with you again as he told you he loved you over and over. The ease of conversation you had as he was getting ready, talking about his goals for today’s race, and how happy he was to have you there. It felt like you were meant to be there, but it also filled you with a deep regret that you may not ever get over. You could have had this, but you selfishly cut him out of your process, instead of considering him like he did with you.
It made you realize some things, and you need to get it off your chest.
“Are you ready?” Wonwoo asks as he films the last bit of the celebration. “I’m sure they are going to go into the media room to do the closing interviews, and then we are free.”
“Aww, you don’t like the smoldering heat of Miami?” You tease him.
“I don’t like my shirt sticking to my back,” Wonwoo quips, packing up his camera equipment.
You let out a hearty laugh and follow the crowd of reporters heading into the building where you and he faced off for the first time. There was a faint tang of champagne and sweat in the air, the blur of bright lights and flashing cameras taking over the ample space. You sit in the reserved section for you and Wonwoo, steadying your clipboard as you wait for your turn to answer your questions. The agreement was to ask your questions when everyone finished, and you wait, listening to the professional and not-so-professional questions that made your eyes roll.
When it finally comes to be your turn, Joshua sits across from you, his lips curving faintly in a way that melts your insides.
“Joshua, congratulations on the win. After a difficult qualifying yesterday, what was going through your head today?”
His eyes sparkle when he speaks, feeling a flutter of happiness in your chest. “Honestly? That I couldn’t afford to stay distracted. I had to focus on what mattered and resolve any mental blocks that were holding me back.”
You feel your throat tighten, and you clear it, shooting off your next question. “And what does matter to you?”
He didn’t look away; instead, his gaze intensified. “Winning the race for my team and also knowing when to fight, and when to hold on.”
His words caught you off guard, a double-edged sword hidden in plain sight. You press forward, professional, but every answer he gives feels threaded into something unspoken, tugging at an invisible connection that only you and he could see.
When the interview wraps, the cameras lower and the crew begins packing up. Joshua lingers, and you feel his gaze before you see him, sending chills down your spine. You tell Wonwoo you will catch up with him later— you had to handle some unfinished business.
You turn to face him, who is already walking towards you, a soft smile on his lips when he looks at you, like a man in love. Your heart races with a tenderness that feels comfortable and nostalgic.
“Joshua,” you say quietly, holding onto your clipboard.
“Birdie,” he responds, moving closer to you.
Looking around to make sure everyone was gone, he pulls you into a kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist as if he were afraid to let you go. You melt into him, every professional bone leaving your body.
“I’m glad you didn’t leave this morning,” he whispers in between kisses.
“Well, I couldn’t leave my hotel room,” you giggle. “But if you must know, I might have been glad I woke up to you this morning.”
It wasn’t a lie. You are glad you didn't become a flight risk and stayed with him, allowing yourself to feel. You watched him while he slept, and he still looked like the kid who watched you jump out of the tree. The same boy who called you his pretty bird and who kept you in his heart all these years. Your kind-eyed, sweet, loving boy. You will never be sorry enough for leaving him the way that you did, and you still don’t feel worthy of his forgiveness, but he is giving you an opening, and you’re going to take it.
“Joshua,” you say, motioning for him to sit down. “I’ve been thinking about everything, and I have some things I need to say.”
“Okay?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, a tremor betraying his uncertainty.
You exhale deeply, stepping out on a small line of faith. “I... I don’t know what this is now,” you say honestly. “Between you and me. Maybe it’s Destiny. Fate. But I know that I missed you, and there is a part of me deep down that still loves you, even after all these years. I cannot say I’m sorry enough—”
“Birdie, you don’t have to keep apologizing—”
“Yes, I do,” you interject, your voice shaking slightly as you struggle to hold back the tide of emotions consuming you. “What I did was cruel, and I hurt you. Thinking about it now, what I did was so fucking stupid. I should have just talked to you and figured something out along the way. You were my best friend, the one person who believed me when I said I could fly. I wasted all these years thinking I was being some self-sacrificing martyr of love when I should have picked up the phone and called. I love you and I’m sorry—”
Joshua shuts you up with a kiss of conviction, his thumb stroking the side of your face. Your body calms immediately, the raging tide you felt earlier falling back and putting you at ease. You wrap your arms around him, calming the chaos in your mind. Warmth spreads through you like the sun, feeling safe and accepting of the love he wants to give you.
“If you will have me, Joshua, I would like to try again.”
His smile is small, trembling at the edges, but real. “Of course I’ll have you. You’re all I ever wanted.”
You nod, tears pricking your eyes when he kisses you again. It’s gentle, unhurried— stirring hopeful feelings in your chest, like it’s okay to feel this with him.
“So you aren’t going to fly away from me anymore?” Joshua asks, intertwining your fingers with his.
You smile softly, biting your lip as you gaze into his eyes.
“I’m done flying away. Joshua,” you say, pointing at his chest. I’m ready to come home.”
AN2: Thank you for reading!! This is my first Joshua fic and by far the longest fic I have ever written. What did you think of these two? Let me know in the comments, reblogs or dms <3
Pairing: Mingyu x Reader
Genre: Smut, humor, fluff
Warnings: SMUT (MDNI), seft-doubt, idiocy, self indulgent nerdiness, STAR WARS EP 111, IV AND V SPOILERS, fingering, oral (f!receiving), raw (do not irl yall no dick is worth it), lmk if i forgot smthg
Word count: 14.7k
Summary: Finally, he's yours. The game is over, and maybe you lost, but it feels like a win.
or
First dates, first kisses, first times w/Mingyu
tyty @supi-wupi @flowerwonu for betaing and fixing all my mistakes on such short notice, y'all are the best ily
It’s not like anything changes overnight. You don’t kiss in the café, don’t run into each other’s arms like the end of a movie. It’s slower than that—gentler. But somehow, it feels exactly right.
So when Mingyu texts you a few days later—“Picnic date?”—your stomach flips, but you don’t hesitate.
You just say yes.
The sun is out, the sky obnoxiously blue, and you’re sweating through your sundress—not because it’s hot, but because Mingyu just texted “I’m already here :)” five minutes before you even left the house.
You speed-walk to the park like you’re being timed for an Olympic marathon, clutching a paper bag of cookies you made last night in a panic (One batch is slightly burned. You brought them anyway).
When you spot him sitting on a checkered blanket under a tree, your stomach does a backflip, twisting even further when he looks up as you approach, grinning like he’s holding back from smiling too hard.
“Hey.” His voice is deep, smooth, and perfect as always, but it wavers slightly.
“Hi,” you say, suddenly forgetting how to use your legs as you sit down a bit too fast, almost toppling over sideways onto the blanket.
Mingyu blink, “Smooth.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks already burning as you smooth out your dress.
He grins and holds up a cute weaved basket. “I brought sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres, although one of them is slightly lopsided since I panicked halfway through making it.”
You can’t help but laugh at the contrast of the dishes as you raise your own paper bag. “Perfect, I brought slightly burnt cookies for the same reason.”
“Great,” he says, “we’re thriving.”
You eat in mostly silence, with a few awkward giggles when you both reach for the same juice box (he insisted on bringing them) or when a piece of lettuce escapes your sandwich and lands dramatically on your lap.
At some point, Mingyu finally breaks the silence, simply saying, “So…” before trailing off and staring so intensely at the sky that it looks like he’s trying to astral project.
“So.” You respond, cookie halfway in your mouth.
He glances at you, then quickly looks back up at the sky, “I, uh,” Mingyu scratches the back of his neck, “I almost wore a button-up for this. Like a real shirt, collar and all.”
You raise an eyebrow, “What stopped you?”
He shrugs. “I spilled coffee on it this morning, but it felt like a sign. Like ‘hey, maybe don’t try to impress the girl who already knows you panic-text giant paragraphs at midnight.”
He glances at your outfit, making you feel oddly exposed, “Kinda regret not wearing it now, since you’re…” His voice trails off as his eyes linger.
Your heart does a little hop. “I like this shirt better anyways.”
He glances at you sideways. “You do?”
“Yeah.” You pretend to be very interested in the juice box straw, “It's very… you. I like that. You.” You immediately regret saying it and look away, cheeks flushing.
Fuck, this is awkward.
Mingyu huffs out a small laugh, the kind that makes his nose crinkle adorably, then you both fall quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, just soft. Like neither of you quite know what to say now that feelings are out in the open and there’s no yelling or dramatic exits involved.
A very loud bird chooses that exact moment to chirp from a nearby branch. Mingyu jumps about three feet in the air, prompting you to laugh your ass off.
The silence settles again as you eat, this time more relaxed as you look at each other with warmth, familiarity.
Your hands brush as you both reach for the last cookie. You freeze. So does he.
Then, without looking at you, Mingyu quietly says, “I’ll split it with you.”
You peek at him, mildly delighted to find his ears tainted red.
“Okay,” you say, voice a little too high. “Yeah. Cool. Sharing. Cool.”
He breaks it clean in half (which feels like some kind of divine sight—no crumbs, no crumbling chaos. Are you looking too deep into it? Probably.) and hands you a piece without meeting your eyes.
You expect to eat in the same silence as before, but Mingyu surprises you when, out of nowhere, he blurts, “I wanted to hold your hand earlier, but I got scared and touched a sandwich instead.”
You choke on your cookie.
“I mean—I didn’t touch the sandwich because I thought it was your hand—I just—”
You giggle, covering your mouth. “Gyu, are you okay?”
“No,” he says, wide-eyed, although his gaze softens at the nickname. “Absolutely not. God knows I don’t know what I’m doing, Fuck.” He groans, leaning his head on your shoulder like he used to before tensing at the realization of his casual display of affection. You chuckle softly and thread your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp (and trying to ignore your racing heart).
“Me neither, but… I’m having a good time.” You whisper the last part like it's a secret meant only for him, heart feeling lighter than it ever has.
He lifts his head to look at you, eyes vulnerable as they search yours. Then he beams. Not a grin, not a smirk, a full, sun-breaking-through-the-clouds kind of smile that makes you smile back because how could you not.
“Me too,” he says as your hand falls from his head.
You can’t help but smile brighter, nerves finally bubbling over and turning into laughter. “That was cheesy.”
“You want cheesy?” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he digs through his cooler bag.
You laugh harder as he offers you a mini Babybel, accepting it like it’s a rare and priceless gift and actively pretending he doesn’t look at you like you hung the stars in the sky whenever you laugh.
And just like that, the nerves start to fade. Not completely, but enough for you to lean into his side, sighing contently. He stiffens for half a second before melting, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. His shoulder fits under your head like it’s meant to be there, you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
A little fast, just like yours, but calming nonetheless.
You both watch the leaves above sway in the breeze, the occasional bark of a dog or hum of a bike wheel floating by in the distance. But none of it touches the moment.
You study his face in the warm light, trying to memorize this version of him—the gentle one, with cookie crumbs on his shirt and emotions blooming behind his eyes. To you, the moment is perfect. It's not fireworks or grand declarations, it's softer. Safer. Something that wraps around your ribs and makes you feel steady for the first time in a long while.
He clears his throat. “Can I try again?”
You blink, confused. “Try what?”
“Touching your hand, on purpose this time.”
Before you can think, you respond. “You can touch me anywhere you want.”
There's a beat of silence.
You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”
Mingyu stares at you for a long second.
And then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not a nervous titter. An eyes crinkled, hand over his stomach, doubled over, full-body laugh. And you—well you’re dying. You look at him, mortified.
“I didn’t mean that.” You mutter through your fingers. “I didn’t mean that.”
Mingyu gasps through his laugh. “You can’t just say stuff like that mid-cookie!”
“I panicked!”
You duck your head, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you, or at least rewind the last ten seconds. But when you peek up at him, he’s looking at you. Not mocking, not teasing, just looking. Glowing. Like your chaos is his favorite thing in the world.
“I missed this,” he says, catching his breath. “You. Your mouth. The weird filterless thoughts that come out of it.”
“I should be admitted to a ward.” You mumble.
“No,” he says, more serious now. “Don’t.”
You look at him.
“Don’t change. I know you’re joking, but don’t change.” He squeezes your hand. “I like this. Us. Even when you make sex jokes at inappropriate times.”
You look at him, “Especially then?”
He snorts and pats your head. “Sure, especially then.”
You roll your eyes, but the tension that’s been coiled in your chest since he first texted finally loosens.
You lean back on one arm, fingers still laced with his. The sun is warm, the leaves above rustling like background music, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels… okay. More than okay.
Comfortable.
You study him out of the corner of your eye, the way he’s watching you. Soft, kind and steady. Not amused. Not smug, Just open. Willing.
You sit there for a while longer, sharing silence like it's something sacred, like neither of you want to move, in case it breaks whatever spell you’re under.
But eventually, Mingyu shifts beside you, nudging your knee gently with his. “So… hear me out.”
You look at him, wary. “That’s never a good start.”
He smirks, chuckling. “There's a photo booth down the street, the kind that's black and white and makes you look vaguely haunted.”
“That's your pitch?” You snort.
“I just think,” he starts with a grin, “that we should commemorate our first date with haunted Victorian ghost photos.”
You huff a laugh, “That's… very on brand for us, actually.”
“Right?” He’s already starting to pack up the cooler. “One weirdly burnt cookie and a neat sexual harassment lawsuit later, what a way to remember it by.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.”
He stands, arm outstretched in an offer. “Liar.”
You take it, letting him pull you up with those ridiculously hot muscles of his, your fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Fine, but if the pictures are cursed I’m blaming you.”
“Worth it.” He replies, smiling like a kid as you start walking hand in hand.
The photo booth is tucked away in the corner of a small record store, wedged between a rack of dusty mixtapes and a gumball machine with two broken legs. It smells of old vinyl and vaguely like popcorn. You don’t question it.
Mingyu feeds the coins into the slot with exaggerated care. “Okay, we have four shots. That’s like, two opportunities for you to regret ever agreeing to this.”
You step into the booth and sit beside him, knees bumping in the tiny space. It’s close, intimate, too much and not enough all at once.
The screen starts counting down from five.
“I don’t know what to do with my face!” you hiss.
“Be hot,” he whispers. “You’re great at that.”
Your head whips to him, eyes wide, “Wha–”
The first flash goes off, the photo probably catching your shocks and him mid-laugh, and honestly, that feels perfect.
“Now is when you choose to flirt with me for the first time?!” You complain, but the pink dusting your face discredits any real annoyance you may have.
The second flash hits as you both lean in, cheeks nearly touch, faces still buzzing with excitement from the last joke. You can’t help it when you smile. Big, bright, giddy, and real.
The third one comes too fast, Mingyu panicking and throwing up a peace sign while you do finger guns. It’s terribly amazing.
The final countdown starts, seeming slower somehow. You look at him. He looks at you. Neither of you move.
And then, with one second left, you lean in and press your forehead to his. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. But it’s close, and it’s honest.
The flash goes off.
You’re both slightly breathless when the strips print, you take one like it’s fragile, smoothing the curl of the paper as he takes the other.
“Geez,” you say, staring at the photos. “We look like idiots.”
“We are idiots,” he says, peering over your shoulder. “But we’re idiots with a photo now.”
You glance up at him. He’s already looking at you.
You fold the strip carefully and tuck it into your bag. “I’m keeping it. So you can’t deny any of this ever happened.”
He grins. “Good. I wouldn’t want to.”
The sky is melting into soft amber by the time you both leave the booth, a strip of blurry, laughing snapshots fluttering between your fingers. Mingyu’s arm brushes yours as he stretches after sitting down too long, but it doesn’t feel awkward, it just feels like him.
“Want me to walk you home?” he asks, already falling into step beside you like he always does.
You glanced at him, amused. “You do that even when I don’t ask.”
He grins, eyes flicking to the sidewalk. “Yeah, but now it’s a date-walk-home. Totally different category.”
“Right,” you say, pretending to be serious. “That changes everything.”
“I should have brought a rose. Or walked on the traffic side like a gentleman.”
“You always walk on the traffic side.” You point out.
“Oh,” he says before gasping, mock-scandalized. “Then I guess I’ve been courting you this entire time!”
You laugh, bumping your shoulder with his as the two of you fall into step like always. Same rhythm, same streets, same jokes traded over the same old cracks in the sidewalk, but now there's something quieter between you. Not tension, like before, just the awareness that what you used to call platonic has been rearranged, softened by truth and proximity and all the bullshit you two went through to get here.
“I used to think you were walking me home out of guilt,” you say after a few blocks. “Like, ‘well, I crushed her dreams of getting laid, might as well make sure she doesn’t get kidnapped.”
He snorts, “That was only part of it.”
You glance at him, taking in his faint smile, slightly shy eyes as he says, a little quieter now, “I just like walking with you, even when we were a mess. Maybe even especially then.”
You nod, because you did too. Back then, you never knew what to say when you felt too much, but just walking beside him, not saying anything, was always enough.
He holds the cookie container under one arm and keeps the photo strip neatly in his back pocket, like it’s worth saving.
You reach your street before you’re ready, both of you slowing your steps without saying anything. He stops at the entrance to your apartment, hands in his jacket pockets, looking up at your front door like it’s suddenly very interesting.
You can see that he wants to say something, so you wait, giving him time.
“Since we’re being honest with each other now,” He starts, “I almost kissed you earlier.”
You swallow, caught off guard. “Why didn’t you?”
He shrugs, looking up. “Because… I didn’t want to mess it up by going too fast. I think—I know—if I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll want to do it all the time. And we’re taking things slow, so I don’t want to push too far too fast and lose this. Lose us.”
The light above you flickers in time with your hearts skipped beat as you nod.
“I’d let you. Kiss me, I mean.” You say softly.
“I know,” his voice catches slightly, “That was part of it too. Still in shock that this is real, you know? Like, I know it is but I still feel like… I’m gonna wake up alone.”
You know what he means. Know how your past words and actions had made him feel this way, so you offer whatever support you can give, looking down and nodding slightly with a breathy chuckle.
“Yeah. For the record, I’m 100% on board with going slow. I don’t want you to think I’m just in this to fuck you.”
For once, you hold your tongue, not adding the usual ‘although I wouldn’t complain if you did’. But you know he sees it by the way his lips quirk up in recognition, the way he squeezes your hand gently.
“We really are a mess, huh?” You say after a moment.
“Speak for yourself,” he replies, “I’m a perfect picture of emotional restraint.”
You raise an eyebrow, “You once cried because a bird stared at you too long.”
“It was a very aggressive bird!” He defends, making you both giggle.
You’re still laughing as you unlock your door, him standing a few steps behind you, like he always does. Like he’s guarding the space without pushing into it.
You turn around just before you step in. “Thanks for walking me.”
“Always.”
You hesitate, looking at him. The curve of his face, the familiar look in his eye that mimics your own, not wanting to part but not knowing how to ask. So you just do it without overthinking (too much).
“Star Wars marathon?” You offer.
And you know you won’t regret it as soon as you see the way Mingyu’s face lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for you to ask all week, since we haven’t done our monthly rewatch.”
You jokingly scoff, letting him in. “You could have asked me.”
“Yeah, but then I’d seem too eager.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Oh yeah?” You snort. “And what reputation is that?”
He follows you inside naturally, “Cool. Untouchable. Mysterious.”
You guffaw before you can stop yourself, “You cry every time Anakin and Obi-wan fight on Mustafar.”
“Okay, first of all,” he says, toeing off his shoes, “that was a betrayal of cosmic proportions. You don’t just recover from that. Secondly, so do you, you cry about Anakin being—and I quote—‘too hot to be evil’.”
You laugh as you flick on the lights. “I think you just imprinted on Obi-wan too hard as a kid.”
“I was a noble child with a strong sense of justice,” he says, already heading to his designated spot on your couch. “Also, have you seen Ewan McGregor? He had really good hair.”
“Still does.”
“Exactly.”
After changing into comfortable clothes—sweats, and a soft T-shirt that definitely used to be his— you grab the stack of old DVDs from your shelf—because despite all your streaming subscriptions, neither of you trust the digital versions not to change scenes—and toss them onto the coffee table. Mingyu holds up one of your fluffy blankets like a question, you nod. The two of you set up, falling back into the rhythm you always have.
You settle in beside him and he drapes the blanket over both of your legs, knees bumping his in a way that feels familiar. Safe.
You nudge him when he steals the remote, and he just shoots you a cheeky grin and sets up the first movie without asking which one to start with, because you always alternate chronological and release order, ever since you argued over which is the superior option back when the tradition first started. Today is release order, your favorite.
The opening crawl rolls up the screen and you can’t help but steal a glance at him.
He’s mouthing the words. Of course he is.
You grin, sinking back into the cushions. He notices and turns to you.
“What?”
“You’re a huge dork.” You whisper with a smile.
He shrugs, not embarrassed in the slightest, “You like it.”
And you do. You really, really do.
Somewhere between Alderaan exploding and Obi-Wan dying you end up leaning into him, your head falling naturally against his shoulder. He tilts slightly toward you, resting his cheek on the top of your head. It’s quiet in the best way, no pressure, no expectations, just shared warmth and the low hum of the TV (and the occasional Wilhelm scream).
At some point, you realize he’s not mouthing along anymore.
You peak up and a small smile creeps onto your face. He’s asleep, mouth parted slightly, hair a mess, one arm loosely around your waist like it ended up there by accident.
You shift just enough to rest your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. He stirs a little but doesn’t wake, instead tightening his arm around you like he’s been doing this forever.
You smile, closing your eyes.
The next morning arrives with a soft, golden light filtering through your curtains, and the distinct realization that you’re not alone on the couch.
Your neck aches, your foot’s asleep, and Mingyu is half on top of you, snoring softly with his face smushed into your shoulder like it's a particularly comfortable pillow.
You blink, brain slowly coming back online.
The TV is still on, frozen somewhere in the middle of Return of the Jedi. There’s a crumb trail on the coffee table, a tangled mess of blankets at your feet, and Mingyu’s hand is dangerously close to your ass.
You shift, causing him to groan, barely stirring, and muttering something unintelligible about Wookies.
You stifle a laugh. Of course he’s dreaming about Star Wars.
You glance at the clock. It’s somehow almost ten, and—despite the fact that you’re sweaty, uncomfortably folded into the couch cushions, and slightly drooling—you’ve never felt more at peace.
Mingyu stirs again, this time blinking awake slowly, brow furrowing as if waking up requires deep mental effort.
“…Are we dead?” he croaks, voice rough with sleep.
“Only emotionally,” you say, shifting under him. “You’re crushing my spine.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he rolls off you with all the grace of a tranquilized elephant. “I had dream about turning into a blueberry and getting eaten by chewbacca.” He says as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.
“Sounds like a pretty accurate metaphor for your emotional state.”
He squints at you through messy hair. “Do you ever shut up in the morning?”
“Nope,” you stretch your arms lazily over your head, wincing. “God, how are we not paralyzed after that?”
“I’m built different,” he says, groaning as he sits up and immediately regrets it, judging by the look on his face. “By which, I mean stupid.”
You both sit there for a moment, blinking at each other in disheveled silence.
And then he smiles.
It’s slow. Easy. Sleep-soft and fond in a way that turns your stomach into warm mush.
“You look good like this,” he says, nudging your socked foot with his, “all cute and tired.”
You flick a crumb at him to hide your flushing face—you don’t think you’ll ever get used to him flirting back. “Don’t start flirting with me before I’ve brushed my teeth.”
“No promises.”
He stands and stretches with a noise that might belong to a dying walrus, then offers you a hand. You take it, even though you don’t need help, because it’s just the thing now, apparently. Finding those little excuses to touch each other (not that you’re complaining).
“I’ll make coffee?” he offers, already padding toward your kitchen like it’s his.
“Wait,” you call, following. “You remember where everything is?”
He throws you a smug look over his shoulder. “Babe. I’ve made coffee in your kitchen like a hundred times. The only difference is that now I get to kiss you, if I want to.”
You pause in your tracks.
He doesn’t look back right away, like he didn’t just drop that on your morning like a bomb. But then—just as he pulls the mugs down—he glances over his shoulder.
A question in his eyes.
You don’t answer with words.
You walk up behind him, stand on tiptoe, and press a kiss to his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt. You can feel the way his breath hitches as you rest your cheek against his back, arms loose around his waist.
“That okay?” you whisper, smiling when he nods. You hug him tighter, just for a second, before letting go.
He doesn’t move for a beat, just stands there with your warmth still lingering on his back, his hands frozen mid-reach toward the coffee pot like his entire system’s short-circuited.
Then he says, quietly, almost reverent, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay.”
You hum and slide onto the couch, tucking your knees up beneath you. Watching him try to regain control of his body after one shoulder kiss is possibly the highlight of your entire week.
He fumbles the coffee grounds a little, doesn’t meet your eyes.
“You’re blushing,” you sing-song.
“Shut up,” he mutters, ears practically glowing crimson.
You rest your chin on your knees, grinning. “I thought you were gonna be cocky, considering your reputation.”
“I was cocky before. Now I’m terrified.”
You snort. “Of what?”
“That this is a dream,” he says, flicking on the coffee machine. “Or that I’m gonna say something dumb and ruin it.”
“Statistically speaking, that second one’s a very real threat.”
He throws a dish towel at your face.
You catch it, laughing.
The apartment fills with the smell of coffee and comfort—like home, but warmer. Messier. Better.
Mingyu hands you a mug the way he always has—but this time, your fingers brush on purpose. And when he sits down next to you, he doesn’t try to hide the way he leans in a little, like gravity’s stronger now that you’ve crossed that line.
It’s quiet for a moment, both of you sipping and stealing glances, the hum of the machine fading into the background.
Then he says, cautiously, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
You turn your head to look at him, eyes softer than before, waiting for him to continue. He sighs, running a hand through his hair like he’s pulling the truth up from somewhere buried.
“I’ve…” He frowns, eyes fixed on the swirl of coffee in his mug. “I’ve never really done this part. The actual serious, wake-up-next-to-you-and-make-coffee kind of thing.”
You stay quiet, just listening, letting him find the words.
“I usually screw around. You know that. I know you know that,” he says, glancing at you with a brief, wry smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve always kept things light. Easy. No promises, no strings. It’s safer that way.”
He sets his mug down and laces his fingers together, elbows on the table. His tone shifts—honest now, like a confession.
“I’m good at the beginning part. The flirting. The jokes. The late nights. But once it gets real? I bolt. Or they do. I don’t think I’ve ever really given someone the chance to stick. Not because I didn’t want them to—but because I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it.”
You tilt your head, watching him with something gentler than surprise. You’ve known Mingyu for a long time. You’ve heard the stories, seen the aftermaths. But this is different. Raw.
“I never wanted to risk losing someone just by being… me. Stupid, flirty, kind of reckless me. I thought it’d be easier to never try. Keep it casual. Keep it fun. I mean, I know why people sleep with me, it’s not for me, it’s for,” he gestures vaguely at himself, not cocky, just… almost tired, “me. After a while that became what everyone expected, so that's all they wanted. The casual flings, the one night stands. That's all I could get and it’s all I wanted.”
He glances at you again. This time, he holds your gaze.
“But then you—you made it impossible not to care. You snuck in when I wasn’t looking, and now I’m scared in a way that I don’t know how to deal with. Because I do care. Fuck, I care so much, and I don’t want to mess it up by rushing into something I don’t know how to do without running away after.”
Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So what do you want to do?”
He exhales through his nose, smiling faintly. “Go slow. Learn how to do this right. I want to kiss you like I’ve got time. Hold your hand like it matters. Wake up next to you a hundred more times and make coffee even when I forget the right ratio.”
You huff a laugh, tears stinging unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes at the confession.
“I want to figure it out with you,” he says, softer now. “Even after everything, you’re still the most important person to me. Always have been. I think you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to get it right for.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—thick with everything unsaid and understood. Your heart feels like it’s expanding and cracking all at once.
You reach over and slide your fingers over his, sure but gentle.
“You’re already doing it right.”
He squeezes your hand, eyes going glossy before he blinks it away with a sheepish grin. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry and ruin my cool morning-after image.”
You roll your eyes, smiling. “You’re wearing socks with Baby Yodas on them. That image was never happening.”
“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, “Grogu is timeless.”
You squeeze his fingers again, and he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—slow, deliberate.
After a moment, you smile softly. “We can go as slow as you want, Gyu. I know it may not seem like it because of my… history, but I can wait. I want this for more than just sex. I want you for more than that.”
He shakes his head, “I don’t want to go slow. I want everything with you, and that scares me shitless because I know that once I start, I won’t be able to stop wanting.”
Your breath catches.
Mingyu’s voice is low, not dramatic or pleading—just honest, in that helpless, almost-shaking way that only someone who means it could sound.
He looks down, like maybe saying too much is a risk he’s already halfway regretting. “I’m scared that once I let myself have this, I’ll want it all. Not just mornings and coffee and slow kisses—but holidays. Fighting over which movie to watch. Grocery shopping. All the boring, real shit. I want that with you.”
You don’t interrupt—you can’t, your heart full to the brim.
“And if I get it,” he continues, “I’m terrified I’ll mess it up. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not worth it. Or worse—realize I’m just the guy who never learned how to be serious until he risked ruining the best thing he’s ever had.”
You shift closer, turning so your knees bump his and you’re facing him.
He doesn’t look up until you’re there beside him, fingers brushing his knee. His eyes are glossy again, and yours are burning now too.
You lean down—because just sitting felt too far away—and cup his face in your hands.
“You’re not ruining anything,” you whisper, voice steady and confident. “You’re trying. That’s everything. That’s more than most people ever do.”
He leans into your touch like he needs it. Like he’s afraid you’d pull away.
You press your forehead to his, voice softer now. “And I’m scared too. Of wanting too much. Of losing it before we even get started. But you’re not just some guy I’m experimenting on. You’re—” You break off, breathe out. “You’re it for me, Mingyu. Okay? I don’t care if it’s too soon to say that, because it’s the truth. Whatever pace we move at, whatever we figure out along the way—I want it with you.”
“I love you.” He whispers.
You smile softly, unable to resist responding with, “I know.”
His face brightens as he chuckles, “Are you trying to Star Wars your way into bed with me again?”
“That depends, is it working?”
His hands come up to cover yours, gently pulling you in until his lips meet yours. It’s warm, soft, just the faintest brush at first. When he pulls away and looks at you, your breath hitches. His gaze searches yours for a moment before his lips are on yours again, this time deeper. The second you sigh into it his hand finds your jaw and tilts your face up like he needs it.
For all his past resistance, Mingyu kisses you like a man drowning.
It turns desperate and slow and hungry, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way your lips move on his.
When his thumb brushes your cheekbone and his other hand grips your hip like he doesn’t trust himself to stop, you can’t help the small moan that slips from your mouth into his.
And when he pulls back, just enough to murmur, “You’re it for me too,” you know neither of you is going anywhere. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer as you sink into his lap fully. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly into your mouth. It’s messy, a little breathless, as you both finally give in, losing yourselves in each other.
You roll your hips once, slow and instinctive, and he breaks the kiss with a strangled noise, forehead pressed to yours.
“I thought we were going slow,” you murmur, voice shaky with restraint.
He’s just as breathless, lips brushing yours. “We are. This is just… warming up.”
He laughs once—hoarse, almost desperate—and then his mouth is on your neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that makes you gasp. His hands are everywhere now, still careful but growing bolder, and you’re not sure which of you is trembling more.
“I’m never gonna survive this,” he mutters against your throat.
“Then don’t,” you whisper, pulling him back into another kiss. “Just fall.”
He presses his lips to yours again, and this time, the kiss is filthy.
There’s no slow, romantic build—it’s teeth and heat and the kind of kiss that says you started this, now finish it. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, presses you back into the couch, finally, finally giving in.
“You’re evil,” he breathes against your lips.
You smile. “You like that about me.”
He doesn’t argue—just kisses you harder and lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you to your bedroom off of muscle memory alone.
He sets you down on the bed like he’s afraid you might break—slow, deliberate, like laying something sacred at an altar.
And then he just stares.
You’re beneath him, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling fast beneath your shirt, and it’s like he can’t believe you’re real.
“God,” he breathes, brushing your hair back like he needs to see all of you, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
You pull him down by the collar of his shirt, just enough to whisper, “That’s the plan.”
But he doesn’t kiss you, not right away.
He hovers there, like he’s savoring it, as if he’s trying to etch the curve of your cheek, the flicker in your eyes, each hitch in your breath into his being. Mingyu’s hands glide down your sides, reverent, like he’s handling something holy.
And then he dips his head.
Not to your lips.
To your neck.
Your collarbone.
Your sternum.
Mingyu kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s tasting parts of you no one else has ever dared to linger on. His mouth leaves heat in every place it touches—open, wet, near-aching kisses down your chest as he pushes your shirt up inch by inch, slow enough to make you writhe.
“You’re so soft,” he mumbles, nose brushing your ribs. “So warm, fuck, you smell like—God, I don’t know, home? Vanilla and—shit, I’m dizzy.”
You laugh breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You sound high.”
“I feel like I am,” he groans, like it’s a problem he has zero intention of fixing. “I’m so fucking gone.”
His hands tremble a little on your hips. He kisses a trail lower, eyes fluttering closed, and when you lift your hips to help him tug off the rest of your clothes, he has to pause and just breathe. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll short-circuit completely.
And honestly?
He might.
Because once you’re bare beneath him, once he gets his mouth back on your skin, Mingyu is gone.
He worships every inch he can reach with lips, tongue, teeth. One hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, while the other drifts aimlessly—like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most. Your waist? Your chest? Your throat? It’s like he wants everything.
His lips find the swell of your chest, and he groans—deep and raw, like the taste of your skin is too much. His hips jerk against the bed, completely unprompted, like just kissing you there wrecked him.
You’re panting now, fingers curling into the sheets.
“Mingyu…”
He moans your name like it hurts, pulling back just far enough to look at you, flushed and wild-eyed.
“I need to slow down,” he pants, voice thin. “I’m—I’m gonna cum just from touching you, I swear to god—”
You blink at him, dazed. “Gyu—”
“Fuck,” he chokes, biting his lip. “I don’t even know how, but you—I can’t think. You smile at me and I’m fucking done.”
He lowers his forehead to your stomach, breathing hard.
“I’ve never wanted anything this much,” he whispers. “Never wanted to take my time so bad but also fuck you through the damn mattress.”
You whimper, hips shifting under him, and he shudders like the sound physically hurt.
“I need a second,” he mumbles against your skin, trailing his lips along the curve of your stomach like it’ll ground him. “I need to taste you, touch you, everything— gotta go slow, give you what you deserve.”
He lifts his head—flushed, wrecked already—and nods to himself.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Slow. I can do that. I have to do that.”
He finally lowers his mouth between your thighs like a man desperate for salvation. His mouth lingers everywhere except where you need him most—kissing the insides of your thighs, mouthing at your skin like he’s memorizing the taste of your sweat, your heat, your need.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your skin, breath fanning hot over you.
“More,” you practically whine, hips twitching when his tongue finally—finally—slides between your folds, slow and deliberate.
He groans like your taste wrecks him.
And then he devours you.
No teasing. No hesitation.
Mingyu’s mouth moves with purpose—wide licks that flatten against your clit, then soft, maddening flicks that make your thighs try to snap closed on instinct. He holds you open easily, large hands anchoring you to the mattress, like he wants you to fight it. Like the way you tremble only feeds something deep and feral in him.
You cry out—raw and already close embarrassingly fast—and his tongue circles tighter, more focused now, lips wrapping around your clit with gentle suction that makes your eyes roll back.
He moans into you when you grind against his face, the sound vibrating straight through your core.
“Come on,” he rasps between licks, voice hoarse and reverent. “Let go for me, baby. Want to feel you fall apart.”
Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave—sharp, sudden, thighs shaking as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop, not even as you whimper and squirm, too sensitive, too much. He keeps licking you through it, mouth greedy, tongue relentless.
“Gyu, fuck, I—” he groans, grip tightening on your hips.
“Tastes like fucking candy,” he says, voice almost wrecked. “Give me another. Please.”
Mingyu doesn’t beg, He pleads. Like his life depends on it. Like making you cum again is the only thing keeping him grounded.
And it works.
He pulls another orgasm from you with almost cruel precision, sucking your clit while two fingers slip inside you, slow and deep. Crooking them just right. You sob his name when the second release hits—longer, deeper, your whole body tensing before it breaks.
Your thighs are trembling now, your hands tangled in the sheets, yet he still doesn’t stop.
“Gyu—baby—I can’t—”
“You can,” he pants, lifting his head for just a second. His mouth is soaked, chin wet, lips swollen and red. “You’re doing so good. One more, just one more, please.”
Then he’s back between your legs, tongue working in tandem with his fingers now, faster, harder, until your breath leaves you entirely.
Your third orgasm hits like lightning.
You scream, back arching off the bed, legs quivering uncontrollably as your whole body locks up and trembles—pure overstimulation, pleasure blurring into pain and back again. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and Mingyu moans like he’s the one coming, voice ragged, fingers still moving inside you as you writhe helplessly.
He eases you down slowly, licking you softer now, gentler, until your trembling fades into aftershocks and you’re left boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.
Only then does he finally pull back—sits up on his knees, hair a mess, chest heaving, lips glossy with you. He looks wrecked. Eyes wide. Wild.
“I’ve never,” he whispers, staring at you like you’re holy. “Seen anything so fucking beautiful.”
You can’t speak, you can barely move. You’re a puddle. A completely wrecked, trembling, over-loved puddle of a human being.
And Mingyu looks like a man who just conquered Mt. Everest, won an Oscar, and found religion—all at the same time. He’s staring down at you with the dumbest, most wrecked, heart-eyes expression imaginable.
“You alive?” He asks, voice hoarse, lips still shiny, and way too pleased with himself.
You try to respond. Honestly. You try. But all that comes out is a breathy, unintelligible sound that vaguely resembles a laugh and a whimper having a crisis.
“Cool,” he says, grinning, flopping down beside you. “So, you died a little. That’s fair. I kinda did too.”
You nudge him weakly with your foot. “Stop being so smug.”
He gasps—actually gasps. “Me? Smug? I’ll have you know I’m deeply concerned about your well-being. You were shaking. Like, medically.”
“I was getting the best head of my life, geez.”
He groans and covers his face with a pillow. “Don’t say it like that. I was being romantic. I practically saw the light.”
You giggle, reaching over to tug the pillow off his face. He grins against your shoulder, then presses a soft kiss there, his hands trailing up your arm. “Too soon?”
You snort. “Way too soon. At least let me recover my ability to walk first.”
“Right. Right. Fair.” He props himself up on one elbow, eyes softening. “Seriously, though. You okay? Not too much?”
You glance at the water bottle on the nightstand and deadpan, “If you hand me that, I might forgive you for almost sending me into orbit.”
He immediately scrambles for it. “Done. And while we’re at it—snacks? A foot rub? Me apologizing to your thighs personally?”
You take the bottle, laughing. “My thighs are gonna need therapy.”
He wiggles his brows. “Good thing I’m available for emergency counseling sessions. I charge in kisses.”
You roll your eyes and sip the water. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”
“Baby,” he says, grinning wide, “I will always have an ulterior motive when you’re naked.”
You throw the pillow at him. He catches it with a dramatic “oof,” then immediately pulls you into his arms again like a human octopus—limbs everywhere, clingy and warm.
“You’re not escaping,” he mumbles into your hair. “Not after that. You’re mine now. Legally. Spiritually. Cosmically.”
“Cosmically?” You echo, laughing into his chest.
“Yup,” he says smugly. “You broke three laws of physics and at least two of my vertebrae. We’re bonded forever.”
You snort, half-laughing, half-yawning. “Fine. But I get the left side of the bed.”
“Deal. As long as I get you.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead—messy, content, maybe a little sweaty—and then another to your cheek, and another to your shoulder like he’s trying to leave little stamps that say property of Mingyu.
You sigh dramatically. “God, you’re annoying.”
He beams. “You love that about me.”
You do.
Especially when he holds you like this. Close, warm, and totally wrapped around you, mumbling half-teasing nonsense until you’re too tired to sass him back.
“Alright, let’s get you in the shower,” Mingyu announces, already shifting like he’s preparing for a mission.
You groan dramatically. “Can’t we just marinate in our sins a little longer?”
He snorts. “Tempting, but no.”
Eventually, you mumble, “You’re gonna have to carry me to the bathroom, my legs aren’t speaking to me.”
Mingyu lifts his head from your shoulder with a proud little smile. “Good thing your legs love me.”
You swat his chest weakly. “They’re in shock. You should send them flowers.”
“Already planning on it,” he says, voice a little smug but eyes still all soft. “Also considering writing an apology letter. Maybe baking them cookies.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace.”
“A gentle, generous menace,” he corrects, pulling back just enough to kiss your forehead. “Come on, sleepy noodle. You’ll feel better after a shower.”
You groan dramatically, flopping like a fish. “Too far. My body is soup.”
“I like soup,” he says brightly, already slipping off the bed. “Especially when it’s clingy and whiny and in love with me.”
“I am not whiny—”
“You are,” he sing-songs, tossing you one of his shirts like it’s a peace offering. “But you’re cute about it, so it cancels out.”
You pull the oversized tee over your head, grumbling. “You're lucky I can't walk yet or I’d shove you into a wall.”
“You say that like it’s a threat,” he says, eyes sparkling as he scoops you up bridal-style. “But I am one hundred percent into it.”
You yelp, flailing a little as your feet leave the ground. “Mingyu!”
He just laughs, carrying you toward the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “This is part of the boyfriend package. You get head, cuddles, and a full princess carry service.”
“I didn’t know it came with a subscription.”
“Only available to very special customers,” he says, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. “Limited time offer. Lifetime commitment optional—but encouraged.”
The mirror greets you with the sight of flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and behind you, Mingyu’s smiling like a golden retriever who just got praise and a treat.
He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub and leans over to start the shower, letting the water run warm before turning back with a small, proud puff of his chest. “Shower’s ready. And so am I.”
You narrow your eyes. “You are not helping me shower.”
He grins. “Why not? I was very involved in this mess. I think it’s only fair I help clean it up.”
“I swear, if you try to flirt with me while I’m shampooing—”
“Too late,” he says, already peeling his shirt off and dramatically tossing it aside as you do the same. “I’m mentally preparing at least five shower puns. Wanna hear the first one?”
“No.”
“Come on, it’ll be a soap-erior joke!”
You groan so loudly he cackles, stepping in behind you as you shuffle into the warm water. The heat hits your skin, and you sigh, the tension slowly melting out of your muscles. Mingyu wraps his arms around you from behind like a blanket, his chin resting on your shoulder.
He hums against your skin, swaying the two of you gently under the stream like you're slow dancing instead of standing bare and blissed out in a foggy bathroom.
"You're dangerously good at this," you murmur, leaning into him. “Cuddling. Carrying. Post-debauchery care.”
“I’ve trained my whole life for this moment,” he says solemnly, but he’s already grinning again. “All those hours perfecting my koala cling technique.”
You tilt your head, skeptical. “Koala cling?”
“Yeah.” He tightens his grip like a cartoon villain kidnapping a princess. “This is level four. Advanced. Only deployable on girlfriends who’ve had their souls loved out of them.”
“More like fucked out of them.” You splutter a laugh, almost slipping on the tile, and he tightens his grip again like a safety harness.
“Okay, okay—level five activated,” he says dramatically. “Safety override! Girlfriend in distress!”
You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt. “You’re so stupid.”
“And yet, I’m still allowed to see you naked,” he says proudly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Clearly I’m doing something right.”
The steam curls around you both and you go quiet for a moment, swaying gently in the warmth, his heartbeat steady at your back.
He presses a second kiss to your shoulder, softer this time. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod slowly, still resting against him. “Yeah. Just kinda… floaty. You make my brain all fuzzy.”
“That’s my favorite compliment,” he murmurs. “Right after ‘oh my god, you idiot’ and ‘what the fuck are you doing.’”
You snort. “You’re impossible.”
He smiles into your neck. “But you like me anyway.”
You don’t say anything right away—just tip your head back onto his shoulder and let the water run over both of you. And then, very softly: “Yeah. I really do.”
Mingyu stills for a beat, like you hit a button inside him he wasn’t expecting, and then squeezes you tighter, just once, before nuzzling your damp hair with a grin you can’t see but can definitely feel.
“I like you too,” he says, voice low and stupidly fond. “Like, in a dumb, irreversible, stuck-on-you kind of way.”
You roll your eyes fondly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
“It is,” he says seriously. “I’m never gonna be normal again. I’m ruined. I’ll be in the grocery store thinking about your thighs.”
You burst out laughing. “My thighs?”
“Mmhm. I have to make amends every time I look at them.”
You spin around in his arms, water splashing between you, and poke him in the chest. “I cannot believe you just said that with a straight face.”
Mingyu grins, entirely unrepentant. “It’s true. I’m gonna start leaving them little apology notes. Post-its. Maybe a fruit basket.”
“Oh my God,” you laugh, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “You’re such a menace.”
“A menace with a sincere heart and excellent taste in thighs,” he says, tilting your chin up with his knuckle. His eyes are sparkling, water dripping from his lashes like he’s been carved from sunlight and bad decisions.
You flick his nose. “Behave.”
“Impossible,” he says. “I just went down on the love of my life for like thirty uninterrupted minutes. I’m riding a high no shower can scrub off.”
You cover your face. “You can’t keep saying things like that with no warning.”
He leans in, whispering against your ear, “What, that I’m obsessed with you? That you taste better than anything I’ve ever had? That I’m one missed eye contact away from proposing right now in this damn shower?”
Oh how the tables have turned.
You make a strangled squeaking sound and slap his shoulder, but you’re laughing too hard to look threatening. “You are unwell.”
He beams. “Terminally. Doomed. Completely whipped.”
“Honestly,” you sigh, mock-exasperated. “This is what I get for letting you touch me?”
Mingyu leans back, still holding you, as he runs his fingers gently through your wet hair. “No take-backs.”
You narrow your eyes. “Even if you keep flirting like a Shakespeare character with brain damage?”
He gasps, hand to heart. “Rude. My iambic pentameter is flawless.”
“You’re so lucky I’m soft for you,” you mutter, turning into his chest again.
“I know,” he says smugly, hugging you close. “And I’m never letting you forget it.”
Then, quieter, more sincere: “Hey. I mean it, though. I’ve never done that before. Not like that. Not just… that.”
You blink up at him. “Really?”
He nods, brushing some wet strands off your cheek. “Yeah. But you—” He breaks into a shy, almost boyish grin. “I didn’t want anything else. That was enough.”
Your chest squeezes so tight it’s almost hard to breathe.
You cup his face, fingers curling behind his ears. “You’re kind of a dream, you know that?”
He shrugs, grinning like a goof. “A dream with a tongue like a superpower. Pretty sure that makes me a Marvel hero.”
You burst into helpless giggles, kissing his cheek. “My ‘Oral Avenger’.”
He snorts, and you both double over in laughter.
He tries to stand up straighter, puffing out his chest like he’s about to recite a monologue. “Sworn protector of pleasure. Defender of thighs. Champion of cuddles.”
You wheeze. “Mingyu, please.”
“Silence, civilian,” he says, adopting a comically deep voice and cupping water in his hands like he’s about to baptize you. “You’ve been saved by the Oral Avenger. Gratitude is mandatory. Kisses are currency.”
You smack his arm, still laughing, nearly slipping again, but he catches you immediately—reflexes like a superhero, unfortunately for your dignity.
“You are not real,” you manage, gripping his shoulders for balance. “There’s no way someone like you actually exists.”
He grins, obnoxiously proud. “And yet, here I am. Naked in your shower. Making you laugh. Making you—” He cuts himself off with a smug little smirk. “Well. You remember.”
“Vividly,” you say, pretending to glare at him, though you’re still smiling so wide it hurts.
He softens then, all the goofiness still there in his eyes, but dialed down into something quieter, sweeter. “I like being the one who gets to take care of you.”
Your heart stutters. “Even when I’m a soup noodle who can barely stand?”
“Especially then,” he says, wrapping you back into his arms under the warm spray. “That’s when you’re at your most dangerous. All soft and sleepy and wrapped around me.”
You hide your face against his chest again. “You’re gonna kill me with how much you like me.”
“Plot twist,” he whispers. “You’ve been killing me since day one.”
You groan. “We’re gonna drown in the sap.”
“Good,” he says cheerfully. “If we die, at least we die clean, naked, and stupid in love.”
You shake your head, giggling as you curl into him, his arms keeping you steady, his warmth making the water feel even softer somehow. You’re not sure how long you stand there—swaying slightly, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on your back, the shower a quiet hum around you—but you could stay forever if it meant this.
Eventually, you sigh. “I’m turning into a raisin.”
Mingyu kisses your forehead. “Then it’s time for phase three.”
You squint up at him. “What the hell is phase three?”
He smiles like a man with a very serious plan. “Snacks. Sweatpants. Cuddles so aggressive, they’re basically a hostage situation.”
You pretend to think it over, then nod. “Acceptable. But I get to steal your hoodie.”
“Obviously,” he says. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t immediately offer you all my clothes like a Victorian suitor offering his estate?”
“You are so weird,” you say, stepping out and reaching for a towel.
He hands you one, then wraps one around his waist with that same dumb, soft grin still glued to his face. “Weirdly in love with you.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Smooth.”
He shrugs. “You like it.”
...And unfortunately for your dignity, you do.
You do. You like it so much it should be illegal.
And judging by the way Mingyu is looking at you—like you just personally rewrote his understanding of happiness—he knows it too.
“Alright, Avenger,” you say, toweling off your hair and trying not to look too fond, “lead the way to phase three. But I swear, if there are no snacks, I’m revoking your superhero license.”
Mingyu gasps in mock offense. “My license?! Baby, I passed all the tests. Oral, emotional, cuddly—I’m triple certified.”
“Triple certified menace,” you mutter, but you’re grinning again, and he’s already reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers together like it’s second nature.
He tugs you gently through the steam-filled bathroom and into the bedroom, still warm with leftover sunlight and very real post-orgasmic bliss. You collapse dramatically onto the bed, limbs flopping like you’ve been felled by love itself.
Mingyu disappears for all of twenty seconds—just enough time for you to contemplate stealing all the covers—before returning with snacks balanced on a tray like a waiter at a fancy café.
“You didn’t—” you start, but stop when you see what he’s brought: chocolate-covered pretzels and a bag of your favorite chips. There's also a soda can with a bendy straw already popped in.
You blink. “You’re disgustingly good at this.”
He beams and bows with all the grace of a man who just handed you his soul in snack form. “Told you. Trained my whole life.”
You sit up to let him crawl into bed beside you, and the moment he’s within reach, you snag his hoodie off the floor and yank it over your head. It smells like detergent and him, and it’s instantly your new favorite piece of clothing.
Mingyu lets out a pleased little hum, already pulling you into his side. “Perfect. Now you’re officially in hostage cuddle territory.”
You lean into his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m kinda okay with that.”
He presses a kiss into your hair. “Good. Because I’m planning to hold you until your battery recharges.”
“You think I’m a phone?”
“I think you were on 2% when I found you on that bed, and now you’re blinking red with a system warning.”
You laugh quietly. “And what? You’re the charger?”
“Obviously.” He turns his head to look at you, eyes soft. “I’m the premium, extra-snuggly, heart-eyed charger with emotional availability enabled.”
You blink up at him. “Who are you and what did you do with the emotionally constipated flirt I called a best friend?”
He grins, not even pretending to be offended. “He evolved. Pokémon-style. Final form unlocked.”
You nuzzle closer, letting your hand settle over his heart. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Totally. But you like me anyway.”
And you do. God, you do.
You fall asleep like that—not even realizing it at first. Just warm limbs tangled up in his, the quiet crackle of snack wrappers long forgotten, your breaths syncing up, your fingers still tangled. The last thing you feel before the darkness pulls you under is his lips brushing your forehead again, and his voice, soft and half-lost in sleep.
“Best nap of my life. With my favorite person.”
You don’t answer, already drifting.
But if you could, you’d say the same.
The light is different when you wake up—thicker, lazier, like even the sun can’t be bothered to move too quickly. It’s warm, filtered through the curtains, and casting faint gold over the tangle of limbs you’re currently buried in.
You blink slowly. It takes a second to remember where you are, what time it is, who this very warm, very broad human heat source is.
And then Mingyu lets out a soft snore against your shoulder.
Right. Him.
You glance over at the clock on the nightstand. 3:04 PM.
Jesus. You slept hard.
Probably because of the mind-melting head. Probably because of the post-orgasm snacks. Probably because your body hit the kind of wall you don’t come back from without several REM cycles and light therapy.
You shift a little, trying to ease a cramp out of your leg, but Mingyu just makes a noise of protest and tightens his grip, burying his face deeper into your neck like a clingy koala with attachment issues.
“Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and half-asleep. “You’re my favorite pillow.”
You snort, rubbing at your eyes. “You’re crushing my soul.”
“Good,” he says groggily. “It belongs to me now. Legally. Cosmically. We talked about this.”
You groan and stretch one arm over your head, nearly whacking him in the face. He doesn’t even flinch. “How are you still warm? You’re like a human oven.”
“I run hot,” he says, barely audible before chuckling. “You said that to me once.”
You bite back a smile and lean your head against his chest again. “You’ve been purposefully annoying since the minute I met you.”
“I prefer ‘strategically charming.’”
“You told me I looked like I’d never lifted a box in my life when I asked you for help in chem lab.”
He lifts his head a little, squinting down at you with the dumbest, sleepiest smile. “And look how far we’ve come. I went from roasting your biceps to worshiping your thighs.”
“God,” you mutter, turning your face into the pillow. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You love it.”
You lie on him a little longer—mostly because you’re still boneless and warm and the hoodie you stole smells like him and sunshine and home. His fingers start tracing light shapes over your hip through the fabric, like he’s not even fully awake, just wired to reach for you.
After a while, your stomach growls loud enough to startle even him.
You both freeze.
Then he grins. “Phase four.”
You sigh, already dreading it. “Don’t tell me there’s an actual plan.”
“There’s always a plan,” he says, rolling onto his back dramatically like a king preparing to address his subjects. “Phase four is: second snacks, lazy post-nap makeouts, and possibly Mario Kart.”
You blink. “Mario Kart?”
He nods solemnly. “It’s an essential bonding ritual. We play. You lose. I gloat. You call me a cheater. I kiss you to distract you during Rainbow Road. Balance is restored to the universe.”
You stare at him, lips twitching. “You kiss me to cheat?”
“Strategically charming,” he repeats, tapping his temple.
You swat his stomach. “Fine. But I get to pick the snacks this time.”
He immediately holds out the imaginary microphone. “Say less, your majesty.”
You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without looking.
This man. This absolute menace of a human being.
You get up eventually—only because your body is no longer soup and your stomach sounds like it’s trying to file a formal complaint. Mingyu follows close behind, shirtless, fluffy-haired, and smug as ever, trailing you like a golden retriever on a mission to be fed and cuddled in equal measure.
And you let him. Because at 3PM, in a quiet house with the afternoon sun crawling across the floor, being wrapped up in him still feels like the safest, softest place in the world.
The kitchen is quiet when you pad in, your feet bare, Mingyu’s hoodie hanging nearly to your knees, and the way it smells like him does something dangerous to your heart. There’s a gentle hum from the fridge, the distant sound of birds outside. It feels like the world is holding its breath, letting you have this one slow, perfect moment.
Mingyu follows close behind, hair rumpled from sleep, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and the kind of smile that looks like it’s still half-dreaming. He’s blinking slow, like his body hasn’t fully caught up to being awake, and when he sees you reaching for the cabinet, he immediately steps in to help.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice still thick and scratchy with sleep.
You step aside, not protesting. Watching the way his muscles shift under his skin, the way his fingers fumble adorably on the mugs like he’s too cozy to function at full capacity.
“I was gonna make us breakfast. Lunch? Brunch.” you say softly.
“I’m helping,” he says, placing two mugs on the counter. “That makes me the co-chef. Sous-chef. Whatever gets me a taste-test.”
You smile, nose scrunching. “You just want to eat the batter again.”
“I just want to be near you while you whisk things,” he admits shamelessly. “You get all focused and bite your lip and it does something to me.”
“You’re such a sap,” you say, but your cheeks are warm and your stomach flutters like you’re seventeen and in love for the first time.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you pull out ingredients. You look away fast, too flustered to keep eye contact, pouring milk into the bowl like it’s suddenly become a very serious task.
He stays close while you work—handing you the whisk without you asking, brushing a crumb off your cheek with the gentlest touch, kissing your shoulder in the middle of your stirring like he can’t help it. It’s not rushed or loud or over-the-top. Just soft. Slow. The kind of lazy afternoon that you’d have never believed would be possible for you a few weeks ago—especially not with Mingyu.
Eventually, the pancakes are golden and fluffy and stacked high on the plate. Mingyu sets the table, even folds the napkins like you’re having brunch at a tiny sunlit diner that only exists for the two of you.
You sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees brushing, syrup pooling on your plates, and when you take the first bite and hum softly in approval, Mingyu practically lights up.
“Good?” he asks, like it matters more than anything.
You nod. “Perfect.”
He bumps your shoulder with his. “Told you we make a good team.”
You both eat slowly, sharing bites, stealing glances, saying very little. The silence is warm, not awkward, just comfortable.
At one point, he tugs gently at your sleeve and says, “Hey. Look at me for a sec.”
You do.
He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and careful and full of something that makes your chest ache.
“Just wanted to,” he says quietly.
Soon enough, you're both camped out on the floor in front of your TV, controllers in hand, knees knocking as Rainbow Road loads with its usual screaming colors and doom. Rainbow Road is chaos. Always has been. Always will be. And somehow, it’s the one track you two keep coming back to like it’s a relationship test.
You’re hunched forward with laser focus, tongue poking out just slightly as your kart hits every drift perfectly. Mingyu’s right behind you, gritting his teeth, doing everything he can to keep up. His character keeps skidding on the edges, and your laughter only makes it worse.
“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you coo, which earns you a red shell to the face.
“Oh, I’m so done playing nice,” he warns, trying not to smile too hard as you fake a dramatic gasp.
By the third lap, you're ahead again—just barely. The final stretch is coming up, and you're gripping the controller like it’s life or death. You can feel him shift beside you, like he’s about to pull something.
“What are you—”
You don’t get to finish that thought, because suddenly he leans in and kisses you.
And not just a quick peck.
He cups your jaw with one hand and kisses you full-on, lips warm and insistent, like he’s been waiting all game for the excuse. It steals your breath. Your thumbs slow, your brain short-circuits. You let out a surprised little noise against his mouth, and he smiles into it—because of course he does.
Your kart immediately flies off the side of the track.
“You—!” you start, breaking the kiss as your character spins out into oblivion.
Mingyu’s already whooping like he won the lottery, flopping backward on the carpet with the most satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.
“That’s not fair!” you say, shoving his shoulder.
“That’s Mario Kart, baby,” he says, breathless with laughter. “And also… that was so worth it.”
You’re still dazed, fingers limp around the controller. “You kissed me to win.”
“I kissed you because I wanted to. Winning was a bonus.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Terribly in love with you,” he says smugly, pulling you into him again.
You drop the controller, straddling his lap without even thinking. “Say that again without the smug.”
He kisses you slower this time. Less about the victory, more about you. His hand finds your waist like it’s second nature, and the only thing glowing now is the TV screen forgotten in the background.
“I love you.” He murmurs against your lips, voice is soft, but sure, like he’s sharing a secret just for you. It makes your cheeks flush, breath hitching.
You pull away just long enough to whisper, “I love you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But next race I’m sitting in your lap. Let's see who’s distracted then.”
Mingyu blinks. “Oh,” he says, in that dumb, boyish way that means his brain has officially exited the chat.
You smirk, brushing a thumb across the corner of his mouth. “What? You started it.”
“I didn’t think you’d go feral about it,” he mumbles, staring at you like you just promised to ruin his life—in the best way possible.
You wiggle your eyebrows. “Rainbow Road, rematch. I’ll drive. You suffer.”
He groans, but it’s the kind that curls into a laugh halfway through. “You’re not gonna let me concentrate at all, are you?”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” you say sweetly, reaching for the controller again. “I mean, you cheated.”
He sits up a little, hands slipping to your thighs, keeping you there like he doesn’t want you going anywhere. “That was strategy.”
“You kissed me, you maniac!”
He grins. “Yeah, and now you’re in my lap, so technically I won twice.”
Your mouth drops open. “You little—”
But he cuts you off with another kiss. This one is lazy, familiar, warm. It makes you feel like you won even though you didn’t. His lips move against yours like he could keep doing this forever and wouldn’t mind never finishing another race again.
You kiss him back, just because you can. Just because it’s him.
Somewhere behind you, the Mario Kart theme loops cheerfully, oblivious to the way you two are definitely not playing anymore. His hands slip further up your thighs, massaging them as the kiss grows hungrier.
He pulls you closer, the world narrowing to the press of his lips and the soft heat of his hands exploring like they remember every curve by heart. Your breath catches when his tongue lightly brushes yours, slow and teasing, inviting but never rushing.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils wide, voice low. “You wanna keep playing?”
You blink, dizzy from the way he’s touching you. “The game?”
“No,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “but we can pretend.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s fond, your hands sliding up under his shirt like they have a mind of their own. “You’re the worst,” you mumble, but it’s hard to sound convincing when your thumbs are already tracing the ridges of his stomach.
“And yet,” he whispers, tilting his head to kiss just under your jaw, “here you are. Still in my lap.”
You hum, neck tilting instinctively as he sucks lightly at your skin, just enough to make your breath stutter. “It’s for revenge,” you claim, your voice barely steady. “I need to win the rematch. Gotta... intimidate the opponent.”
Mingyu pulls back just slightly to meet your gaze, lips flushed, expression of pure trouble. “Oh yeah? This is intimidation?”
“I’m very scary,” you say, trying to hold back a smile as your nails lightly rake down his chest.
He shivers, mouth parting. “Terrifying,” he agrees, eyes flicking down to your lips again. “Should I be nervous?”
“Only if you’re bad at multitasking.”
He huffs a laugh, deep and breathy, then slides his arms all the way around you, hugging you to his chest like it’s second nature—like it’s always been this easy. His heart is racing. Yours might be worse.
“You keep looking at me like that,” you say quietly, voice just shy of breathless, “and we’re never gonna finish this game.”
He kisses you again—deeper this time. No warning, no teasing. Just heat.
Your breath catches, mouth parting instinctively, and he takes the invitation without hesitation. His tongue brushes yours, slow and deliberate, and your fingers clutch his shirt tighter like you’re trying not to slide right off his lap and onto the floor.
“Who said we need to?” he murmurs into your mouth, lips still moving with yours like he’s trying to make you forget the concept of time entirely.
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glazed, lips red and swollen. “We’ve played two matches,” you say, barely holding back a grin, “and you’re already trying to seduce me mid-race?”
He laughs, low and cocky, hands sliding under the back of your shirt like he’s been waiting all night for an excuse. “Babe, I’ve been trying to seduce you since match zero.”
“Well,” you breathe, his touch dragging goosebumps along your spine, “you’re getting better at it.”
“Good,” he whispers, fingers pressing into your hips, dragging you closer. “Because I’m not planning to stop.”
You shift in his lap, just enough to feel the way he tenses beneath you. His breath stutters.
“Oh,” you say softly, feigning innocence, “that distracting?”
He groans, dropping his head back with a curse. “You’re a menace.”
“You like it.”
“I love it,” he says, voice rough now, pulling you back down to kiss you like he’s been starving for it. It’s messier this time, hungrier—your teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands tugging you flush against him like he’s trying to eliminate any space left between you.
The controller clatters to the floor. Neither of you notices.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly, and the way he growls low in his throat makes heat shoot down your spine. “Mingyu—”
“Yeah?” he says, lips dragging down your jaw, kissing the corner of your neck with a kind of reverence that still somehow feels desperate.
“I think…” you gasp, back arching a little as he sucks a bruise just below your collarbone, “...we’re gonna have to pause the rematch.”
He huffs a laugh against your skin, biting down gently just to hear the sound you make. “Call it a tactical delay.”
Your hands are under his shirt now, palms hot against his skin, mapping out every inch like you’re memorizing it for later. “You cheat at more than just Mario Kart, you know that?”
He pulls back to look at you, flushed and breathing hard, hair a mess because of your fingers, and still somehow the most beautiful disaster you’ve ever seen.
“I don’t care if I win or lose,” he says, voice raw, “as long as I get you like this.”
That shuts you up.
Because then he kisses you again—hard, like a promise—and you let him, gladly.
Your hips roll into his without thinking, and his breath hitches, hands tightening on your waist. When you do it again, slower this time, his mouth breaks from yours, head dropping to your shoulder with a ragged groan.
“You’re killing me,” he says, voice muffled.
You grin, breathless. “Still scary?”
He looks up, hair falling into his eyes, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. “Terrified.”
Your laughter turns into a gasp as he shifts beneath you, both hands gripping your thighs like he’s grounding himself—like if he doesn’t hold onto something, he might actually lose his mind.
You’re not much better. Every point of contact between you feels like static—crackling, insistent, addictive.
He mouths at your neck, open and wet, and you can feel the heat of it radiating through your whole body. “You’re not even trying to hide how smug you are,” you murmur, voice unsteady as your fingers trail along the waistband of his sweats.
“Because you’re the one on top of me right now,” he says, lips brushing against your skin, “and I still don’t know if we’re making out or if I’m being punished.”
You smirk, tugging at his shirt. “Why not both?”
“God,” he mutters, helping you pull it over his head, voice going hoarse at the feel of your hands dragging up his chest. “You're evil.”
“You’re easy.”
“Only for you.”
The air shifts between you then—something thick and loaded hanging in the pause that follows. Your eyes lock, and it’s like you both realize at the same time that you’ve tipped past some invisible edge. That playful energy is still there, but underneath it—undeniable heat. Need.
His hand cups the back of your neck, gentle but firm as he pulls you back down into him. The kiss starts slow but deepens fast, tongues sliding, breaths catching, teeth grazing lips in that barely-restrained way that makes your stomach flip.
You grind into him again, deliberate now, and the moan that leaves his mouth is low and wrecked.
“Shit—” he pants, clutching at your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to the floor. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna survive this round.”
Your lips find his throat, kissing down the column of it, and you feel the way he shudders underneath you. “You’ll be fine,” you whisper. “You’re strong.”
He laughs, then immediately chokes on it when you suck lightly at a spot just under his jaw.
“Fuck, okay—okay. I’m tapping out,” he groans, but his hands are dragging up under your shirt now too, like he’s searching for skin he hasn’t kissed yet. “You win.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, pupils blown, lips kiss-bitten and swollen. Your heartbeat’s pounding so loud you can feel it in your ears.
“I wasn’t keeping score,” you say softly.
“Yeah?” he breathes. “Can I still kiss you like I lost?”
You nod once, and that’s all it takes—he flips you both over, laying you back against the carpet with him hovering above you, hands braced on either side of your head.
He kisses you like he’s letting go of every ounce of self-control he’s been holding onto. Like he’s been wanting this for days and finally got permission.
And you—god, you let him. You welcome it. Fingers tangled in his hair, back arching up into him as his body presses you down like you’re something sacred he’s allowed to worship.
You gasp when his mouth finds your collarbone again, dragging teeth over skin like he wants to leave more evidence. His name slips from your lips, involuntary.
He answers with another kiss, softer this time, like he’s trying to say I’m here without the words.
Your hands roam instinctively, finding the warm plane of his back, the curve of his shoulder, the soft tension of muscle shifting beneath your touch. He feels real in a way that makes your chest ache—solid and warm and entirely yours.
And god, the way he’s kissing you—like he doesn’t care about pace or time or the carpet burning into his knees. Like you’re the only thing that matters. Like he’s learning you one kiss at a time and still hungry for more.
His hand slides up your side, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing beneath your bra and then pausing—checking. His mouth parts from yours just long enough to breathe out, “Okay?”
You nod, throat dry. “Yeah. Yes.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath all night, and then he’s kissing down your neck again—tongue flicking over the bruise he left earlier, teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder. You shiver beneath him, hips shifting up against his without meaning to, and the sound he makes in response is something that shoots straight to your core.
“Mingyu—” you whisper, half a warning, half a plea, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your skin, and it sounds like a promise.
One hand dips between you, sliding under the waistband of your shorts with that same careful urgency—like he’s trying to balance the need to be gentle with the very real possibility he might come undone if he waits much longer. His fingers trail lower, slow and teasing, and your back arches before you can stop it.
“You’re so warm,” he breathes, like it’s a revelation. “So soft. Fuck—”
Your head tilts back as his fingers move just right, and your legs fall further apart on instinct, letting him in. His name leaves your mouth again, barely audible, and it makes him glance up, eyes dark and soft and completely focused on you.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice tighter now, like he’s hanging on by a thread.
You nod quickly, pulling him back into a kiss. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
He touches you slower than that morning, like he’s trying to learn every single way you fall apart this time—each sigh, each flutter of your lashes, each shift of your hips. The game’s long forgotten, and this is the real win.
And when your breath starts to hitch, your thighs trembling around his wrist, he presses his forehead to yours and says your name like it’s a prayer. You clutch at his back, clinging to the moment, to him, to this stupid, perfect boy who kissed you mid-race and ruined your life a little—in the best way.
You cum with his mouth on yours and his hand coaxing you through it, every nerve alight, every thought blank except for MingyuMingyuMingyu.
When it fades, he kisses you again, softer now, like a thank-you. Like a goddamn lullaby.
“Still smug?” you murmur, breath shaky, eyes half-lidded as you come down.
He grins—sleepy and wild and very pleased with himself. “Depends. Are you still scary?”
You smile, pulling him closer. “You have no idea.”
Mingyu stills. His breath catches—just for a second—before he lifts his head to look at you. The air between you is still buzzing with the aftershock of everything that just passed between your bodies, but his eyes soften like they always do when it’s you.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low, like he’s offering you a way out. Even now.
You nod, threading your fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He stands first, gently pulling you up with him, hands finding your waist like he needs to keep touching you or he might float off the ground. You lead the way to your bedroom, your fingers tangled in his, the soft creak of the door closing behind you louder than you expect.
The room is quiet except for your breathing—his still uneven, yours still shallow. The soft wash of moonlight spills in through the window, casting faint shadows across your bed, your floor, the way he looks at you like you’re something he never expected to have.
You back toward the bed slowly, legs brushing the frame, and he follows until your knees bump the mattress. His hands find your hips again, thumbs rubbing gentle circles like he’s grounding himself all over again.
“You can still back out,” he says, serious now, even if his voice is a little breathless. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
“I don’t want to rush,” you whisper, reaching for the hem of your (his) shirt, “but I do want this. With you.”
His jaw flexes as he watches you pull the fabric over your head, eyes tracking every slow reveal like he’s memorizing you by the second. You reach for him too, tugging at the drawstring of his sweats as he steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours.
There’s still teasing in the way he kisses you, sure—but it’s slowed now, as if all the earlier heat has melted into something even more intimate. He lays you down with a kind of care that makes your heart ache, crawling into the bed like he belongs there—like he’s always meant to be here with you.
You scoot back until the backs of your knees meet the pillows, Mingyu following you down, one arm braced beside your head while the other traces the curve of your waist. He kisses you again, deep and steady this time, like he wants to feel every inch of you in the press of his mouth. His fingers ghost up your ribs, brushing the underside of your chest, then pausing again, like he’s checking in without words.
You nod, barely a breath. “Please.”
You feel laid bare in every way—your skin, your breath, the way his eyes take you in like you’re something to be studied, cherished.
“God,” he murmurs, voice gone quiet and raspy. “You’re... you’re unreal.”
You shake your head, a little dazed and a lot in love. “You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?” He bends down to kiss your chest, slow and deliberate, like he wants to worship you in pieces. “You’re mine.”
It should sound cocky. It would if it came from anyone else. But it’s Mingyu, saying it with that look in his eyes—like it’s less about possession and more about awe. Like he still can’t believe you let him have this.
You tug him down until he’s flush against you, skin to skin, the heat between you both stifling and electric. He groans softly as your hands find his hips, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, pushing them down just enough so they fall to the floor with his boxers.
“Okay?” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the edge of your jaw.
You nod and pull him closer. “More than.”
And then he’s moving—slow and careful, like he’s still half-afraid to break you, even now. But you anchor him with your hands on his back, your legs around his waist, the brush of your nose against his.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, and this time it’s not a promise. It’s a fact.
And when he finally pushes into you, your breath catches hard, eyes fluttering shut from the stretch, the closeness, the dizzying warmth of it all. He stills immediately, pressing his forehead to yours, one hand cupping your cheek.
“Tell me if—”
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice already trembling. “I need—just... stay. Right there.”
He does. Of course he does. He always does.
He moves slowly, carefully, like the moment is something he wants to savor—not rush. Like this is the part he’s been waiting for all along. And god, it’s everything. The heat, the weight, the feel of his mouth on your shoulder, his hand gripping yours tight between the sheets.
You whisper his name again and again, and every time it leaves your lips, he gives something back—deeper, closer, gentler. His lips find yours between gasps, half-kisses and murmured sweet things you can’t even process because he’s filling you with too much. Too much heat, too much love, too much him.
And when you finally cum again, it’s overwhelming. It hits hard and bright and sharp, curling your toes, your back arching off the mattress as he holds you through it, forehead pressed to your temple, voice saying your name like he means it.
He follows just after, hips stuttering as he buries his face in your neck, his moan muffled by skin and sheets.
The room is quiet in the aftermath. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the faint rush of blood still roaring in your ears.
Eventually, Mingyu lifts his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “Still scary?” he murmurs, voice wrecked but amused.
You smile, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. “Only if you leave your socks on again.”
He lets out a groan and flops to the side, dragging you with him. “Low blow. That was one time.”
You curl into his chest, sated and warm and so full of him you don’t even know where you end and he begins. “It was yesterday.”
He laughs, breathless, curling an arm around you like he never plans to let go.
And maybe—just maybe—you hope he doesn’t. Because who cares if you lose when you have him.
Pairing: Mingyu x Reader
Genre: Friends to lovers, angst, humor, fluff
Warnings: very suggestive (MDNI), seft-doubt, idiocy, self indulgent nerdiness
Word count: 17k
Part two
Summary: It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore. The question is, why won't he fuck you?!
or
Your journey of attempting to seduce your friend, Kim Mingyu
ty my pookies @supi-wupi and @gyubakeries for betaing ilysm y'all are literally the best
It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore.
Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but if there's one thing everyone on campus knows, it's that he’s a good fuck. It's not like he has no standards, he just isn’t shy about his life, and with his looks, you wouldn’t be either. He wears the title like a badge of honor, girls practically tripping over themselves to sleep with him at every chance.
So yeah, it's no secret that Kim Mingyu appreciates and indulges in one night stands, random hookups, and having an all around good time. The question is, why on earth won’t he sleep with you?
You first brought it up one night during a study session at his apartment that had turned into beer and complaining about life. He was your friend, you consider yourself to be pretty close. You figured, he’s so open about his sex life, why can’t you be? (and you were maybe a few cans too deep)
He was talking about how one of the girls he’d hooked up with recently wouldn’t leave him alone even though he’d clearly told her it was a one time thing.
“God, I haven’t been fucked good in so long” You groan dramatically as he chokes on his beer. “Like, seriously, I feel like a fucking celibate. No shame on celibates, just not my thing.”
At that he snorts, “I’m sure I know plenty of people who wouldn’t mind taking you home.”
You roll your eyes, stretching your legs across his lap like you always do when you're a little tipsy and annoyed. “Yeah, but I’m not trying to settle for just anyone. I want to be fucked well, not just… you know, awkward thrusts and two minutes of missionary while some dude tries to make me come with, like, hope and vibes.”
Mingyu laughs—big and loud, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel tight for no reason you’ll admit out loud. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious,” you say, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve got this reputation, right? Campus Casanova, professional heartbreaker, dick of the year—”
“Thank you,” he says with a flourish.
“—so why haven’t I benefited from that? I have a declaration.” You raise your hand dramatically and point at him, “You are the chosen one. This is my most desperate hour. Fuck me, Kim Mingyu, you’re my only hope.”
Mingyu snorts so hard he actually wheezes, pressing a hand to his chest like your words physically knocked the wind out of him. “Did you just—did you Star Wars me into asking for sex?”
You grin, a little smug, a little unhinged, and blame the alcohol and the way he’s looking at you now—eyes wide but amused, lips parted around the beginning of a smile that doesn’t reach his usual cocky level. He’s… surprised. And not laughing at you. Just surprised.
“I’m being resourceful,” you say, lifting your beer in a mock toast. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to fuck their hot friend?”
“So you think I’m hot?” he teases, and you blame the alcohol for how you think you see something deeper in his eyes.
You snort. “Mingyu, that’s the least controversial opinion I’ve ever had.”
Mingyu throws his head back, groaning like you’ve just inflicted pain instead of flattery. “God, don’t say stuff like that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”
“No, it’s not that,” he says, brushing your leg off his lap playfully and standing to grab another beer. “It’s that I like being friends with you, and hearing you say shit like that makes it dangerous.”
You blink. “Dangerous how?”
He shrugs, cracking open the can and avoiding your gaze in a way that’s suspiciously casual. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, but your drunk brain has terrible ideas. I like us the way we are.”
You narrow your eyes. “So you won’t sleep with me?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’.
“Even if I say please?” You say, looking up at him innocently.
“You look like a tarsier.” He deadpans.
You scoff. “Wow. I’m offended. Rejected and mocked?”
He leans against the kitchen counter and grins, annoyingly charming and smug. “Consider it a compliment. You're one of the few people I don't want to ruin with my ‘dick of the year’.”
You toss a pillow at him. “I’ll have you know I only asked because I was trying to solve a very real personal crisis.”
“Well, this crisis,” he says, catching the pillow and throwing it back, “will not be solved with me. I’m flattered. Really. But nah.”
You sit there for a beat, squinting at him like you’re trying to find the crack in his logic. “Is this, like, a challenge? Are you saying I’m not good enough for your stupid dick?”
He snorts. “I’m saying you’re too good. Too funny. Too smart. And my friend whom I greatly value.”
“Oh my god, stop trying to reject me nicely” you groan, flopping dramatically back onto the couch.
“I’m not trying,” he says with a wink. “It’s just my natural charm.”
You pout, staring at the ceiling, a wicked little idea already forming. “Fine. Reject me. I see how it is.” You sigh dramatically then look at him. “But don’t think this is over.”
“Oh really?” he says, amused.
You glance at him sideways, eyes sharp. “You’ll break eventually. Everyone does.”
He barks out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Just patient,” you sing, reaching for your beer.
He shakes his head, chuckling as he walks back over. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
If he thinks you’re going to drop it, he clearly doesn’t know you as well as he thought.
Because the war has begun.
Let the games begin.
You’ve never put this much thought into what hoodie to wear.
It’s not like you’re trying to look good, exactly. That would be obvious. But you’re also not trying to look bad. There’s a difference between “I woke up like this” and “I look like I’ve been dragged backward through laundry day.” It’s a delicate balance.
Especially when you’re hiding very expensive, very pretty lingerie under said hoodie.
Tonight is movie night—your usual Friday plan. Mingyu had texted you earlier:
«giant (dick [allegedly])» u better not bring any weird artsy film again
«giant (dick [allegedly])» we’re watching something where things explode
«giant (dick [allegedly])» also i have snacks this time. good ones. not like your off-brand cheetos
You’d sent back a very dignified “rude” and a middle finger emoji. Now you’re standing in front of your mirror, trying to figure out if this hoodie makes you look effortlessly hot or just… like you’re trying too hard to be effortless.
“Jesus,” you mutter, adjusting the zipper just low enough to maybe give him a hint. A taste. Not enough to look desperate, but enough to make him wonder.
For the record, this isn’t about sleeping with him anymore (although it’s not off the table). It’s about principle. About honor. You’re great. You’re hot. You’re smart and funny and flexible—both emotionally and physically. You’ve done yoga three times this week just in case. He should be begging.
You show up with popcorn, a smug smile, and your hoodie unzipped just enough to showcase a tasteful amount of lace.
He opens the door with a soda in hand, already grinning. “Took you long enough—are you seriously wearing that?”
You glance down. “This is a perfectly acceptable outfit for movie night.”
Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, suspicious. “You hate that hoodie. You said it made you look like a sad librarian.”
“I’ve had a change of heart,” you say breezily, pushing past him into the apartment.
He follows, still watching you like you just switched exam answers last minute. “Okay, but like… are you trying to seduce me with snack food? Because if so, it’s working.”
You toss the popcorn onto the coffee table. “Mingyu, please. If I wanted to seduce you, you’d already be in my bed.”
He chokes on his soda. “What—excuse me—how’d that work out for you last time?”
You plop onto the couch, flipping him off. He’s still staring at you as he joins you, only this time there’s a tiny crease in his brow. Like he’s thinking about it.
Excellent.
The movie starts. Some kind of loud, poorly lit action flick that you pretend to watch. Mostly, you’re watching him.
He’s in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, one hand in the popcorn, the other resting on the back of the couch like he owns the place (which, I mean, he does, since it is his apartment). When he leans back and stretches out his legs, you mirror him, thigh brushing his intentionally.
Five minutes later, you rest your head on his shoulder.
“Comfy?” he asks, not looking at you.
“Mmm,” you hum. “Your shoulder’s surprisingly sturdy for someone with the maturity of a middle school boy.”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who once cried during Shrek 2.”
“That scene with the giant gingerbread man is emotional, okay?”
He snorts, and you feel the vibration in your cheek against his hoodie. His arm shifts a little. Not around you. But closer.
Now is the time.
You lift your head, just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes and just enough that your hoodie slides down a tiny bit, giving him the wonderful view of the pretty lace set. Not enough that you’re exposed, but not too little that he doesn’t know what it is. Perfect.
He glances down.
Pauses.
Then promptly throws a piece of popcorn at your face.
“Nice try,” he says, grinning wide.
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
“I know what you’re doing,” he says smugly. “And I’m flattered, really. But I’m not falling for the push-up bra and smolder look.”
You cross your arms. “How do you know it’s a push-up bra?”
“Because you told me last month that lace makes you itchy and underwire is the devil. You’ve only ever suffered for fashion when you’re trying to make a point.”
“…damn it.”
Mingyu laughs again, genuinely delighted, and tosses another popcorn piece at your hoodie. “Good effort, though. Strong opening move.”
You sigh, dramatically. “Fuck you. This is going to be harder than I thought.”
“Oh, much harder,” he says, winking.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Not that way, don’t even—”
“I didn’t say anything!” You defend yourself.
“You were thinking it!”
You flop back against the couch. “This is war.”
He just grins, stretching his arm casually across the couch again—so close, almost around you, but not quite.
“Bring it on.”
You do not, in fact, bring it on. Not immediately.
Because for the next forty-five minutes, you're watching a bunch of buff guys with buzzcuts yell at each other over a glowing briefcase. It's not your genre. It's barely anyone’s genre, but Mingyu’s watching with the concentration of someone trying to defuse a bomb.
You glance at him.
Then at your hoodie.
Then back at him.
Okay, maybe not war. Not yet. Maybe… espionage.
Quiet. Tactical. Strategic use of cleavage.
You shift in your seat slightly, just enough that your leg presses into his a little more. Not obnoxiously. Just… available. You exhale slowly and lean back, stretching your arms overhead in a motion that’s meant to look natural and only slightly like a lingerie commercial.
Mingyu doesn’t react.
You risk a glance.
He’s got popcorn in his mouth and a blank, blissed-out expression like he’s communing with the gods of artificial cheese dust. He doesn’t even notice your stretch. You could probably flash him outright and he’d still be thinking about Bruce Willis.
You glare at him.
He senses it, somehow, because without looking away from the screen, he mutters, “If you’re still trying to seduce me, your timing’s shit. This is the best part.”
“This is the part where they blow up another building.”
“Exactly.”
You’re going to kill him.
Fine. So he’s immune to passive cleavage and casual stretching. You can work with that. You’ve got depth. Range. A highly specific collection of lingerie, and at least three more strategies.
Phase two begins approximately five minutes after his third “this is the best part” comment, when one of the action guys says something stupid enough that even he winces.
You seize the moment.
“You know,” you say, “I could write better dialogue in my sleep.”
Mingyu hums. “Mmhm.”
“I’m serious. Give me a gun and a reason to be angry and I’m unstoppable.”
“You literally cried when you hit your knee on my coffee table last week.”
“I thought it broke my patella!”
“It’s not even sharp!”
“It bruised like a bitch!”
He glances at your legs. “So fragile. So elegant.”
You ignore the fact that your legs are currently draped half across his lap.
“That’s my point,” you say. “I’m deceptively dangerous. Like a swan.”
He looks at you skeptically. “Pardon?”
“Swan,” you repeat. “All grace and feathers up top, but with murderous feet underneath. You ever see a swan fight? Terrifying.”
“I have literally never thought about swans that way.”
“Well, now you will. I’m a swan. I could absolutely take out a bad guy.”
“You couldn’t even take out the spider in my bathroom.” He says with a raised brow.
“That spider leapt! I wasn’t expecting aerial combat!”
Mingyu breaks, laughing so hard he nearly spills the popcorn. His head drops back on the couch and he grins at the ceiling like he’s never been more amused. You let yourself look at him for a second too long—his dimples, the way his throat moves when he swallows his laugh, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes that only shows up when he’s actually, genuinely happy.
You look at him, laughing like that, and you briefly forget your entire mission. Because really, how is anyone supposed to function with that kind of face beaming at them? It should be illegal. At least mildly regulated.
But then he shifts, still grinning, and pops a handful of popcorn into his mouth like he didn’t just survive a verbal swan-based assassination attempt—and you remember. This is war. And the enemy is smug.
“If you want me, you’re gonna have to compete with explosives and daddy issues.” He says with an annoying smirk.
You make a strangled noise of disbelief. “Are you seriously picking emotionally stunted action men over me?”
“Right now?” he says, finally turning to you with the kind of grin that makes you want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously. “Yeah. They’ve got car chases. You’ve got passive-aggressive lingerie.”
You clutch a couch pillow to your chest and groan into it. “You are the worst.”
“And yet,” he says smugly, “you keep coming back.”
“Because I’m determined,” you mumble into the cushion. “Because this is important. Because—”
“You want me to fuck you,” he supplies, chipper.
You scowl, crossing your arms. “God, you make it sound so crass. I was gonna say ‘make sweet, passionate love.’”
He snorts. “No, you weren’t.”
“I might’ve,” you mutter. “If you’d given me a chance.”
He finally glances at you, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly amused way of his. “And what part of this movie made you horny? The car explosion or the guy bleeding out in a warehouse?”
“Neither,” you say, leaning in, “You. You’re the problem.”
Mingyu doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Just stares you down with that maddening calm. “You know it’s not happening.”
You grin, wicked. “Yet.”
“Ever.”
You click your tongue. “You say that like I’m not currently wearing lingerie under this hoodie.”
He raises his eyebrow, no reaction again—just calm, smug, frustratingly unbothered Mingyu.
You narrow your eyes. “God, you’re annoying.”
“And yet here you are, trying to seduce me with popcorn and cleavage.”
“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t escalate.”
He leans back, stretches his arm along the back of the couch—close, but not touching you. “You can escalate all you want, babe. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna break.”
You inhale. Slow. Calculating.
Then, deadpan: “Would it help if I said I’ve been told my head game is life-changing?”
Mingyu barks out a laugh. “Jesus.”
You rest your chin on your hand, watching him with faux-innocence. “I’m just saying. Could be a cultural experience.”
“I’m not a tourist,” he says, tone lazy. “And you’re not a destination.”
“Ooh, poetic,” you say. “I’ll quote that in my memoir. Right after the chapter titled How I Sucked Off My Hot Friend.”
He shakes his head, laughing now, that deep, quiet kind that makes your stomach twist. “You’re so dramatic.”
You groan, flopping sideways against the couch like a wilted plant. “How are you immune to this? Are you secretly a monk?”
“I just have restraint,” he says with a smug little smile. “Unlike some people.”
“You didn’t seem very restrained when Jiwon from your stats class was crawling into your lap at that party last week.”
He shrugs, finally glancing at you, eyes gleaming. “She’s not my friend.”
The implication hits you like a pillow to the face. “Oh my god, is this like a ‘you can’t touch this’ thing?”
You roll your eyes, but inwardly, something twists—a little sting, a little hope. “Fine. So I’m your friend. The one you don’t want to ruin.”
“Yup.”
“Is that your nice way of saying I’m off-limits?”
“Maybe,” he says, voice softening just a bit.
You stare at him, the TV noise fading into the background as your mind races. The war you thought you started suddenly feels a lot less like a game.
“You know,” you say slowly, “this friend zone is starting to look more like a fortress.”
Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… good luck storming the castle.”
You lean back, eyes locked on his, the challenge clear. “Watch me.”
“One day,” he says, hands behind his head now, “you’re gonna look back and realize all these attempts just made me stronger.”
“Oh, is that what you think this is?” you say, poking his shin. “A training montage?”
He grins. “Every hero has one.”
“Hero?” You scoff again. “I’m the hero. You’re the idiot refusing to sleep with me.”
“I’m the wise guardian mentor figure,” he says seriously. “Keeping you from making a mistake you’d regret.”
“Okay Obi-Wan,” you mutter.
He snorts.
You’re not sure if you want to strangle him or crawl into his lap and see if the ‘not falling for it’ act cracks when you’re straddling him. Probably both.
Instead, you smirk.
“Fine,” you say, brushing popcorn crumbs off your lap and standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I guess I’ll just have to find someone else to help me with my desperate need for intimacy.”
Mingyu doesn’t move, but his eyes follow you as you walk toward the kitchen.
“Make sure he knows how to deal with aerial spiders,” he calls lazily.
“I’ll add it to the checklist,” you shoot back.
You open the fridge. Your reflection in the glass looks like someone who could get laid tonight if only the object of their desire wasn't annoyingly principled and hot about it.
Mingyu’s voice cuts through your thoughts, still from the couch.
“Don’t think I’m letting you win.”
You smile to yourself.
“Who said I was playing fair?”
Third time’s the charm.
Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you lean over Kim Mingyu’s kitchen counter with your chin propped on your palm, legs crossed just so, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how the hem of your skirt is riding up.
It’s Thursday, and he’s cooking. Cooking. Like the audacity of this man, to be hot, funny, emotionally intelligent and able to make dinner from scratch with forearms flexing every time he stirs something.
It’s a casual thing. He’d invited you over because you “looked like you hadn’t eaten a real meal in days” after you mentioned surviving on instant noodles and Red Bull. Apparently, that meant he’d take it upon himself to feed you. Like some kind of boyfriend.
Which he is not.
Because he still won’t fuck you (amongst other things).
So tonight, you’ve decided to bring out the big guns: flirting in domesticity. The sacred land of couples and casual touches. If movie night was a game of checkers, this is chess. Strategic. Psychological. Wearing an innocent skirt and a soft sweater because you could be the kind of girl he brings home for the night—or for life. Who’s to say?
He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there, wooden spoon in hand, hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back absently with his wrist, and you have to resist the urge to sigh like a romcom extra watching her crush.
“You know,” you say, lightly kicking your heel against the cabinet beneath you. “You’re dangerously close to wife material right now.”
Mingyu doesn’t look up, just chuckles as he stirs the sauce. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”
“Depends. You planning on making dessert too?”
He does look up then—eyes gleaming with amusement, the curve of his mouth smug. “What, you trying to lock me down with a ring already?”
You hum, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m just saying, most guys don’t cook for their friends. At least not the ones who claim they’re ‘dangerous’ to sleep with.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes. “Are we back on this again?”
“We never left,” you say sweetly, hopping off the counter and sauntering over to where he’s plating pasta like some Food Network god. You lean against the island, arms folded, watching him with interest. “So what’s the deal? You’re clearly into me.”
“Am I?”
“Don’t play dumb. You keep inviting me over. You call me cute. You literally offered to drive me across town last week just so I wouldn’t have to take the bus.”
“I’m a good friend,” he says, placing the plates on the counter with an infuriating smile. “Ever think of that?”
“Nope. I don’t buy it.” You take a step closer, close enough to brush his arm with yours. “You’re too good a friend. Suspiciously good. Like you’re overcompensating for wanting to see me naked.”
He huffs a laugh, but you see the way his ears go pink. Just a little. Just enough.
You lean in slightly, lowering your voice like you’re telling a secret. “You ever think maybe we’d be better unclothed friends?”
“Bold of you to say while I’m feeding you,” he mutters, half amused, half exasperated.
You grin. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me. Just… expand our friendship. Horizontally.”
He snorts, nearly drops a fork. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
There’s a beat. You both go still. He turns to face you fully now, arms crossed, leaning back against the counter. He studies you for a moment—really studies you. It’s the kind of look that might’ve made you flinch a month ago, but now? Now it just makes your blood buzz.
Then he says, very calmly, “I’m not sleeping with you.”
You blink. “Still?”
“Still.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like you.”
“That’s why people usually fuck.”
“Correction: that’s why other people fuck. I like us. I like this. I don’t want this to change.”
You tilt your head, stepping even closer so your bodies nearly touch. “Come on, just one time!”
He breathes out a soft laugh, and god, he looks tired. Like fighting this off is actual work.
Then he raises a hand and gently flicks your forehead.
You reel back. “Ow! What the hell?”
“Bad,” he says, like you’re a misbehaving cat. “No seducing me while I’m cooking.”
You gape at him, one hand still protectively covering your forehead. “You flicked me?”
“It was a gentle rebuke.”
“You flicked me!”
He walks past you, grabbing utensils and dramatically setting the table like you haven’t just offered him your entire body on a very emotional platter.
“You’re lucky this food is good,” you grumble, slinking over to your chair.
“You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from my kitchen.”
“Oh, you’d miss me too much.”
He smiles and doesn’t argue.
And when you sit down across from him, he places a full glass of wine in front of you with a wink.
“Eat up,” he says. “Gotta keep you strong for all that plotting.”
You take a sip, narrowing your eyes. “You’re going down, Kim Mingyu.”
He toasts his own glass. “Bring it.”
Fourth time’s not just the charm—it’s the full fucking spellbook.
You're done playing fair. Sweet? Gone. Subtle? Never heard of her. Strategic? Please. It’s time for full-on seduction sorcery (as if you’d been any of those things before). Tonight, you're bringing the heat.
And you know exactly how to do it: co-op gaming night.
The plan is simple. Mingyu invited you over to try some co-op zombie survival game he swears by, the kind that involves “teamwork and trust,” which you immediately translated as “an excuse to flirt while fake-dying in his lap.” He doesn’t know it yet, but this is your boss level. The moment you either break him… or break yourself trying.
You show up with takeout, lip gloss, and your tiniest pair of shorts, the kind that should be illegal by public decency standards. You pair it with a t-shirt that says “Save a Horse, Ride a Homie” and pretend like you totally forgot how it looked when you got dressed.
He stares at you. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then snorts, voice a little rough, “That shirt is… something.”
You grin, pushing past him. “It’s educational.”
Mingyu groans behind you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“That’s the goal, sweetheart.”
You settle in on the couch, already syncing up controllers. He hands you yours with a suspicious glance.
“You’re unusually quiet,” he says, eyes narrowing. “That means you’re up to something.”
“Wrong,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’m just here to kill zombies and look cute.”
“You’re doing great at one of those.”
You smirk. “Wait ‘til you see my aim.”
The game starts. It’s fast-paced, messy, full of chaotic yelling and pixelated blood. You scream when a zombie jumps out, grabbing his arm without thinking—and then don’t let go. He’s warm. Solid. Way too close to not be touched.
“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing down at where you’re gripping his bicep. “You okay there?”
“I need moral support,” you say, innocently. “This game is stressful. I’m fragile.”
“You’re the least fragile person I’ve ever met.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
You squeeze his arm a little harder and he doesn't shake you off. In fact, he seems very… still. Eyes on the screen. Jaw tight.
Perfect.
You lean your head against his shoulder. “You smell really nice,” you murmur.
Mingyu coughs. “I—what?”
“You smell like laundry and testosterone. It’s comforting.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer, but his shoulder shifts beneath your cheek—tense, like you’re a particularly tricky level of self-control he’s struggling to beat.
The match ends. You survive. Barely. You celebrate by dramatically flopping across his lap, legs hanging off the couch, head tilted back against his thigh.
“I need a reward,” you say, eyes fluttering closed.
“For what? Dying twice and screaming every time something moved?”
“For being adorable under pressure.”
“You’re insufferable.”
You crack one eye open. “And yet you haven’t moved me.”
“I don’t want to throw out my back.”
You roll over just enough to look up at him from his lap, your cheek pressed against his thigh, hair fanned out over his legs. “Do I make you nervous, Mingyu?”
He meets your gaze. Doesn’t flinch. Just raises a single, challenging brow.
“No,” he says. “You make me tired.”
You laugh, breathless and fond. “Liar.”
He sighs, not quite annoyed. More like… resigned. His hand hovers, then lands lightly on your head—just a little pat, soft and careful. You close your eyes, heart thudding a little too loud.
“Still not fucking you,” he says after a beat, fingers curling once in your hair before pulling away.
You groan, rolling dramatically off his lap. “You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?”
He shrugs, smug as hell. “I’m just helping build your character.”
You sit up, shoving a controller into his hands. “Boring. But if I win the next round, you owe me a kiss.”
Mingyu barks a laugh. “A kiss? What happened to subtlety?”
“It died,” you say cheerfully, “like my character did last round.”
He stares at you. And then—God help you—he nods.
“Fine,” he says. “One kiss. If you win.”
You freeze. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re letting me think I have a chance.”
“No,” he says, already choosing his loadout, “I’m just confident you’ll choke.”
Your heart stumbles. Your fingers tighten on the controller. “Jokes on you, I have very good control over my gag reflex.” You say with a smirk, prompting an eye roll.
He doesn’t get it yet.
He’s already lost.
Because even if you lose the game—you’re still getting that kiss.
One way or another.
Let the real final boss fight begin.
You lose.
Of course you do.
You die seven times, run directly into a trap once, and at one point, accidentally shoot Mingyu in the back with your pixelated shotgun.
“I told you to watch your six,” he says, tossing his controller onto the table with a grin that is far too pleased with itself.
“I don’t even know what that means!” you cry, slumping sideways on the couch in defeat. “Do I have a six?”
Mingyu stretches, flexing his arms like a smug asshole who just conquered a small country. “It means behind you, rookie.”
“I hate military slang. And you. Mostly you.”
“You love me,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “Even if I’m a sore winner.”
You scowl. “You're the smuggest winner. Obnoxious. The worst.”
“You’re stalling,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “You lost. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, yeah, no kiss for me.” You say with a pout, throwing a pillow at him.
“Better luck next time,” he says with a wink, catching the pillow and chucking it right back.
It hits you in the stomach, and you collapse in defeat again. “I don’t know how someone so hot can also be so emotionally bankrupt.”
He laughs—loud and free and unfairly handsome. “Don’t act like I haven’t given you things.”
You give him a look. “Name one.”
“Entertainment. Dinner. Valuable zombie combat skills. My lap.”
“That last one was mine.”
“You invaded, actually. Like a feral cat.”
You stick your tongue out at him as he stretches out across the couch, laughing.
You let him win this time because you know in the end, you’ll end up on top (or under, really).
Seungcheol, like always, is hosting a party in honor of who-knows-what doing something or another. You don’t care, all you care about is that this means proximity. Opportunity. A chance to look like you belong in someone else’s fantasy. Preferably Mingyu’s.
You stand in the middle of your room, surrounded by the wreckage of indecision: clothing draped over every surface, shoes like fallen soldiers at your feet. Your bed is a graveyard of rejects—too casual, too clingy, too try-hard. You’ve already put on three different outfits and hated them all in the time it took to blink, making your room smell faintly of perfume and self-doubt.
You finally find a dress, hot but not desperate, showing just enough skin to tease but not too much. You twist, checking every angle. It works. It works so well you almost feel sorry for him.
You sit at your vanity to do your makeup, something soft around the eyes, shimmer at the inner corners, lip gloss just on the verge of sticky. You want to look glowy. So touchable yet untouchable. Expensive.
Your earrings are simple but deliberate, the kind that draws just enough attention when you tuck your hair behind your ear. And you will. At least twice. Especially if he’s looking.
Your perfume is the last step. It’s warm—vanilla and skin and something that lingers. You spritz your wrists, the back of your knees. You’ve read that trick somewhere and it’s never failed you.
You glance at your phone. You’re late.
Of course, that’s part of the plan.
You take one last look in the mirror. You look like someone who doesn’t get ignored. You look like someone who knows exactly what kind of power she’s playing with.
You smooth your dress, grab your bag, and smile.
“Let’s see how long he lasts.”
The party is already loud when you get there.
Not in the chaotic, packed-club way. It’s a loft space that smells like prosecco and floor polish, all open brick and fairy lights strung across beams. The music is low enough to talk over, the people pretty enough to pretend they don’t notice how much they’re being watched.
You arrive just late enough to make an entrance. It’s deliberate, the way you step in. The way you give yourself a second to adjust your dress, smooth your hair, tilt your chin like you’ve just been complimented.
Someone—probably Soonyoung, the agent of all poor decisions—suggests drinking games which have already snowballed into over ten people crammed into a too-small living room playing a game that’s half charades, half yelling, and all drinking.
You’re winning. Not the game—just in general.
Because you’ve got Mingyu sandwiched between you and the arm of the couch, his thigh warm against yours, a drink in your hand, and an entire audience to witness the masterpiece that is your ongoing campaign to ruin him.
You lean over, breath brushing his ear. “If you make me guess ‘Shrek’ one more time, I swear I’ll crawl into your lap.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just sips his beer. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
“It is,” you whisper. “I’ve been told I run hot.”
“I’ve been told you run your mouth.”
You grin. “Still not a no.”
“Still not a yes.”
From across the room, Seungkwan yells, “Your team is losing. Stop trying to molest Mingyu.”
You wave him off. “I’m multitasking.”
Mingyu takes another sip, casual. “You’re losing both tasks.”
You gasp. “Oh, wow. Now you’re trash-talking?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You wound me.” You clutch your chest dramatically, sliding a little closer until your legs are nearly tangled with his. “I’m just a girl. Sitting next to a boy. Asking him to blow my back out.”
He tilts his head lazily, looking entirely unbothered. “And I’m just a boy. Sitting next to a walking HR violation.”
You burst out laughing. “That’s rich coming from a man whose thighs are currently weaponized.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shifts slightly away, like he’s drawing some imaginary line you’ll absolutely ignore.
A new round starts. Someone yells, someone else starts gesturing wildly. You lean into Mingyu again, voice low and mischievous.
“Hey,” you say. “If I guessed your safe word, would you tell me?”
“No,” he says immediately.
“Is it something embarrassing?” you tease. “Like… ‘Bubbles?’ ‘Chick-fil-A?’”
He looks at you. “It’s ‘Stop flirting with me in front of our friends.’”
You place a hand on his knee, entirely unrepentant. “That’s a terrible safe word. No one would ever say that in a sexy context, and it's way too long.”
“I’m saying it now.”
“And I’m ignoring it,” you say brightly.
“You always do.”
“Don’t act like you don’t like the attention.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, slow and deliberate, and sips his beer like it’s a middle finger.
You wink. He rolls his eyes. Somewhere across the room, someone starts fake-gagging at the tension.
And maybe you’re not winning the game.
And maybe you’re not getting laid.
But you are exactly where you want to be.
Still in the game.
Still in the chase.
Still driving Mingyu absolutely insane—one flirt at a time.
You're halfway through another drink when you notice her.
She’s pretty. Not intimidatingly so, just that easy kind of pretty that laughs with her whole face and touches Mingyu’s arm a little too often. And he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lean away.
You keep sipping, smile still in place.
It’s not like you’re jealous. You don’t do jealous. That would imply something serious. That would imply you’re losing something you ever had. It’s common knowledge that Mingyu takes a new girl home every time there's a get-together. You know that.
You lean over to Jeonghan, who’s beside you on the floor. “Hey,” you whisper. “Think I should start licking Mingyu’s neck or would that be overkill?”
He blinks at you. “Overkill for what?”
“Winning.”
He glances at Mingyu, then at the girl with the hand on Mingyu’s knee. Then at you again. “You’re losing.”
“Temporarily.”
Jeonghan snorts. “I don’t think you understand how the game works.”
You shoot him a glare and turn back just in time to catch Mingyu laughing at something she said. His hand brushes hers. Casual. Effortless. The kind of thing you’ve been trying to get out of him for weeks just handed to some girl in a backless top.
God, you hate it here.
Your stomach does something stupid. You pretend it’s indigestion and down the rest of your drink like it’s armor.
Somewhere around 1 a.m., the group starts thinning. Jackets come on, Ubers get called. Mingyu stands, casual, easy, and holds out a hand to the girl.
You’re on the couch, legs curled up, an empty solo cup in hand like a sad little trophy.
He meets your eyes for half a second.
Door clicks shut.
The room feels a little quieter. You sit there, watching the screen even though no one’s playing anymore. Popcorn underfoot. Bottles on the table. Someone else’s jacket on your lap.
You’re not upset. Not really.
The screensaver flickers across the TV—someone’s dog, maybe. Or a stock image of a beach. Either way, it’s mocking you.
You sink further into the couch, solo cup still dangling from your fingers like it's got something to say about your life choices. You ignore it. You ignore the silence too.
This is fine.
You’re fine.
You weren’t trying to win anything. Not really. Not in any real, capital-letter way. This was a game, remember? All jokes and eye contact and the occasional threat to climb into his lap. It wasn’t supposed to matter.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Someone turns off the lights in the kitchen. You flinch a little at the sudden dark, even though you’re still glowing, apparently—your phone lighting up on the table with some meme from Seungkwan and a text from Jeonghan that just says:
«Devil on my shoulder»: you good?
You stare at it for a second too long. Then type back:
«Me»: always
Then you set your phone face-down and pretend that means something.
You don’t know why it stings. It’s not like he owes you anything. You’re not dating. You’re not even flirting, technically, if you ask him. Just… joking. Just friends.
Friends who touch too much, maybe. Friends who play chicken with boundaries and never break. Friends who—
Yeah, okay.
You stand up. A little too fast. The room tilts like it wants to challenge you.
You wave goodbye to whoever’s still left, say something flippant and breezy, and duck out before anyone can notice that your voice sounds a little too bright.
Outside, the air is cool and sharp and real.
You take a breath like it’ll fix you.
It doesn’t.
You go home and go to sleep. Alone, like always.
No texts. No calls. Just the creak of your door, the whisper of your sheets, and the dull ache of your pride bruising in real time. You tell yourself it’s whatever. You’re not sad. You’re just… tired. Emotionally. Dramatically. Cosmetically.
You ditch class.
Not for any noble reason like catching up on sleep or mental health or whatever excuse you normally feed yourself. You just… don’t feel like seeing people. Don’t feel like making small talk or pretending you’re not reeling over something that shouldn't even count as a loss.
Because it’s not a loss. You were never in the running.
Still, you wake up to a blank phone screen and an even blanker apartment. It’s too quiet. You check Instagram. Mingyu's not posted anything, obviously. He never does. But one of the other girls from last night has—there’s a blurry video of a round of drinks, a flash of Mingyu’s grin in the background, a corner of her thigh in the foreground. Nothing explicit. Nothing confirmable. But it doesn’t have to be.
You toss your phone aside and groan into your pillow. Dramatic? Maybe. Deserved? You pretend it is.
By noon, you’ve migrated to the couch in the same hoodie you went to bed in, a tub of ice cream in your lap and a terrible reality show playing in the background. You consider texting Jeonghan something petty, maybe even making a joke about neck-licking again, but you know exactly what he’d say.
“You lost.”
You hate that he’d be right.
It’s not about the sex (Well, not just the sex). It’s the principle. The chase. The fact that you’ve been climbing this flirty little hill like it’s Everest, only to watch Mingyu pitch a damn tent with someone else on a whim.
Sure, Mingyu’s your friend, but that should have made it easier, if anything! You know him, you know things none of those other girls do. The doubts start creeping in your mind before you can stop them.
You lean your head back, eyes closing.
“I’m an idiot,” you mutter to the ceiling.
The ceiling does not respond. Rude.
You wake up again around noon, your head a little foggy, your phone face-down on the nightstand like it betrayed you.
Which, in a way, it did.
You scroll through a few texts — mostly memes, some blurry pictures from last night, and Jeonghan’s very helpful “Mingyu’s girl looked like a yoga instructor. Your move.”
You don’t respond.
Instead, you drag yourself out of bed, slap some concealer under your eyes, and show up at the group’s usual late brunch spot like you’re not currently losing the dumbest, pettiest war in history.
He’s already there, of course. Hair still damp from a shower, sunglasses perched on his head, acting like he didn’t absolutely obliterate your ego less than 12 hours ago.
You slide into the seat across from him, toss your bag down, and reach for the mimosa pitcher.
“Rough night?” he asks, because of course he does.
You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, did something happen? I wouldn’t know. I was too busy not getting laid.”
He snorts. “Tragic.”
“I know,” you sigh, pouring dramatically. “I almost had a sure thing. Tall guy, stupidly good-looking, terrible taste in women.”
“Sounds like a loser.”
“Total menace,” you agree. “Wears hoodies like a slut.”
Mingyu smirks, leaning back in his seat. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It was meant to be foreplay,” you joke into your drink like always, hiding the way your stomach sinks at the sight of him.
The waitress interrupts before he can fire back, and the conversation shifts to food, hangovers, and Seungkwan’s latest dating horror story. You slide back into the group like nothing’s wrong, even though there’s a weird little space inside you that feels vaguely bruised.
But you’re fine. Really.
Brunch drags on in that lazy, post-night-out kind of way — plates half-empty, drinks refilled without question, everyone talking over each other about things no one will remember tomorrow. You fake-laugh at Hoshi’s story about getting kicked out of a club for “enthusiastic dancing” and sip your third mimosa like it’s a coping mechanism. It kind of is.
Mingyu’s across from you still, legs sprawled like he owns the whole sidewalk café. He’s mostly quiet, nodding along, occasionally chiming in, occasionally looking at you. Just enough to make you insane. Not enough to call him out for it.
You lean toward Jeonghan when the conversation shifts again. “Hey,” you whisper, low and conspiratorial. “Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how good do you think my odds are if I fake faint in Mingyu’s lap?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Like, in general? Or while he’s still got yoga girl’s perfume on his hoodie?”
You pause. Grimace. “Okay, one: rude. Two: you’re enjoying this too much.”
“I really am,” he says, sipping his iced coffee like it’s tea. “You’re fun when you’re losing.”
“I’m not losing,” you hiss.
“You’re not winning.”
You open your mouth to retort, but Mingyu’s voice cuts across the table.
“You two whispering about me again?”
“Always,” you say brightly, switching gears without missing a beat. “We’re discussing how you peaked in 2019.”
He smiles around the rim of his glass. “That the year you first tried to get in my pants?”
“No,” you say with a shrug. “That was more recent. I didn’t know what I was missing back then.”
“Still don’t,” he replies, maddeningly calm.
You narrow your eyes. “Yet.”
“Ever.”
You flash a grin, syrup-sweet. “Careful, Kim. I’m like a raccoon in the walls. You ignore me long enough and I start chewing through the wiring.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. A little. Just at the corner of his mouth.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then look away like it meant nothing. Like you’re not keeping score. Like you didn’t notice the bruise-colored shadow under his eyes or how his voice was a little hoarse when he first said hi.
He’s not gloating.
That should make it easier.
But it doesn’t.
Because somehow, that makes it worse.
Somehow, him being normal, relaxed, unbothered — like taking another girl home wasn’t a big deal — hurts more than if he’d rubbed it in your face. Because you know it shouldn’t be a big deal.
You take another sip, push a smile onto your lips, and lean over to Jeonghan again.
“New plan,” you whisper. “I sleep with someone hotter.”
He glances at Mingyu. Then at you. “You’re gonna need a bracket system.”
“I’ll make a spreadsheet.”
“God help us all.”
You clink your glass against his in solemn agreement and stab at your pancake like it personally offended you. Jeonghan’s scrolling on his phone like he’s not in the presence of your emotional collapse, which is rude, frankly.
“So,” you say casually, “wanna fuck?”
Jeonghan doesn’t even blink. “No.”
You pout. “Why not?”
He glances up. “Because I enjoy my life? And my sanity?”
“Rude.”
“I’ve seen what you’ve done to Mingyu.”
You scoff. “Mingyu did that to himself.”
“You are the one trying to seduce him like it’s your full-time job.”
“I’m freelance,” you say brightly. “Flexible hours, great benefits. Or they would be, if someone would just let me ride—”
“God,” Jeonghan mutters, holding up a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence in daylight.”
You lean your chin on your hand, smiling at him. “You sure? We could make Mingyu jealous. Really commit to the bit. Tongue in my mouth, hand on my ass, your name in my—”
“Please.” He waves his fork like a white flag. “There are families within a one-mile radius.”
You laugh, but there’s a tiny part of you—just under the humor, under the tequila still fizzing in your veins from the drink—that means it. Just a little.
You just want to feel wanted. Desired. Chosen.
Even if it’s fake.
Even if it’s stupid.
Even if it’s Jeonghan.
But Jeonghan sees it, of course. He always sees too much.
His voice softens. “You don’t actually want me.”
You sigh, deflating. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want someone to look at me like I’m not a joke.”
“You’re not a joke.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You literally said I ruined Mingyu.”
“I said you ruined his brain, which—honestly, fair. But you’re not a joke.”
You don’t answer. You just go back to stabbing your pancake, chewing on silence and syrup and the feeling of almost being enough.
Almost.
You clear your throat, sit up a little straighter, and flash Jeonghan a grin like nothing’s wrong at all.
“Well,” you say lightly, “if you’re not going to help me fulfill my slutty revenge arc, I guess I’ll have to outsource.”
Jeonghan eyes you. “You’re deflecting.”
You widen your smile. “I’m recruiting.”
He snorts. “Don’t recruit me. I’m unionized.”
You laugh, tossing a piece of fruit at his face. He dodges it easily, still watching you with that quiet scrutiny that always makes you want to squirm. You don’t. You stay collected. Cool. Unbothered.
Because it’s not a big deal. Not really. So what if Mingyu left with some girl last night? That’s just who he is. It’s been who he is since before you started this ridiculous game. You were the one who walked in knowing the rules. You just… hoped you’d break them.
Stupid.
“Anyway,” you say, breezy, like you're not holding your smile together with metaphorical duct tape, “I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m improvising.”
“You’re losing.”
You sigh, dragging your gaze back to Mingyu—still relaxed, still maddening, still wearing that same damn hoodie. “God, he’s so annoying.”
“Sure,” Jeonghan says, “but you’re in love with the attention.”
You snort into your drink. “I am not in love.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not!” you insist. “I’m in… open conflict. With my dignity.”
Jeonghan chuckles, tipping his sunglasses down to look you in the eye. “Then maybe start treating it like a war. Regroup. Change tactics.”
You glance at Mingyu again. He’s listening to something Seungkwan is saying, a lazy smile on his face, like the last twenty-four hours were nothing. Like none of it meant anything.
You hate how much you still want to reach out, to rewind to the couch, to the teasing, to the slow thrill of being almost something. Of feeling like you mattered more than the rest.
“Fine,” you murmur, straightening up. “New strategy.”
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”
You smile, all teeth and intent. “Play the long game.”
He snorts. “Is that code for ‘text a situationship to make Mingyu jealous?’”
“No,” you say, pulling your phone out anyway. “It’s code for ‘remind myself I’m the main character.’”
Jeonghan lifts his mimosa in salute. “Amen.”
You all head out, someone, Seungkwan probably, suggesting thrifting, and who are you to deny yourself from some retail therapy. Not that you need it. Not that it hurts when you’re rejected over and over. Not that anyone was thinking that at all. Haha.
“If I find an outfit sexy enough will you change your mind?” You say, clinging to Mingyu’s arm and batting your eyelashes, prompting an eye roll from the man.
“I rejected you in lingerie, no.” He laughs, making Jeonghan choke.
“PARDON?!”
You shrug, “It was a strategic move at the time.” You lie, not letting it bother you.
You all walk into the thrift store and you immediately take off, dragging Jeonghan with you to be the reason for your poor spending decisions. You browse the racks, grabbing different things to try on. It goes by quickly, you (not-so) subtly avoid Mingyu, using the clothes as an excuse. You need to focus on budgeting. Obviously.
You’re browsing through the dresses when you feel him behind you. You don’t look, don’t need to. You know that presence, tall and annoyingly warm. You pretend to be invested in a vaguely sparkly green slip dress, holding it up to the light like you're testing it for authenticity. As if that matters.
“Whatcha looking at?” Mingyu asks, voice low and closer than you’d like.
You hum noncommittally, turning just enough to side-eye him. “Does this say ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck off?” You wonder out loud.
His mouth quirks, amused, “Neither, it says you’re trying to get to me again. I’m not sleeping with you, dress or not.”
You roll your eyes, “Cool, not what I asked.”
He snorts, the way always does when you're trying to act unbothered. “You literally asked, like, ten minutes ago.”
“That was a bit, Kim,” you say, flipping through a few more hangers. “An act. I’m a performer, get with the program.”
He laughs again, and it makes your chest feel tight. You want to be mad, want to have the right to feel mad. Instead you hold up a red mesh dress and make a show of holding it against yourself.
“This one says heartbreaker, doesn’t it?”
Mingyu lifts an eyebrow. “It says cover charge required.”
Jeonghan snorts from somewhere behind a rack. “He’s not wrong.”
You sigh dramatically, turning to Jeonghan with a pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Jeonghan says, already holding three things you didn’t ask him to, “but I also support truth in fashion.”
You roll your eyes and stomp toward the dressing rooms, tossing the dress over your arm.
Inside the dressing room, it’s just you and the mirror — which is never as forgiving as it should be.
You pull the red mesh dress over your head and immediately regret it. It clings, not in a flattering way, not in a sexy, dangerous way — no, it clings like a bad idea. A transparent, slightly itchy bad idea.
You stare at yourself for a beat too long, imagining what Mingyu would say if he saw you like this. Probably something smug. Probably something that would make you want to claw the smirk right off his face.
But the worst part? He wouldn’t say nothing.
You sigh, tugging the dress back off with a grumble and trying on the next thing — a black velvet number with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Better. Safer. Something you might actually wear if your life wasn’t a constant performance. If it weren’t for all the stupid looks you steal, the dumb comments you toss like confetti just to see if he’ll catch one and throw it back. You shake the thoughts away, it's just shopping, why are you thinking so hard?
Outside, you can hear the others chatting, footsteps, laughter. You can feel Mingyu still somewhere nearby. Of course he didn’t leave.
You try on one last outfit, something ridiculous and shiny and absolutely not within budget, and you know Jeonghan’s going to encourage it anyway. You exit the stall dramatically, hand on your hip.
“Well?” you say, spinning once. “Do I look heartbreakingly unattainable or tragically desperate?”
“Why choose?” Seungkwan offers, sipping an iced americano he absolutely didn’t have five minutes ago.
“Iconic,” Jeonghan nods approvingly. “That outfit is the personality now. You’re welcome.”
Mingyu glances up from his phone. His gaze lingers a second too long — you catch it, of course you do — and then he says, “You’re gonna make someone very confused in that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Not you, though?”
“Nope,” he says easily, looking back at his screen. “I’ve already accepted my fate.”
“What fate is that?” you ask, stepping closer, tone teasing.
He doesn’t look up. “Doomed to be hit on in public by someone who refuses to take a hint.”
Jeonghan whistles. “Harsh.”
You just smile, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. Still following me around thrift stores like a sad golden retriever.”
Mingyu finally meets your eyes, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, but it’s softer than it should be.
You wish it stung more. Maybe then you could stop hoping he’d change his mind.
You step back into the dressing room, looking at the last dress for you to try on. Not something you’d normally wear: a cute sundress, flowy, innocent, something you’d have dreamed of wearing when you were a child. You slip it on, looking in the mirror with a soft smile. It's moments like these that you let yourself breath a second, let that little kid be happy. Back when things had been simpler, at least in your little world. You don’t step out yet, letting yourself enjoy the moment before changing back into your regular clothes.
You finally walk back out, dress under the others on your arm as you hang them back up. You hesitate as you hang the sundress and decide, fuck it.
“Alright, let's check out.” You say brightly.
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow as he watches you march toward the front. “Wait, you’re buying something cute? Are you okay? Blink twice if Mingyu broke you emotionally.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “He wishes he had that kind of power, shut the fuck up.”
Seungkwan hums thoughtfully, trailing behind you with the solemnity of a fashion consultant in a Paris showroom. “No, no, this is giving… character development. Like a girlboss in her soft era. A post-Mingyu arc.”
“I’m not in a Mingyu arc,” you mutter as you reach the checkout counter.
“Sure you aren’t,” Seungkwan and Jeonghan say at the same time, which feels both rude and accurate.
You ignore them, placing the sundress gently on the counter like it’s fragile. The cashier gives you a polite smile, ringing it up with a soft beep. You hand over your card, pretending not to notice how Mingyu is suddenly next to you again, close enough that you can smell the damn detergent he uses. Clean. Familiar.
“You’re buying that?” he asks, not mocking, just wondering.
You shrug without looking at him. “Yup.”
He glances at the dress, then at you. “It’s… different.”
“I guess,” you say, too quickly. “It's pretty though, thought I might branch out from slutty college student to country whore.”
Mingyu’s chuckles. You don’t look, don’t dare to. Just sign your name on the little screen and slide your card back into your wallet like this is any other day and not a minor shift in your emotional tectonic plates.
“You’ll look good in it,” he says honestly, the same compliments he always gives.
But something about it feels different, deeper, almost.
You turn then, just enough to meet his gaze. There’s something in his eyes you can’t place. It’s not the usual teasing glint, not that sharp-edged challenge he usually throws at you like a dare, nor the friendly compliments and support he gives just as often.
It’s something softer. Careful, almost.
You swallow. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then looks away like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped.
You want to say something else — anything, really — but Seungkwan saves you both the trouble by clapping his hands like a preschool teacher at snack time.
“Alright, emotional tension break’s over, everyone back in the car before I dissolve into my own feelings.”
“I’m not riding with her,” Mingyu says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s dangerous when she’s self-actualizing.”
You grin at him and tease. “Scared you might give in?”
He just shakes his head, smiling to himself as he walks out, “You wish.”
Jeonghan loops an arm through yours as you step outside, his sunglasses back on like he’s shielding himself from your emotional UV rays. “You gonna explain the new style?” he says, voice amused but not unkind. You shake your head and his voice softens slightly. “You gonna be okay?”
You shrug, leaning into him a little. “Eventually.”
“Soon?”
You grin. “Long game, remember?”
He sighs, dragging you toward the car. “God, I miss when you were just drunk and emotionally irresponsible. This whole personal growth thing is exhausting.”
You laugh, letting him pull you along. Mingyu’s already in the passenger seat, legs sprawled like always, phone in hand. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.
You still feel the pull anyway.
But you’ve got your new dress in a bag, your chin a little higher than before and a half-smile tucked into your cheek like a secret.
Maybe he’ll notice eventually.
Maybe he won’t.
But this time, you’re not dressing up for him.
You’re dressing up for the version of yourself that knew she deserved the world.
Even if she still kind of wants him anyway.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe, just for a little, it’s not about whether Mingyu looks at you and finally, finally sees what he’s been too comfortable to name. Maybe it’s about choosing to see yourself instead—clearly, kindly, without a punchline waiting in the wings.
The ride back is half-loud, half-sleepy, Seungkwan yelling about bad aux and Jeonghan threatening to start a podcast just to cancel him publicly. You laugh when you’re supposed to, play your part like you always do. But this time, it feels less like acting and more like remembering. Like brushing off old habits and trying something different. Like letting your heart catch its breath for a moment.
You catch Mingyu watching you once in the rearview mirror—just a flicker, a second too long before he looks away. You don’t react. You don’t rise to it. And when he cracks a joke meant to bait you, you smile, slow and warm, and say nothing at all.
Let him wonder.
Because for just a moment you’re pausing the chase and enjoying the moment with friends. Because you’ve got something better now—something quieter, steadier.
A little hope. A little growth.
A little dress in a bag that says: You’re allowed to change.
And maybe, just maybe, this time it’s not about ruining him.
Maybe it’s about saving yourself.
Just for a moment.
And then you snap out of it, going back to smart remarks and flirty comments, because change is hard, habits difficult to break. But you know that it’s possible. And for now, that’s enough.
Four days later, you arrive at Mingyu’s door wearing sweatpants and no bra.
Not in a sexy way. In an “I’ve had enough of your righteous self-control and I’m playing the long game now” way. Strategic vulnerability. The sexiest mind game of all. More than that, you need to rant to your best friend.
You knock with your elbow, a bag of takeout in one hand and a pint of ice cream balanced on top.
He opens the door and freezes.
“Wow,” he says, blinking. “You okay?”
“No,” you say, breezing past him. “I’m emotionally fragile and I need dumplings.”
Mingyu closes the door behind you. “You look emotionally fragile. Did someone die? Do I need to bury a body?”
You flop dramatically onto the couch, stretching like a cat who’s absolutely not here for seduction purposes. “Only my faith in modern romance.”
He snorts. “Was it the TikTok guy who said he wouldn’t date a girl who owns more than one pillow?”
You glare at him. “No. But honestly? Same energy.”
He joins you on the couch, reaching for the takeout bag. “Tell me everything.”
And you do. In great detail. About the guy in your seminar who asked if your “whole personality is just being a woman,” about your professor who made a joke about menopause while grading your essay, and about your period arriving early like an emotionally manipulative ex.
Through it all, Mingyu listens. Really listens. His thigh brushes yours occasionally, and you absolutely don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your collarbone, which is scandalously bare thanks to your hoodie’s slouchy neckline.
He feeds you dumplings, presses the ice cream into your hands when you need it, and tells you he once cried at a car commercial, just to make you laugh.
And somewhere in the middle of watching reruns of Criminal Minds and trading increasingly unhinged opinions about Spencer Reid’s emotional maturity, you realize just how fucked you may be. Because Mingyu is your best friend. He’s your kind, funny, smart, unfairly sexy best friend. How are you supposed to stop yourself from falling for him?
Jeonghan was right, you realize. You're way deeper than you thought, so deep that you don’t think you can ever swim back to the surface of friendship. Shit. You continue watching, ignoring the feelings, knowing damn well they won’t go away. You fight the realization, convincing yourself to wait until you’re alone to break.
You aren’t even sure when you fell asleep, just that you woke up wrapped in a blanket, sprawled out on Mingyu’s couch.
He’s at the kitchen counter now, back to you, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. You stay still for a second longer, watching the curve of his shoulders shift as he pours himself a glass of water. You have the absurd thought that you could walk over and press your face between his shoulder blades and he might let you.
“You let me hog your couch,” you murmur, voice still scratchy.
“You drooled on it too,” he replies without turning, deadpan.
You smile faintly and sit up, the blanket slipping down. “Guess I owe you something.”
That gets him to glance over his shoulder. “You’re not cleaning it.”
You stand and stretch slowly, deliberately, feigning casualness. “Nah, I was thinking something more fun.” You walk over, letting your hand brush against the side of his as you reach for the same glass. “Maybe you should consider accepting one of my offers for once?”
“You’re really gonna try that before brushing your teeth?” he jokes lightly, but there's a quiet firmness beneath the joke.
You laugh—too loud, too fast. “Wow. Harsh.” You lean back, arms crossing over your chest to hide the sting. “I’m beginning to think you’re scared of me, Gyu.”
“I’m not scared of you,” he says. He turns to look at you then, really look, and the joke falls flat between you.
There's a pause.
“Then what is it?” you ask, keeping your voice even, your smile like armor. “Am I just not your type? I didn’t think you had one from the… variety of girls I’ve seen you take home.”
Mingyu looks away, running a hand through his hair. “You’re tired. Go back to sleep.”
You don’t move. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got for you.”
You let the silence settle in like dust. Then you nod, once, and turn away before he can see the disappointment tightening your face.
“Fine,” you say, the humor gone now even though you try to keep your voice light. “I’ll brush my teeth first next time.” You attempt, dropping back onto the couch and pulling the blanket over your shoulders like it might shield you from how hollow it suddenly feels.
Once you get home you let yourself fully realize. You sink into your bed, all of the moments that made you fall for him crashing into you like a tidal wave you hadn’t realized was coming until it was drowning you. His smile, his laugh, how he helps people when they need it, even when they don’t. How you use stupid jokes and flirting to pretend you don’t feel the way you do. How every time he’d take a new girl home a small part of you would twinge. How you’ve been so incredibly stupid.
You wipe your tears, taking a shaky breath.
It’s fine.
You’re fine.
The next wave crashes when you remember just how much he doesn’t want you. How much he turns you down, how much you try. You’d never had to try so hard with anyone else, you’d been able to bat your eyelashes and end up in someone's bed if you so wanted. But not the one person who matters.
But even that—even that—you try to twist into something survivable.
Maybe he’s just being careful. Maybe you’re too important to risk. Maybe he’s a coward.
Maybe you are.
You tell yourself he was tired too. That he didn’t mean it like that. That timing is everything and yours has always sucked.
Still, the thought circles like a vulture:
He doesn’t want you. Not like that.
And it doesn’t matter how many times you run the memories back through your head, searching for proof that he did. Because no matter how hard you look, you don’t find anything except friendly banter and a hint of genuine annoyance. Your flirting annoys him, you realize. You think back to the set of his jaw, then slight tension in his shoulders. The boundaries you’d been constantly pushing.
You don’t text him for two days.
He doesn’t text either.
On the third day, Jeonghan shows up at your door with his usual lack of warning and a bag of pastries that you’re too sad to pretend you don’t immediately want.
“I bring carbs and judgment,” he says cheerfully, pushing inside. “How’s the unrequited love pit treating you?”
You groan and faceplant into your pillow.
“Oh good,” Jeonghan says, “you’ve upgraded from denial to despair. Next stop, emotional rock bottom. We’ll get you a punch card.”
You muffle into the pillow, “I thought you were going to pretend to be supportive.”
“I am being supportive,” he says, tugging the blanket off you just enough to shove a croissant into your hand. “You’re not crying alone. You’re crying with me. And a chocolate pastry.”
You take a bite. Then another. Jeonghan waits.
After a minute, you speak. “He looked me in the eyes and told me to go back to sleep. Like I was just tired. Like that explained everything.”
Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that knowing look that makes you want to throw the croissant at him.
“I was half-joking,” you continue, bitterly. “The flirting. The offers. The lingerie. All of it — it was funny. It was supposed to be funny.”
“It was never just funny,” Jeonghan says gently.
You sit up, brushing crumbs off your hoodie. “Well, it wasn’t serious, either. Not at first. It was a bit, Han. A way to keep things easy. A way to be close to him without, you know—actually saying it.”
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “But then it stopped being a bit.”
You press your palms into your eyes, letting the heel of your hand dig into your sockets. “Yeah. And the worst part? He probably still thinks it is. He probably thinks I’m just messing with him for fun. That I never meant any of it.”
Jeonghan leans back in your desk chair, spinning slightly as he crosses one leg over the other. “Well, to be fair… you’ve kind of trained everyone around you to think you’re never serious.”
You shoot him a look.
“I’m not judging!” he says, holding up a hand. “Just saying. You’re always ‘fine.’ Always laughing first. You’ve got more walls than a medieval castle, and all of them are covered in sarcasm and slutty little jokes.”
You give a half-hearted snort. “You say that like it’s a bad strategy.”
“It’s a safe strategy,” he corrects. “Until you actually start feeling something and suddenly no one knows when you’re telling the truth — including him.”
You go quiet. Because he’s right. You’ve been dancing that line for so long, even you stopped knowing when it was real and when it was for the bit. Until now.
Until the silence stretched too long and the jokes stopped landing and all you wanted was for him to want you back — not as a punchline, not as part of the game, but really, actually, you.
And he didn’t.
Or maybe he did — but if he did, he’s never going to say it. Never going to risk what you have.
You’re always the one pushing. Always the one cracking a joke that skirts too close to the truth. You made it a game so you wouldn’t have to face how much it would hurt to lose.
Now it hurts anyway.
“I feel stupid,” you say softly.
“You’re not,” Jeonghan replies. “You just fell for someone who’s too scared to catch you. That’s not on you.”
You look down at the pastry in your hands, crumbling around the edges. “Then why do I feel like the punchline?”
“Because you’ve been delivering the setup for months,” he says, gently. “And now the joke’s on you.”
You laugh, dry and humorless. “Great. Love that for me.”
Jeonghan reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Hey. You’re not done. You’re just heartbruised.”
“Heartbruised?” you echo.
He shrugs. “It’s like heartbroken, but softer. More recoverable. You’ll bounce back. You always do.”
You nod slowly, letting the silence settle for a second.
And then you say, “I’m done flirting with him.”
Jeonghan lifts a brow. “Sure you are.”
“No, seriously. No more jokes. No more lingerie. No more pretending I don’t mean it.”
“Does that mean you're going to tell him you mean it?”
You stare at him. “Absolutely not. Are you insane?”
Jeonghan grins, wide and wicked. “So brave. So emotionally evolved.”
You throw a pillow at him.
But in the quiet that follows, you know it’s true — you’ve been chasing him with jokes and soft threats and wide eyes for months, always giving him the out. Always letting it be just a game. But it was never really one. Not for you.
And maybe now the game’s over. Maybe now you stop playing.
Let him wonder.
Let him miss you.
You’ll be okay. You have to be.
Because at the end of the day, if he never wanted you — not really — then he never deserved the version of you that did.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.
You ignore it for a second, pretending it’s some promotional email or a text from Jeonghan even though he’s sitting right next to you, elbow-deep in your snack drawer like he lives here. But it buzzes again.
Jeonghan glances over. “That him?”
You don’t answer, just reach for it with a knot already forming in your chest.
«Mingyu»: what’s going on with you?
You stare at the screen.
Another buzz.
«Mingyu»: you’ve been weird lately
«Mingyu»: did i do something?
Jeonghan watches you read it. “You gonna respond?”
“I don’t know,” you mutter, locking the screen.
“Interesting,” he says, drawing out the word. “Old you would’ve replied with something like ‘what, you miss me?’ or ‘guess you’ll have to come over and find out.’”
You shoot him a look. “Well, old me was an idiot.”
“She was funny, though,” he grins. “And so brave.”
“Shut up.”
You unlock your phone again, read the messages once more. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
You could say nothing. You could leave it on read, let him stew in it. Let him wonder why the energy shifted and whether or not you’re finally over it. Over him.
Or you could say something real for once.
Something careful. Controlled.
So you type:
«You»: nothing’s going on
«You»: just tired
You hit send, then immediately regret it. It’s too vague. Too obvious.
Another message pops up almost instantly.
«Mingyu»: you sure?
And then, a beat later:
«Mingyu»: did i fuck something up?
You sigh and set the phone down face-down.
Jeonghan’s still watching you, chewing on some expired gummy bears like this is a drama he’s bingeing with snacks.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” he offers, gently.
You roll your eyes. “And say what? ‘Hey, remember all those times I begged you to sleep with me as a joke? Surprise! I wasn’t kidding!’”
“You don’t have to say it like that,” Jeonghan says, amused. “Although that would be on-brand.”
You shake your head. “I don’t know. I need time to think.”
A week passes with you avoiding Mingyu like the plague. He still texts, still worries. At one point you’d almost gone up to him, but then you saw him walking into his dorm with another one-night and realized you couldn’t do this any more. Because seeing him hurt, and you know he’ll never like you back. Not the way you do. So the next time he texts, you don’t ignore him.
«Mingyu»: seriously, you’re worrying me
You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, but you don’t answer. Not yet. Not when everything feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. Not when his name flashing on your screen makes your heart twist.
Another text follows.
«Mingyu»: did i do something?
«Mingyu»: just tell me, please
You bite the inside of your cheek. The truth is tangled up in too many months of jokes that weren’t really jokes, of sidelong glances and lingering touches passed off as nothing. And now you don’t know how to say it without setting the whole thing on fire.
It’s stupid. You were the one who started it. The teasing. The innuendos. The half-drunken dares to “just do it already.” You made it a game. One he never played seriously.
And now you’re the one losing.
The one hurting.
And you look at that cute little sundress hanging in your closet, seeing that little girl you used to be and know you can’t do this any more. For her. For you.
You finally respond with a clipped:
«you»: can we talk?
Mingyu opens the door the second you knock, like he was waiting behind it.
His brows are furrowed. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird for days.”
You step inside without answering, your arms folded across your chest like a shield, as if it’ll protect you from what you know is to come.
He closes the door behind you slowly. “Okay… seriously. Talk to me.”
You stare at the floor, the speech you’d planned slipping from your mind the second you open your mouth. “I don’t think we should be friends anymore.”
The words leave your lips quietly, but they echo, soft and brutal.
He freezes. “What?”
You lift your gaze, force yourself to hold his. “I think we should stop being friends.”
Your voice is firmer this time, although there’s a slight waver you can’t shake. But you know you have to do this. For yourself.
His brow furrows deeper. “Where the hell is this coming from?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“Yes, it does,” he snaps. “You don’t just say something like that and act like it’s nothing.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You think this isn’t?” he practically scoffs, voice rising.
You wince. “I just—this isn’t good for me anymore, okay? I can’t keep doing this.”
“What does this even mean? What are we doing that’s so bad?”
You hesitate. You know exactly what you mean. But you can’t say it—not the real thing. So instead you deflect. You say something stupid. Something you don’t really mean, not in the way you know it sounds.
“I guess I just got tired of being the only girl you won’t sleep with.”
He stares at you like he’s been slapped.
“…What?” His voice is quiet, stunned.
You look away. “Forget it.”
“No. No, you don’t get to say that and then back out.” He steps forward. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I told you to forget it,” you mutter, panic clawing up your throat.
“So that’s what this is about?” he says, disbelief giving way to anger. “That I haven’t fucked you?”
You don’t answer.
His voice grows louder. “You’re throwing away years of friendship because I didn’t want to have sex with you?”
“Don’t twist it like that—”
“I’m not twisting anything. Those were your words.” He gestures at you, furious. “Is that all I am to you? Just someone to chase until you can check me off your list?”
You flinch. “That’s not fair.”
He scoffs. “No, what’s not fair is acting like I did something wrong by treating you with respect. Like me not jumping into bed with you is some personal insult.”
You snap. “You don’t get it!”
“Then explain it! Because right now, all I see is my best friend suddenly treating me like I’m the villain for not screwing her!”
“I never said you were a villain!”
“You didn’t have to! You’re acting like I’ve been stringing you along, like I owe you something I never fucking promised.”
“I didn’t want a promise!” Your voice is shaking. “I just wanted— I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t invisible!”
That stops him. His face falls, just for a second. But it’s too late now. The dam is cracking.
He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. “So what? Sleeping together would’ve fixed that?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning away.
You see the hurt on his face even as he hides it.
“You’re ruining our friendship because I won’t fuck you? Is that all I am? Just someone to get close to and sleep with just so you can say you did?” His voice is tight now—not just angry, but betrayed.
You flinch. “Of course you aren’t, I…”
You trail off.
He stares. “Say it.” His tone is venomous.
Your mouth won’t move. You look at him, and all the things you never wanted him to see are staring back at you through your silence.
His lips press into a line. “That’s what I thought.”
He turns away again—and that’s when the words leap out of you, desperate and raw:
“I’m in love with you!”
The world freezes, silence extending.
His shoulders tense as he slowly turns back, eyes full of so many emotions you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His breath is labored and the dam inside you finally breaks.
“I didn’t know,” you say, voice cracking, barely holding together. “Not at first. It was just flirting, right? Dumb jokes about hooking up, just to see you roll your eyes or laugh. That was all it was. Just teasing.”
You laugh, but it’s hollow and bitter and it hurts.
“Then you hooked up with that girl from the party, and I told myself it was fine. What right did I have to be jealous when you were never even mine? But I went home that night and I couldn’t breathe, even though I knew I shouldn’t be upset, laid in bed and just kept asking myself. Why not me? What’s wrong with me?”
You suck in a breath, but it doesn’t help, “That’s when it started. That voice. It wouldn’t shut up. It told me I must be disgusting. Unappealing. Something you’d never even consider. Not even drunk. Not even if there’s no one else. I got so desperate to feel wanted I even asked Jeonghan to sleep with me, and you know what he said? He said he wasn’t what I wanted. Because he knew. Before I did, he knew.”
Your hands shake.
You press them against your sides like you’re holding yourself together.
“And I kept making the jokes, brushing off what he’d said. Kept acting like I didn’t care. Because if I stopped laughing, you’d see the truth—and I was so scared of what you’d do with it. Would you pity me? Would you leave?”
Your voice breaks entirely. “I didn’t realize I loved you until I was already drowning in it. And by then, I couldn’t look at myself without hearing all the things I’m not. Not pretty enough. Not desirable. Not lovable. Just the friend you joked with, because that’s all I’d ever be. A joke.”
You let out a breath that sounds like a sob. “Because you said no. Every time. And I know you weren’t trying to hurt me—god, I know you’d never. You were being nice. Gentle. That’s what made it worse. You cared. Just not like that. So I twisted it around in my head. Tried to tell myself you were being noble. Or cautious. Or waiting. But deep down, I started to believe the truth. That I could never be enough for you.” Your eyes sting, but you don’t wipe them. “And now… now I finally admitted all that to myself, and it’s breaking me every time I see you. ”
You finally meet his eyes, and it feels like standing naked in the cold. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just so tired of feeling so… worthless. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I just… I couldn’t carry it anymore. Pretending I was okay. Pretending I didn’t only ever feel whole when I’m near you. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.
His eyes search yours, and for a moment you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to close the space between you. Say something, anything, that will make it hurt less.
But instead, his jaw clenches. His voice comes out low. Controlled. Too controlled.
“You should’ve told me.”
You look away, feeling the guilt crawl up your throat. “I’m telling you now.”
“No.” He shakes his head, bitter. “Not now. Not after all this. Not after you turned it into a fight.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did.” He takes a step back like he needs distance. “You came in here ready to cut me out. Not because I hurt you. Not because I did anything wrong. But because I didn’t love you back fast enough.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Isn’t it?” His voice cracks around the edges. “You could’ve said something. Anything. But instead, you turned it into some fucked-up test and waited for me to fail.”
You freeze. “It wasn’t a test.”
“No?” He laughs bitterly. “You knew how I was. You know what I’m like with girls. You joked about it every chance you got. But the second I didn’t want to be that with you—suddenly I’m the asshole?”
“You’re not an asshole,” you whisper.
“But I’m still the guy you can’t even be friends with. That’s what you said.”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Yes, you did.” His voice sharpens. “You meant it exactly like that. You wanted me to hurt the way you were hurting. You wanted me to feel guilty.”
Tears prick at your eyes again. “No, I just… I don’t know what else to do.”
“You could’ve trusted me.” His hands drop to his sides. “You could’ve just… been honest.”
“I was scared,” you admit, and your voice shakes with the weight of it, “I am scared.”
He looks at you for a long moment. “Of me?”
“No.” You swallow. “Of me. Of not being enough. Of finding out that even if I tried… even if I gave you everything, you still wouldn’t want me.”
Silence stretches between you, sharp and heavy.
Then, quietly, “You don’t get to decide what I would’ve wanted,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You never gave me the chance.”
He looks like he wants to say more—needs to say more—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair again, but this time it trembles slightly, like the adrenaline's wearing off and all that's left is the raw aftermath.
“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” he murmurs.
You nod slowly, tears welling up again. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t come here expecting—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice thick. “Don’t act like this was some noble confession. You didn’t come here to just tell me. You came here to end it.”
You flinch because you know he’s not wrong.
He steps back again, arms folding like he's trying to hold himself together now. “You said you wanted to stop being friends. That was the decision you made before I even knew what was happening.”
“I thought it’d be easier,” you say, and you hate how broken it sounds.
“Easier for who?” he snaps. “You think it’s easy for me to watch you walk away? To hear you say all this and know there’s nothing I can do to make it better?”
Your lip trembles. “I just couldn’t take it any more and I didn’t want to make it your problem.”
He looks at you, incredulous. “I’m your best friend. I thought I was, anyway. Of course it’s my problem.”
You say nothing, because what is there to say?
“And for the record,” he adds, quieter now, “you were never invisible to me. Not once.”
You finally look up. “Then why…”
“Because you matter too much!” he says, his voice splintering. “Because I didn’t want to mess it up. I’ve messed up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I didn’t want to ruin you too. You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about enough to not touch.”
Your breath catches as you look at him, heart clawing up your throat.
“And maybe I was stupid for thinking I could keep you close without eventually losing you.” His voice is bitter now, but more toward himself than you. “Maybe I should’ve known it’d end like this.”
You take a hesitant step forward. “Mingyu…”
But he steps back. “Don’t.”
The word is soft, but final.
“I don’t hate you,” he says after a long beat, eyes red-rimmed. “I don’t think I could. But I’m angry. And I’m hurt. And I don’t know what the hell to do with any of this right now.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never meant for it to happen like this.”
He gives you a broken, sad smile. “Yeah. Me neither.”
There’s another silence. One that feels different than all the others. Colder. Empty.
Finally, he walks past you, opens the door.
You don’t move.
“I think you should go,” he says, not looking at you.
And even though your heart is screaming, you nod. Because you knew this was coming. Hell, this is what you came here to do. But not like this. Nothing like this.
You walk out the door, and he doesn’t stop you.
You don’t remember how you got home.
One minute, you were in Mingyu’s apartment, heart in pieces at your feet. The next, you were on the street—walking, stumbling, maybe running. You’re not sure. The rain had started somewhere in between, soaking through your clothes, making it easier to hide your tears. Not that you tried.
You don’t remember texting Jeonghan, either.
But you must’ve, because he’s standing in your doorway by the time you get there, already holding your spare key. His brows are drawn tight with worry. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You look like hell.”
You try to speak, but your voice breaks. He doesn’t ask anything else. Just pulls you inside with a hand on your back and shuts the door gently behind you.
Ten minutes later, you’re in dry clothes—his hoodie, your sweats—and he’s sitting beside you on the couch, watching you like you might shatter if he blinks too hard.
“Okay,” he says eventually, “tell me what happened.”
You bury your face in your hands. “I told him.”
His voice softens. “Mingyu?”
You nod. “Everything. I told him I loved him.”
There’s a pause. Jeonghan leans back, breath whistling between his teeth. “And?”
You look at him, eyes red and raw. “He got mad.”
Jeonghan blinks. “Mad?”
You nod again, harder this time, like it’ll make it make more sense. “I told him I didn’t think we should be friends anymore. And he kept asking why, and I… I panicked. I said something awful. I told him I was tired of being the only girl he wouldn’t sleep with.”
Jeonghan winces. “Yikes.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, repeating what he’d told you after. You bite your lip hard, the echo of those words still fresh, like they’re etched on your skin.
Jeonghan runs a hand down his face, listening worried but obviously frustrated.
“I told him that wasn’t what I meant, but it was too late. He was so hurt. He was furious. And I just… I couldn’t stop. The words just kept coming. Then I told him I was in love with him.”
Jeonghan’s face softens, but not with pity—more like heartbreak on your behalf.
“And then he told me to leave,” you continue. “That I never gave him a chance and that he needed time. That he didn’t know what to do. So I left and now we’re here.”
Jeonghan is quiet for a long moment.
“Okay, yeah. That’s a fucking mess.”
You laugh bitterly. “Thanks.”
“I mean it kindly.” He shifts, turning to face you. “You didn’t hold back, huh?”
You shake your head. “Couldn’t.”
He sighs. “Look. I get it. Emotions are hard. But imagine from his perspective. You said something that sounded like a slap, and then you dropped a love confession on top of it. What did you think he was gonna do?”
“I didn’t think.” You stare down at your hands. “I was so scared he’d say he didn’t feel the same that I tried to end it before he could reject me. And when he got mad, I told myself it was what I deserved.”
Jeonghan swears under his breath. “Jesus.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He gives you a sharp look. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you nuked a bridge because you were too scared to walk across it.”
You flinch. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But neither was what you did to him.”
You bury your face in your knees.
After a moment, Jeonghan’s voice softens. “You really love him, huh?”
You nod without looking up. “So much it makes me hate myself.”
He’s quiet. Then, almost too gently, “Then you’re gonna have to clean this up.”
“How?” you whisper.
“Hell if I know, but start by being honest. Stop trying to protect your pride. You already burned it down. Go back and tell him everything again. But this time, don’t lead with guilt or anger. Just tell the truth.”
You look up at him, voice small. “What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”
Jeonghan meets your eyes. “Then at least you’ll know. But don’t let the last thing he remembers be that fight. Don’t let that be the last thing you remember.”
Your heart aches. You nod slowly.
He pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself fall into it. His hand rubs slow circles on your back.
“And next time,” he murmurs, “maybe don’t start the conversation by implying your best friend’s dick was the missing puzzle piece in your emotional breakdown.”
You groan into his chest. “I know.”
He chuckles into your hair. “God, you’re a disaster.”
You fall asleep on the couch, your face puffy and tight from crying, but your chest just a little looser—like the grief finally has somewhere to go.
When you wake, the sky is gray through the window, soft and overcast. Jeonghan’s draped a blanket over you, left a glass of water and some aspirin on the table beside you, and disappeared into the kitchen, humming faintly to himself.
You sit up slowly, the events of the night before crashing back into your head like a wave you barely brace for.
“I should text him,” you say aloud.
Jeonghan appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand, one brow lifted. “And say what? ‘Hey, sorry I imploded all over you, wanna circle back?’”
You throw a pillow at him, a habit you realize you do way too much. He dodges, smug.
You sigh. “I don’t even know what to say, but I can’t just leave it here.”
Jeonghan walks over and hands you the mug—it’s tea, still warm. “Then don’t text yet. Think about what you actually want. Do you want to apologize? Explain? Ask for something?”
“I want him to know the truth.”
“He already does.”
“Then I want him to understand it.”
Jeonghan settles into the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. “Then don’t text. Talk to him. In person.”
You shrink. “I don’t think I can face him yet.”
“I’m not saying today.” He pauses. “But eventually, you’ll have to. Because if you don’t, all this?” He gestures vaguely. “It just becomes the story you never got to finish.”
You stare into your tea. “What if he never wants to talk to me again?”
“Then that’s on him,” Jeonghan says gently. “You can’t control that. But you can make sure the version he remembers isn’t the worst one.”
You nod slowly, his words settling like stones in your gut.
Jeonghan gently rests a hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t ruin everything. Not yet.”
You clutch the mug tighter. “I want to believe that.”
“Then believe me.” He leans forward. “You said something shitty. He got hurt. But that’s not the end. It only stays broken if you leave it there.”
You bite your lip. “Do you think he’ll ever look at me the same again?”
Jeonghan tilts his head. “No.”
Your heart twists.
But then he adds, “He’ll either look at you and see the one who broke his heart… or the one who was brave enough to hand hers to him.”
You sit on the couch long after the tea goes cold, phone in your lap, your thumbs hovering above the screen. Every version of the message you think of sounds wrong. Too heavy. Too light. Too desperate. Too detached.
But eventually, you settle on the truth.
You type slowly, carefully. No overthinking this time. No jokes to soften the blow. Just your heart, finally laid bare.
«you»: I know you said you need time, and I’ll respect that. I won’t push, but when you’re ready, if you’re ready, I’ll be here.
You read it over once, then again. It still makes your stomach twist, but this time, not from fear. From finality. You press send.
The message delivers.
You stare at the screen for a long minute, hoping it’ll light up with a reply. It doesn’t. You didn’t expect it to.
Jeonghan comes back in with a slice of toast in his mouth and a second plate in his hand. “You do it?”
You nod, eyes still on your phone. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He sits beside you, offering you half of his toast. “Now you wait. And we eat carbs.”
You take the toast. You don’t feel better. But you don’t feel worse, either.
It’s been weeks.
You’ve replayed every second of that fight in your mind more times than you can count. Sometimes you wonder if he’s forgotten you completely. Sometimes you wish you could forget him.
But tonight, curled up in bed with a movie playing quietly in the background, your phone lights up.
«Mingyu»: Café del Sol
«Mingyu»: Tomorrow 3pm
You panic. Your heart is loud in your ears as you try to form a response, eventually settling on a thumbs up reaction, not knowing what else to put.
The next day arrives like a held breath.
You barely sleep the night before. Your stomach is in knots, your hands shaking every time you think about what might happen. What he’ll say. If he’ll even show up.
But when you push open the door to Café del Sol at 2:58 p.m., he’s already there.
He’s sitting at a table by the window, two drinks in front of him—one of them your usual. His fingers drum anxiously on the cup, and he looks up the second the door opens, like he’s been watching for you.
Your heart stutters.
You walk over slowly, like one wrong step might send the whole moment crashing down. He stands as you approach, uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he should hug you or just nod.
You don’t hug. You don’t do anything. Just sit.
There’s a long pause, thick with all the things still unspoken.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says eventually.
“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you answer.
He nods slowly. “I wasn’t going to. At first.”
You look down, then up again. “Thank you. For asking.”
“I didn’t do it to be nice,” he says. “I did it because I don’t want this hanging between us forever.”
You nod. “Neither do I.”
He watches you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s still figuring out how he feels. Then he breaks the silence, voice small.
“You really meant it?”
You blink. “Which part?”
“That you’re in love with me.”
Your breath catches. “Oh. That. Yeah. I meant it.”
He nods, eyes flicking down to his hands. “And everything else?”
You hesitate. “I wish I’d said it better. But yeah, that too.”
He leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. You notice the faint dark circles under his eyes—like you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel,” he says finally. “Because everything happened so fast. One second you’re my best friend, and the next… it felt like I didn’t even know you.”
“I know.”
“I liked you before you even figured it out,” he says suddenly. His eyes are steady, serious. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
You look up, startled. “What do you mean?”
He exhales. “I told myself I didn’t want to ruin what we had. That I didn’t want to cross any lines. But the truth? I didn’t want to let myself want you because the second I did, I knew I’d fall.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Mingyu—”
He keeps going, like he needs to get it out. “You make everything brighter. Easier. And I told myself that was enough. Just being near you. But then it got harder. Because I’d catch myself staring too long. Laughing too much. Wondering what your lips would feel like against mine. Wondering what would happen if I gave in. If I give in now.”
Your breath hitches as silence falls again. But this one feels warmer. Like the tide has shifted.
You whisper, “Are you saying you—”
“I’m saying I don’t want to lose you.” He swallows. “And I think… I know I love you too. I just didn’t want to admit it until you were walking out my door.”
You blink hard. “Mingyu…”
He gives a small, broken laugh. “God, we’re such idiots.”
You smile, watery. “We really are.”
A long moment passes, and then—carefully, slowly—he reaches across the table and takes your hand. His thumb brushes your knuckles, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in days.
“I’m still mad,” he says gently. “Still hurt.”
“I know.”
“But I’m willing to try,” he says, “if you are.”
You nod, tears in your eyes again—but this time they feel different. “I want to.”
He squeezes your hand. “Then we start there.”
The two of you sit there, hands clasped between coffee cups and apologies, hearts still bruised but beating in sync again. And for the first time in weeks, the silence feels like peace.
📲 Celebrities I would give a chance: a thread | O13 | (5)
━ You made a thread on the old bird app with all the celebrities you’d give a chance to… and it went viral.
ⓘ content info ⸺ paring. seventeen x f!reader. genre | tags. non-idol au, smau, mini-series, humor/comedy. warnings. NSFW content, minors do not interact.
ʚ A/N: As promised, here's the moment you'll have to choose! The form where you can cast your vote for who Y/N should end up with it's at the end! Enjoy!
⸺ Who should Y/N end up with? Vote here! Instructions: You'll need to be logged into a Google account to vote (don't worry, you won't need to share your email), this just makes sure there's only one vote per person hehe. Voting will last only a week!
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cw/tags: ot13 x reader (not all at the same time no one can do that), overstim, bondage, tickling (blink and you'll miss it), tummy rubbing, fluff but in a sexy way, sexual acts but in a fluffy way, cunnilingus, groping, thigh riding, fingering, somnophilia in jeonghan's, svt is referred to as brothers (how mahabharatha really should've gone), reader is "picked up like a little kid" in joshua's,(no pedophilia), innocence kink, slight petplay in jun's, reader wears cat ears, heavy objectification, exhibitionism, excessive use of commas.
EVERYTHING IS CONSENSUAL but negotiated off screen uhhhhh its just free-use on 300% softness
a/n: this is just svt brainrot I wrote at 1 am okay pls bear with me this is unedited and grammer is a foreign concept I was straight up jorking it in the stripped clubr to this I wanna be their pretty doll so fucking bad.
Oh, to be Seventeen's little free use doll, whom they treat like their own sex doll and comfort plushie at the same time. Minding your own business, writing or scrolling or reading? Not anymore :333 you're always getting swept off your feet— literally— because there is someone's strong arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off the floor to be carried off to cuddle and touch. You can count on one hand the number of times you've been left alone without someone's hands on your skin. They pass you around, not just to be fucked dumb, but because everyone wants their turn to squeeze and play with their little dorm doll.
Movie nights would always end up with you stretched over multiple member's laps like a cat. Gentle hands draw up your arms above your head, half pinned down, half entwined with theirs. Your head is on one lap, your torso stretched over the next, legs in another's. In the darkness only lit up by the glow of the TV, it's hard to make out whose hand is petting your tit, pressing thumbs into the arch of your foot, or stroking the flat of your tummy. It's also hard to make out who's sliding fingers down your throat to keep your little whines muffled. Can't have you distracting them from the movie, right?
Seungcheol would be forever breaking up petty little fights that started from bickering over whose turn it was to have you (looking straight at bss) and taking it as an excuse to neatly pluck you from their arms and set you on his lap and wrap his arms around you. No amount of struggling will get you out of his grip, even though he finds it sooo adorable that you have to try so hard against a fraction of his strength. The squirming inadvertently makes him hard, so he flips you over so you're sideways on his lap, held up by one arm banding around your ribs, while he strokes along the curve of your back and gropes the flesh of your ass. Cheol is content with the softness of you on him, more than any completion.
Jeonghan thinks it's cute to ambush you. A midday nap is often interrupted by Hannie flopping on top of you and pressing his face into your back, sliding the point of his nose up the divot of your spine. Any and all activity is interrupted by him sliding behind you, hands sneaking under your shirt (if you're wearing one in the first place), squeezing your waist. He firmly believes there's no better place for his hands than the dip of your waist. That's where they end up even at night, sliding behind you on whomever's bed you're sleeping on for the night, his cock pushing into your warm, still wet heat. Fucking into you while wondering how many of his brothers had used you before he did.
Joshua, our resident sweetheart. He scoops you up like a child, both of you giggling, and sets off on little "adventures", as he was so fond of calling them. He affectionately pulls pretty clothes over you, dressing you how he pleases, then takes you shopping for more. Each outfit you try on earns you a little kiss. Shua thinks you're adorable in soft sweaters cropped too high, swishy floofy skirts that barely cover anything, cute stockings that hugged your thighs. He parades you around svt, forcing you to show off your new clothes, ignoring the blush high on your cheeks. No, his focus was completely on his teammates, watching their eyes darken at the glimpses of skin where delicate fabric rode up, where the pudge of your thigh stuck out over the lacy edge of the stocking. Later, he sets you on his lap— in front of everyone's hungry gazes— and knocks your knees open over his legs. Warm fingers soon find their place on your clit, further down to your hole. It's utter filth, the way his large hand stretches the fabric of your panties. Vulgar, really, when it's so obvious it doesn't belong there, but nothing feels more right when you fall apart around two of his fingers, his brothers' hands aching along his with the ghost of your release.
Junhui treats you more like a house cat than a sex doll. Always picking you up at random times of the day and carrying you to the couch, petting your hair, rubbing your back. He pokes your ribs and sides, just to see you twist away and push his hand down. Once, inexplicably, he grabbed your entire face as you would a cat you wanted to bother. The resulting cat fight (hehe) led to you straddling his face, your hands pinning his wrists down above his head. It was all a show really; he could push you off, flip you over, pin you down and have his wicked way with his dear kitty, all in the span of a breath, and you both know that. Yet, he let it happen because he loved the weight of you on his face, your pretty, breathy sighs and whimpers, your mewling when he didn't, wouldn't stop licking at your cunt. Jun loved when you initiated anything, cupping your pussy and affectionately calling you his "little cat in heat", scratching behind the cat ears he bought for you. He loved putting you face down ass up on the living room rug, where anyone could walk in on Jun slamming into you, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other pinning your wrists behind your back. If anyone walks in? Well, it's so commonplace they barely take note of it anymore, but sometimes—after a long day, or a hard practice— they push your teary face between their legs, cooing at how you rub your cheek against the bulge in their pants. Nothing relieves their stress and frustration like pushing your head down, large hand between your cat ears, seeing drool and cum and tears mix on your pretty face, but you curling up on Jun’s lap like a content cat comes in as a strong second.
Hoshi . Is bitey. Half man, half tiger, half toddler is really the only way you could even somewhat adequately describe him. He's forever teething against the soft inside of your thigh, licking at you until you cry, fucking into you like a rabid animal, pinching your cheeks and cooing over you, before burying his face in your neck and mouthing at the skin there. The other members teased you about the marks he left, pressing gently down on bruises new and faded. There was no embarrassing Hoshi, not when he proudly showed them off when he could, yanking your head back by the hair, exposing the delicate arch of your throat. His tongue laved over the bites, tasting the salt of your skin, and he paid no heed to your incessant squirming. Your shoulders are always adorned with perfectly circular bitemarks, to the point where the others were concerned by them. What they didn't know, not until Hoshi walked out smug and shirtless after a shower, was how much you marked him up as well (to Mingyu's scandalized gasp). You were usually so pliant underneath them, your hands always pinned out of the way and held down, but Soonyoung adored when your small hands tried to grasp onto him, when your pretty, sharp nails clawed at his back and shoulders, struggling to withstand the onslaught of pleasure. The result? Long, fine scratches adorning his spine, shifting under the toned muscles of his back and biceps. He wears them proudly like his own tiger stripes.
Wonwoo is a cat maid enjoyer trustttt. He is also a little shit. Even without the frills of the costume, the cat ears and his hand are permanently on your head. Number 1 headpat giver. Reading? His hands are stroking your hair. Sleeping together? His thumb is brushing over the arch of your ear. You do something mildly cute (breathe)? Pat pat pat. Loves cuddling you like a plushie against his chest, both while lying down and sitting up. The cuteness aggression is unreal. At least, it is until the sadist in him takes over. He loves nothing more than locking a remote controlled vibe against you and making you do menial household chores like dusting and scrubbing in your pretty, too-short outfit that did nothing to hide whatever lacy thing you had on underneath. His favourite is when you are on your hands and knees, pretending to scrub the floor, the ridiculously frilly uniform soaked through with water, skin slippery with suds, smelling like soap and desperation, all because he turned the vibe up too high, too quickly. He makes you come like that, shaking and crying on the floor. Once. Twice. You were well on the way to the third when he gathers you up in his arms and sets you on his lap, uncaring of the water soaking through his clothes. He presses a firm hand over your pussy, forcing the toy against your clit, and lets you sob your way through your climax. Wonwoo is gentle when he cleans you up after, undoing the ties of your dress with nimble, long-fingered hands, lowering your spent body into a hot bath, cradling you until you fall fast asleep against his chest. Of course, not without innumerous headpats.
Woozi has 3 loves in his life: music, working out, and you. According to him, there was no reason not to combine any of the three, which found you in his studio, curled up on his lap. His hands absentmindedly kneaded at your flesh, sliding from your chest down to the curve of your waist, palming at your ass, then up and over your thigh, to the round of your calf. Even the delicate swell of your ankles and the arch of your foot was not untouched, pale, elegant fingers stroking the skin and squeezing the entirety of your foot. Between the quiet of the studio and his warm hands, you barely notice the haze of dreamland drawing its veil over your eyes, or soft cushions meeting your back. You wake up to the soft click-clack of the keyboard. stretching, you watch your lover work.
One moment, you had been lounging on the studio couch— the next, plucked from it by a Jihoon that seemed to stomp in from thin air. His face, bright like the full moon, hovered directly over you, eyes meeting yours, glinting with quiet mischief. You blinked, and then you were weightless, rising, and your usually reserved Jihoon? Doing barbell curls of all things, using you as an exceptionally surprised piece of gym equipment. Usually, gym equipment did not stare at him with wide eyes and a mildly confused expression. Usually, gym equipment did not fist his shirt and cling to him. Usually, gym equipment was not this fucking adorable. What was Woozi to do with you, other than to set you on his cock and show you his new hip thrust PR?
Dokyeom gave Seungcheol and Hoshi a run for their money when it came to sheer clinginess, what with how you're folded into his side all the damn time. He's forever squishing you into his broad chest, arms and legs thrown around you, head buried in the crook of your neck. Rarely would you get to cuddle him back, because he seemed to have made it his life mission to bring any straying limbs back to your body and make you as compact as possible. Slender, long fingers wrap around your delicate wrists and pin them down, with seemingly little effort, but you can't move an inch. Forget being a plushie— you act as his living, breathing body pillow, always warm to the touch. Your skin? Free real estate. His hands are always roaming, cupping the curve of your tit, pinching your nipples and tugging until you arch against him. Further down, squeezing the softness of your stomach and pinching the narrowest part of your waist. Further, and he's stroking your thighs almost reverently, higher and higher until his palm is flush against your cunt, and he pets that too. It seemed like sacrilege to call it dirty, sexual; the slow drag of his finger against your clit was worship, your whimpers hymnal, your pleasure his offering. The scrunch of your face when you come is enlightenment to him. When he flips you over and pins you underneath him, Dokyeom can't help but think you're his own miniature goddess stolen straight from the altar, come to life and flushed and demanding under his reverent hands. When he's through with you, after carefully shaping your body into his, pressing you down into the mattress, bouncing you on his hips, drinking and eating from you until he can finally call himself somewhat sated, he cleans you like a devotee, presses his forehead against your sweat-damp stomach, and breathes you in, more fragrant than any incense.
You are Seventeen's doll, and Mingyu is their housewife. That's why he's always setting you on the counter next to him while he cooks, lovingly feeding you the first bite by hand. You looked so fragile to him like this, his oversized shirt falling off your shoulder, riding up your thighs, exposing impossibly soft skin. While dinner cooks, he spreads you on the counter as his appetizer, licking at you until you're begging him to let up, to give you a break. He finds your thrashing impossibly cute, how your thighs can't close around his shoulders, your helpless crying because it's too much for your little body to handle. It's so easy to manhandle you into whatever position he wanted, to hold you up and against him while he fucks into you. Some days, when he has too much energy, when practice and working out and taking care of others weren't enough, he would lift you up into the air and take you like that, your feet dangling off the floor. Out of everyone, you were the most doll-like with him, limp in his muscled arms while he uses you to his heart's desire. It had taken you so long to take him fully, needing days of prep before the first time. Days of him holding you down while he fingers you open, the pads of his fingers flush and rubbing against the soft, sensitive spot in you that your fingers could never reach by themselves. Days of Seventeen surprising you in the middle of the day by pushing a toy into you and forcing you to warm it. Days of Mingyu easing in inch by inch, making you come with each one, until you could finally, finally take his cock, flushed with pleasure and fullness and the endless praise spilling from his lips.
Minghao loves aesthetics. He asks you sit with him during his tea ceremonies, noting your perfect posture and neatly folded legs with an approving gaze. Everyone else is always bending you in half, but Minghao appreciates the neatness of your movement, the straight, elegant lines of your body, even in the mundane everyday— writing at your desk, molding the shape of your figure against one of his brothers', the swish of your skirt around your legs when you walked. It was in the smallest details to him— the tendons shifting under your hand, the stretch of an affectionate arm, the gentle arc of hipbone, the arch of your back off the bed when you come undone underneath his lips, his fingers, his cock. As far as Hao was concerned, this beauty was all the more perfect bound in cherry red rope, crisscrossing the narrow of your wrists and waist, digging into the fat of your hips and thighs. He spends hours with you in his studio, entwined together under warm afternoon sunlight, testing different patterns across your torso while your head leans against his chest. Every day was something different— arms tied to your ankles one day, calves and thighs bound together, forcing you to kneel, once tied to him while straddling him on a chair. The boundaries between his own touch and the bite of rope blurs, until the pinch of rope and the nip of teeth are one and the same.
You often called Seungkwan your "adorable boo bear", complete with holding up strands of his hair into fluffy bear ears. And indeed, he looked like a cartoon baby bear with his big eyes and clingy, soft tendencies. Evenings with him were always spent with you straddling him on the couch, your face buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around each other, breathing the other in. He cared for you in a way that was softer, warmer, care which seeped in through your pores until you glowed from the inside out. Beyond nagging you to eat and drink water 2982139 times a day, he fetched you meals himself, held bottles to your lips, and scolded your ear off. When you were on his lap, however, the praise was endless. He didn't fuck— he rolled his hips into yours slowly, hands grasping yours, pinning both of you down, kissing the planes of your face slack from pleasure. It wasn't a powerplay like with the others, either. His hands are exceedingly gentle on your skin, holding you close, and closer, trying to merge the two of you together. Your own hand stroked his round cheek, resting soft against your palm. You were his doll and he was your boo bear, and that's all that mattered sometimes.
Vernon is the most peaceful of them all, never given to throwing you around like the others (or gnawing at you like Hoshi). It's simply enough to share company, and occassionally, cat reels. He holds you as casually as he does his phone, manspreading on the couch and setting you on his lap, wide hand palming the fat of your ass. The unspoken order—grind—hangs in the air, and you obediently oblige, pushing your hips against the seam of his pants, head falling into the perfect curve of his neck. He captures your lips with his, a soft, slick meeting. Unhurried, calm, like everything else was with him. He wasn't particularly inclined to pin you down and fuck you senseless (not that it didn't happen), but enjoyed the pressure of you on him, the gentle press of your hands against his chest. Afterwards, the two of you fall asleep together, hand in hand, space between your bodies like open fields ready for sowing.
Chan thinks you're the cutest ever, especially when snuggled up on his chest. He also thinks you're the cutest ever when you're overwhelmed and half dazed, making adorable little faces of pleasure and unable to speak from overstimulation. He likes making you whine into his neck and chest when his wandering hands squeeze a little too hard at your waist, ass and tits. Chan was always using his strength to his advantage, knowing it drove you insane, grinning cheekily when it did. Your pleasure was his, and he carved that knowledge in your mind until you knew it better than you knew yourself. Eye contact is a must for him, to the point where he stops moving if your eyes fall shut from the pleasure. His favourite activity? Placing you on one strong thigh, supported only by your entwined hands, and forcing you to grind and look at him until you're sobbing into his shoulder from exhaustion and frustration. His pants are soaked through, but you still couldn't find completion, needing more from him. Chan loved the desperate tears tracking down your face. Once he takes over, you wish you did it yourself— he's relentless, bouncing you on his thick thigh until you're cross-eyed and stupid from how good it feels. He keeps going, long after you've turned completely limp, using your body to vent his energy out. Afterwards, he collapses next you, and spoons you until you both fall asleep and wake up again, though you are significantly worse for wear. It's hard to stay mad when he flashes that boyish smile at you, with sweet kisses and promises of food.
a/n pt 2: if you see me post more fics with the same themes no you don't
feel free to ask if you want to see more from this universe (ot13 or member specific) because I have MULTIPLE scenarios that I haven't included here. Both fluff and smut reqs are accepted!
please send me asks/feedback/criticism/dms I do not bite
tell him how you love his cock, how big he is, how it hits so deep inside you. tell him “right there,” and “keep going,” and to do it “just like that.”
stroke his possessive side too. tell him no one else can fuck you like he can, no one else can stretch you out so good, no one else can make you cum like he does. tell him that your pussy is made for him only.
be loud for him. god, he loves hearing you moan. say his name, beg for more, sob, whimper, gasp for him. don’t be shy about it. it’ll only be a matter of time before you butter him up enough to make him cum.
jeonghan —; beg
everyone knows yoon jeonghan likes having people at his mercy. he gets a little unhinged when he has power over someone—so imagine what he gets like when you’re writhing on his cock, gasping his name so sweetly, your eyes glimmering with tears as he fucks you hard.
“what is it, pretty?” he asks, and like the devil he is, he slows the movement of hips, pulling out of you until his tip barely kisses your also weeping hole. it’s torture for him too, to leave the hot, tight haven that is your cunt, but to him it’s worthwhile.
“wanna cum, hannie,” you whimper.
“hm… i don’t know if i should let you yet,” he says, dipping back inside just an inch. years of him being yours means you don’t miss the tiny strain in his voice that betrays his perfectly collected demeanour.
“please, hannie, please, please, please, let me cum. i’ve been so good,” you sob, squeezing your thighs where they rest on his hips.
you watch as a switch flips in his eyes within a millisecond. a grin lights up his face and he shudders, and he’s sliding back inside you, fucking in and out of you harder and faster than before. safe to say it doesn’t take long for either of you to cum after that.
joshua —; make eye contact
his pretty doe eyes make staring into them your favourite thing in the world, and if you asked him his favourite pastime, he’d tell you that it was gazing into your irises.
it’s also his biggest weakness. from the way you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his dick, throat gagging even though you’re only halfway down it, joshua feels his sanity slipping away. his fingers curl into the bedsheets below as he watches you work him, revels in the warmth of your tongue sliding up and down his shaft.
when your eyes flick up to meet his he doesn’t stand a chance. not with how glimmering they are, brimming softly with tears, yet swimming with adoration. with worship.
heat washes over his whole body, he’s gasping, and the salty warmth of his release pools on your tongue.
jun —; put his fingers in your mouth
when junhui gets inside you he has a one-track mind. he becomes rapt with pleasure, drunk from the warm squeeze of your pussy around him, focused on nothing but the sensation of you, the sight of you under him, the sound of you in his ears.
the effect you have on him is dangerous, because you’re equally obsessed with him as he is with you, and you’re not afraid to show him.
and you love his hands, he knows you do—knows how you love his slender fingers and their soft touches all over you, inside you. your brain is cloudy, fogged by lust when you take him by his wrist and bring his fingers to your mouth. your eyes sparkle as your lips wrap around his index finger, your soft tongue swirling around it.
jun’s mouth parts with awe, his eyes growing round. a second later, he stills inside you with a gasp of your name, like he’s praying to you, all the while you’re sucking on his finger like a devil.
hoshi —; scratch him
he’s a little bit of a freak, and a masochist too.
when he’s got you folded in half, hitting all the right spots inside you, you cling to him in every way you can—fingers grabbing at his biceps, his shoulders. one particular stroke of his hips has you squealing.
your nails sink into his skin, crying out his name as you rake them down the toned planes of his back. the second you do, soonyoung is grunting, hips stilling, cock twitching as a sticky warmth suddenly floods your cervix.
the worst part about it is how he always has the stupidest, most shit-eating smug grin on his face when he examines your damage in the bathroom after, and you know that if he could, he would post the selfies he takes in the mirror all over instagram. what’s even worse though? seeing your marks makes him hard again.
wonwoo —; cry
you’re such a sensitive little thing and wonwoo adores you. one orgasm on his fingers and you’re already overstimulated—“but baby, i haven’t even put my cock in you yet,” he’ll coo.
like it’s your fault you have a boyfriend with skilled fingers and a skilled tongue and who knows you inside and out like the back of his hand, who knows where to touch you and how hard and what pace makes you writhe the most.
by the time he does get inside you, you’re gasping and whining and clawing at him, tears springing to your eyes because he’s so big and so deep, but the stretch is so addictive that it’s dizzying. his voice is low and husky as he mutters to you a mixture of teases and praise, calls you his pretty girl and then laughs at sensitive you are, pretends he’s not on the verge of coming from the sound of your choked gasps.
your belly starts to pulse with that familiar heat and by then you’re keening for him, whimpering a mixture of his name and endless pleas as it starts to become too much. your sobs go straight to his cock, and it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his climax, and his gasps of pleasure harmonise with your own cries.
woozi —; pull his hair
he’s been growing his hair out. after all your begging, he finally listened. in a way, though, it’s backfired a little on you, because the longer it gets the more insane you become. and the thing is you never expected him to let it get to his shoulders—and still he doesn’t plan on cutting it. well, good. you would kill him if he did.
when his face is between your legs you’re nothing short of a feral animal—your hips bucking wild against his mouth, your legs trembling on his shoulders, your fingers, of course, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. he makes you whine when he pulls away from your needy, sticky cunt to tsk at you, tells you to cut it out and keep your hands to yourself. (it’s because he’s about to cream his pants).
when he bends you in half beneath him, ruts into you hard and fast and relentless, you need leverage. your hands land on the back of his neck, fingertips grazing at his roots, then one slam of his hips into yours has his cock bumping against the most sensitive spot inside you and your grasping at his hair and crying his name so desperately. no longer can he hold back, strained groans slipping past his lips as he lets go inside you.
dokyeom —; hold his hand
a sentimental sweetheart, seokmin is an utter romantic who thinks that being inside of you, whether in your mouth or your pussy, is intimacy in its purest form. now imagine showing him just how much more intimate things can get.
he’s losing his mind at the feeling of your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, the way you swallow his length down making him see stars. he can’t bare to look at you—he needs to focus on taking deep breaths so that he doesn’t cum straight down your throat. then he feels you grabbing at one of his hands, lacing your fingers together, and no amount of deep breathing can stop him from releasing.
and when he fucks you it’s no different—it’s him in near tears, whimpering your name between incoherent words over and over, and as soon as you take his hand in yours and your fingers wrap around his, there’s nothing else he can do but succumb to his own pleasure.
mingyu —; take control
he’s big and strong; strong enough to put you into whatever position he wants, to make you cum at his command, to do just as he pleases with you.
but that’s exactly why he likes it when you slap him around a little.
you can’t exactly bend him into doggy or use your weight to keep him pinned to the mattress, but you can sit yourself pretty on his cock and ride him teasingly slow. you can tell him he’s not allowed to touch you or you’ll stop moving. you can tell him to kiss you, to go slower, to go harder.
you can sit up and put a hand around his throat, still your hips, and tell him he can fuck you himself if he wants to cum. and he’ll do just that—and as soon as you utter the words, he’s gone, whining out curses as he fills you up in white, warm spurts.
minghao —; whisper in his ear
minghao often tells you how he adores your voice. when you talk to him he’s entranced, and he’s always been more of a listener than a talker, and it’s perfect because you always have so much to say, and minghao will listen to every last word of yours.
your voice—minghao’s kryptonite, his achilles’ heel, his undoing and, oh, the way you moan for him when he’s got you on his cock is enough to make his heart stop beating. the perverted part of him wishes he could record you, hide the file away on his phone and listen to you when he’s overseas and he can’t call you. maybe he’ll ask you about that, if he can find the courage.
the final blow is when you’re getting close. you lean in, right next to his ear, so close that your breath sends shivers along his skin. “please, hao, i’m so close,” you whisper, yet you still sound so desperate and depraved. “you are too, right? cum for me, please. i’ll cum for you too.”
so he does just that—minghao gives in and lets his orgasm wash over him, fingertips drawing circles on your clit until mere moments later he hears the sound of your own cresting pleasure and he feels himself getting hard again.
seungkwan —; wrap your legs around him
it’s a fact that seungkwan loves to be close to you. if he could, he would crawl inside of your skin and live in your heart. but since he can’t, constant physical touch is the next best thing.
he likes to think he has relatively good self-control…most of the time. like when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, he’s incredible at keeping in rhythm, fucking into you at the most perfect pace for both you and him, hitting the spot that makes your back arch off the bed.
somehow he never sees it coming—when your arms are snaked around his neck and you’re holding onto him for dear life as he takes you to heaven, and your legs wrap around his waist so that you can pull him in impossibly deep. then you bring his face to yours, and you have the most irresistible little pout on your face when you make your request. “cum inside me, seungkwannie?”
and it’s not like he has much choice with the way you’ve trapped him inside of you, but that’s the very reason why the next second he’s pumping you full, because when it’s you, how is he supposed to have any self-control?
vernon —; touch yourself
it’s not like vernon can last long in general. he thinks you’re the hottest thing alive and he’s so enamoured with you that it’s too much for him sometimes, but you best believe he’ll put his all into holding out just for you.
there are times, however, where he’s just a man. and what’s a man to do when he has a goddess riding his dick? when your tits look so pretty, bouncing in his face, when you have that fucked out look in your eyes, when you feel like heaven and hell all at once?
and what the fuck is a man to do when your hand drifts down between your legs, to your aching clit, and your fingers start to rub it in circles, or when your other hand grasps one of your tits and tugs at one of your own nipples? and your sweet pussy clenches around him so tight when you do, clamps down on him in an hot, wet embrace, so what else can he do but cum?
dino —; say ‘i love you’
another sweet, sentimental boy. lee chan is head over heels for you, enamoured, obsessed, smitten, infatuated with you… the list of things he is around you is endless.
it shows in the way he fucks you—always takes his time with you, never rushes taking you apart. every touch of his is intentional, meant to set you both ablaze. when he eats you out to prep you for his cock, he has to try not to cum in his pants from how pretty you are.
where he really doesn’t stand a chance however is when he’s bottomed out inside you, as close as he can possibly be with you—so close you’re practically one. the sweetest sounds fall from your lips, spurring on his expert thrusts.
his forehead is plastered to yours, the pair of you revelling in one another’s sweat and gasps for air. “i love you,” you confess gently, and chan falls over the edge of pleasure not a moment later.
genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.
wc: 10.6k
content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)
🏎️ author's note!
f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.
There are some names you never really outrun.
In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.
"YN's back?"
As if I were a curse.
It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.
It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.
And yet
I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.
The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.
Kim Mingyu.
I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.
An invitation.
It's not the first time he's tried.
Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.
He doesn't take rejection well.
He never has.
But this... this is different.
This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.
God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.
But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.
He wants to be a legend.
And legends always come with ghosts.
I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.
"Monza
Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.
Come see what a real legacy looks like."
– M
My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.
Deep, amused, cocky.
Come see what a real legacy looks like.
What a bastard.
I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.
I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.
Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.
He knows what it costs.
Knows what it takes.
Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.
I miss the sound.
The roar.
The rush.
I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.
And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.
Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.
I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.
I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.
I'm YN.
Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.
Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.
Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.
And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.
Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.
⸻
I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.
Nostalgia is dangerous.
So is desire.
I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.
And there he is.
Kim Mingyu.
Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.
He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.
A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.
"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.
He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.
"And I thought you'd keep running."
I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."
But the way he looks at me.
Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.
That's the problem.
That's what will ruin us both.
The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.
It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.
I shouldn't have come.
I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.
The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.
"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."
I don't look at him.
"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.
"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.
"Temporary lapse in judgment."
He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."
I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."
His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."
I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.
We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.
The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.
I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.
"You really trust her?" I ask.
Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."
"Big words."
"Big machine."
I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."
"I don't make them."
That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."
His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."
"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."
"You think that's me?"
"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."
We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.
Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."
"I don't."
He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"
I shove past him without answering.
⸻
The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.
Of course they are.
He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.
Petty.
Arrogant.
Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.
But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.
He's so fast.
Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.
He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.
Jesus.
I hate how impressed I am.
Worse. I hate that I expected it.
Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.
I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.
This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.
And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.
⸻
After practice, I stay put.
I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.
The door swings open.
He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.
"You came," he says simply.
I nod. "You drove."
He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"
I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.
"You're fast," I admit, finally.
He grins.
"But you already know that."
"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."
I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."
His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.
"I do," he says quietly.
It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.
"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."
He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"
"I know it is."
"I think it's something else."
"Let me guess. Fate?"
"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."
My throat tightens.
He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.
"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."
I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."
"But not me."
I don't answer.
Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.
The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.
"YN?"
A voice I half recognize. I turn.
It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.
"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."
"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.
"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."
I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."
More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.
"What brings you back?"
"You working again?"
"Writing a piece?"
"You here with someone?"
I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.
"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."
They nod like they understand. They don't.
Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.
Then a voice cuts through the noise.
"Drivers, to your cars."
Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.
I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.
Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.
The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.
And then there's him. Car #9.
He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.
The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
And then
Out.
The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.
Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.
It's lap seven when he starts his climb.
A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.
A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.
Pole.
Just like that.
The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.
When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.
Pole position: Kim Mingyu.
Time: 1:11.330
The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.
I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.
The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.
And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.
Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.
His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.
I don't move.
I don't clap.
Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.
Because I know exactly who he's looking for.
And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.
⸻
I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.
He finds me anyway.
"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.
"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."
He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."
"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"
He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."
"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."
"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"
"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."
His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.
But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.
"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.
"You still talk like you're untouchable."
"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"
"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."
That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.
But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.
"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"
"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."
He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."
The words slice, even though I see them coming.
I stand straighter. "Don't."
His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."
"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"
"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."
I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.
He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.
"You remember Spa?"
Of course, I remember Spa.
The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.
He thinks bringing that up softens me.
It doesn't.
"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."
"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."
"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."
"You didn't."
"I should have."
"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."
"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."
He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.
But I don't now.
Not in this one.
I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."
"Not for me."
I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"
"You weren't exactly stingy with them."
"You had one good overtake."
"It was beautiful, and you know it."
"It was reckless and nearly illegal."
"That's how I knew you'd notice."
The air tightens between us.
He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.
"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."
Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."
I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.
"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."
I freeze.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."
"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."
That hits harder than he expects.
He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.
But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.
I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.
"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."
Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.
Because the worst part isn't that he's good.
It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.
And worse, how much of me would go with him.
⸻
Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.
Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.
I almost don't come.
But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.
Not a date. Not really.
Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.
Including Kim Mingyu.
I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.
Good.
I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.
Petty? Maybe.
But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.
I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.
So, I slip away.
Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.
It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.
I close my eyes.
"You like bringing someone new to every event?"
I don't turn around.
"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"
His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.
"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."
I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.
"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."
He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"
I cross my arms. "He's harmless."
"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."
We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.
Then, softer
"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."
I freeze.
It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.
"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."
"Not a great excuse."
"I know."
I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.
"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."
"Then what does?"
I look at him.
"You."
That wasn't supposed to slip.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.
Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.
"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.
I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."
"I'm not."
"You will."
"I won't if you stay."
"I'm not staying."
"Then why did you come?"
"Because I'm an idiot."
He takes a step forward. "You're not."
"I can't do this."
"We're not doing anything—"
"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"
I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."
"That wasn't—"
"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."
He flinches.
"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."
He's quiet. Too quiet.
And the silence is suddenly unbearable.
"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.
"YN—"
But I don't stop.
I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.
⸻
I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.
Three missed calls. Five unread messages.
MINGYU:
I shouldn't have let you walk away.
Can we talk?
Please.
You still there?
I didn't mean to hurt you.
I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.
The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.
I shouldn't have said that.
I shouldn't have said any of it.
But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.
By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.
I know this circuit like muscle memory.
I know Mingyu better.
He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.
He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.
I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.
But when they go out...
He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.
Lap after lap, he's off.
Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.
And that's what scares me.
"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."
"Tyres won't last at this rate."
I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.
"Box, box, box," comes the call.
He doesn't answer.
On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.
When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.
"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."
"I'm not—"
"He asked."
I don't ask why.
The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.
He won't look at me.
Not once.
He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.
The pit wall murmurs.
"His sector time dropped again."
"Something's wrong."
No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.
I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.
"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.
I press a fist to my lips.
This is my fault.
I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.
Because it does.
And I know that. I've always known that.
Lap 42.
He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.
Barely.
The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."
Silence.
My heart thunders like a race start.
The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.
This isn't about the race anymore.
This is about me.
I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.
He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.
It punishes.
It ends careers.
It took my father.
And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.
I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."
The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."
"Then make him."
He hesitates.
I close my eyes.
"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."
The air in the garage is suffocating.
I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.
He's going to crash.
Lap 65 of 78.
Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.
He still hasn't responded to strategy.
Not since Lap 42.
Not since he saw me in the garage.
I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.
"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."
"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."
Silence.
Again.
They're running out of options.
I'm already moving before I realize it.
The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.
"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."
There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.
I don't wait.
My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.
"Mingyu."
Nothing.
"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"
Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.
"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"
A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.
I close my eyes. Lower my voice.
"I know why you're doing this."
Sector one—green.
He's pushing harder. Too hard.
"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"
"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"
My voice wavers.
"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”
"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."
The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.
"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."
I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.
"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."
A breath.
Then, finally, after laps of nothing—
"You had me at Mingyu."
His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.
I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.
Lap 73.
He steadies.
His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.
Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.
He's back.
He's himself again.
"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."
"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."
Lap 76. The fight is on.
I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.
Final lap.
The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—
—and that's when it happens.
A puff of smoke.
"Yellow flag, Sector 1."
I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"
"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."
My knees nearly give out as I see it.
Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.
He's still fighting.
My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
He's never stopped.
And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.
The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.
But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.
He heard me.
He stayed.
But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—
What if I hadn't said anything at all?
Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.
And then I see him.
Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.
P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.
He hasn't seen me yet.
He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.
I should leave.
This is his moment. Not mine.
But I can't move.
I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.
And then he turns.
Our eyes lock.
Everything else goes silent.
He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.
I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.
Then he starts walking toward me.
The crowd parts for him like it knows.
Suddenly, I can't breathe.
His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.
He stops.
Too close.
He doesn't speak.
So I do.
"You didn't even flinch."
He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."
I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."
"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."
My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."
"I was trying to win a race."
"And almost died doing it."
His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.
"Worth it."
I shove his shoulder. Hard.
He doesn't budge.
"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."
His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.
"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."
"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."
"It did."
The words slam into me.
He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.
"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."
My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.
"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."
I blink.
And blink again.
"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."
His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"
I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.
I step closer.
"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."
He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"
He cuts off.
I stare up at him.
He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.
And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.
"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."
"I know."
"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."
I clamp my mouth shut.
But he hears it.
God, of course, he does.
Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.
"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."
He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.
"I've been in love with you since Spa."
I suck in a breath.
"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you'd spit it back in my face."
"I probably would've."
He laughs under his breath.
I can't look at him.
But I also can't not.
We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.
"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."
"I know," he says softly.
And then, finally, he steps back.
The space between us is unbearable.
"Find me later," he says.
I don't answer.
But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.
The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.
I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.
I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.
"Rough night?"
I don't even have to turn around.
The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.
Julius.
"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.
He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.
"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."
I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."
I roll my eyes and push past him.
He follows, of course.
"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"
I stop short.
"Don't call him that."
"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"
My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."
"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."
I see red.
"Excuse me?"
"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.
But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.
Mingyu.
Standing just across the paddock.
Watching.
For a split second, our eyes lock.
And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.
Because all he sees is this.
Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.
I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.
I move.
Fast.
"Mingyu—"
But he turns.
Gone.
Just like that.
Shit.
I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"
He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"
"I'm not playing games."
"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."
I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.
"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.
Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.
"You always were more fun when you were angry."
I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.
I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.
⸻
I don't remember getting back to the hotel.
I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.
The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.
That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.
Again.
I grabbed my phone.
Can we talk?
No response.
Please.
Still nothing.
I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.
I pressed it.
It rang once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
I hung up before it could finish.
The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.
But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.
I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.
On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.
Is he there?
A pause.
Jinho: Rooftop.
But... maybe don't push it tonight.
I stared at that for a long moment.
I'm already on my way.
The rooftop was quiet.
Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.
Mingyu.
He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.
He didn't have to. He knew it was me.
"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.
Still nothing.
"But I needed to explain."
"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.
"I want to."
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.
"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."
Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.
"I saw him touch you."
"I didn't touch him back."
"But you didn't pull away."
I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."
His stare didn't waver.
"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."
"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"
That cut deep.
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.
"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."
"I didn't—"
"You didn't say it back."
I froze.
"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."
I stared at him.
He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
He waited.
The silence stretched between us, unbearable.
"I can't," I whispered.
He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"
"Say it."
"Why?"
"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."
"It's already real."
I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."
"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."
My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.
He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."
I shook my head. "I'm scared."
"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."
I blinked, eyes stinging.
He stepped in.
His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.
"Say it," he whispered.
I couldn't.
So he kissed me.
Hard.
No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.
I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.
"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."
I didn't answer.
I just took his hand.
His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.
Like this was enough.
We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.
Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.
We stepped inside.
The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.
There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.
"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."
I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."
The elevator dinged.
He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.
Room 1427. Keycard. Click.
The door shut behind us.
And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.
I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.
"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"
"Yes," I breathed.
He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.
"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."
I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.
Then he stepped back.
And stared.
His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.
"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."
I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.
"Then touch me."
That broke him.
He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.
He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.
Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.
"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."
"Mingyu—"
"I know," he said. "I know."
He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.
"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."
"You never had to."
Then his mouth was on me.
I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.
"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."
I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.
He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.
"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."
"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."
He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.
When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.
So did he.
"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."
We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.
Deep, intentional, raw.
Each thrust was a confession.
Each moan, a word I couldn't say.
"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."
I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."
He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.
"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.
"I'm—Mingyu—"
And then I shattered.
I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.
When it was over, we stayed there.
Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.
His forehead rested against mine.
"I'm still scared," I whispered.
He kissed me softly. "Me too."
"But I'm here."
His arms wrapped tighter around me.
"Good," he said. "Stay."
He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.
"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.
I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."
Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.
His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.
"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."
"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."
He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.
Only feeling.
He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.
And I let him.
"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."
"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."
When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.
His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.
He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.
"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."
Tears stung my eyes.
I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."
"Say it now."
My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.
"I love you, Mingyu."
His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.
I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.
The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.
"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."
He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.
And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.
"You mean it?" he asked quietly.
"I've never meant anything more."
He smiled,messy and perfect.
He kissed me again.
Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.
I was.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.
He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.
"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.
I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.
I let the silence settle.
Until I whispered, "What happens now?"
He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."
That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.
"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."
I looked up at him.
He met my eyes. Serious now.
"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."
I waited.
"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."
I nodded. "I know."
"But I also know it scares you."
My throat tightened.
"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."
"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.
He didn't flinch.
"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."
I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.
And then it broke.
The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.
"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.
I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.
"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."
"You can't promise that," I whispered.
His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.
"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."
I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.
He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.
"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."
I nodded, voice too broken to speak.
And he held me like he'd never let go.
Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.
I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.
you cannot spend years of your career telling your fandom to speak for themselves and love themselves if you cannot or will not speak out against a g*nocide
I gotta know what's so hard about these people saying free Palestine? What are you afraid of? I bet they're not as afraid as them kids who have to wake up each day not knowing if they're going to be bombed or not
