Then I haven't really changed, yeah, I'm just confident

༄☼︎~like a fever~☼︎༄

[strawberryhotlips]

༄ENHYPEN MASTERLIST ✞︎

❄︎ - angst ☀︎︎ - fluff ✵ - smau ❀ - crack ✰ - suggestive

#ENHYPEN:

♡︎ OT7

• The Last Woman on Earth ✵❄︎☀︎︎✰❀

♡︎ HEESEUNG

• nth yet

♡︎ JAY

• nth yet

♡︎ JAKE

• nth yet

♡︎ SUNGHOON

• nth yet

♡︎ SUNOO

• nth yet

♡︎ JUNGWON

• nth yet

♡︎ NI-KI

• nth yet

taglist🫶🏻: @ch4c0nnenh4 @strxwbloody @aussie-boys-wife @engeneheree @deobitifull @merwdusa @elairah @suhwife @d-dilemma @liafterhours @btxtenha @wonenonly @cara9065 @otterluver05 @imnotsaika @immelissaaa

[hoondrop]

FACE SITTING - Park Sunghoon x Fem! Reader

a/n: slowly getting back into writing. this was a request and congrats to me for getting it out. hope you all enjoy and engage with my works.

cw: sunghoon x f! reader, face sitting, oral (f! receiving), dirty talk, reader switch to being dom for a sec only, sunghoon cumming untouched

the room is silent except for the sound of your heavy, uneven breathing as you straddle sunghoon’s face, your thighs pinned against his ears. he’s got his hands locked onto your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with a needy, bruising grip that tells you exactly how desperate he is. he’s looking up at you from under the weight of your pussy, his eyes wide and bloodshot, filled with a sick kind of worship.

"fuck,,, angel.. you're absolutely soaked," sunghoon groans, his voice muffled against your drenched, glistening folds. "sit down harder, baby.. don't be shy. i want to feel every bit of your weight crushing my nose. wanna drown in you."

you lean forward, bracing your hands against the headboard and grinding your clit directly onto the bridge of his nose. you’re already a mess, your arousal dripping down his face, and the sensation of his sharp, straight nose sliding between your lips as you move makes your head swim.

"like that, hoonie?" you whisper, your voice soft yet lewd as you look down at him, wanting approval. "look at you, pinned under my cunt like a good little puppy."

"i am," he gasps, his tongue darting out to lap frantically at your entrance, trying to catch the globs of arousal trickling down. " just ride me, baby... ride my face until i can't breathe. i want to feel you cum all over my face."

he starts to buck his head up into you, forcing his nose deeper into your slit while his tongue works with a frantic, animalistic energy. he’s not even touching his cock, but you can see the massive, angry bulge in his gray sweatpants throbbing with every wet slap of your skin against his mouth. he’s so overstimulated just from the scent and the taste of you that he’s shaking.

"ride it, slut," he growls, his voice turning dominant despite his position. "bounce that wet little hole on my face. i want to feel you twitch. want to feel your pussy clenching around my nose."

you start to move faster, your hips snapping down onto him with a rhythmic, punishing force. the sound is filthy—a constant, squelching wetness that fills the room. you’re rubbing yourself raw on him, your breath hitching as you feel your climax building. "fuck, sunghoon... your nose... it's so hard... it's hitting everything..."

"that's it," he whimpers, his hands sliding up to grab your tits, squeezing them roughly as he watches you come undone. "fuck, i'm going... i'm going just from the smell... don't stop..."

he lets out a choked, desperate sound as his body suddenly stiffens. he’s cumming completely untouched, his cock jerking violently inside his pants, staining the fabric dark as he jets his seed while his face is still buried in your heat. he’s gasping for air, his nose deep in your folds as you finally snap, your pussy pulsing and soaking his entire face in a messy finish.

the room is now thick with the scent of sex and the heavy, ragged sound of both your lungs fighting for air. sunghoon is still pinned beneath you, his face slick and shiny with the amount of arousal you just painted across his skin. he looks absolutely wrecked, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a mixture of post-orgasmic bliss and a lingering, perverted hunger.

"don't you dare move," he rasps, his voice a low, vibrating growl from beneath your thighs. his hands are still anchored on your hips, keeping your weight settled firmly over his mouth. "i told you i wanted to drown in you, and i'm not done cleaning up the mess you made."

he starts to work again, but the pace is different now—slower, more methodical, and more lewd, straight up our of porn. his tongue sweeps across your folds in long, wet strokes, lapping up every stray drop of your cream that’s currently dripping off his chin and onto his neck. he’s being so thorough it’s humiliating, his nose still buried deep in your slit, inhaling the scent.

"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your wet skin, his voice muffled and distorted. "look at what you did to me. i'm soaked in you. i've got your spit and your pussy juice all over my eyes, and i've never felt better. you’re such a messy little thing for your hoonie, aren’t you?"

you’re still twitching, your muscles sensitive and raw as you feel him licking you clean. "hoon... please... i'm so sensitive..." you whimper, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, but he only responds by humping his face deeper into your cunt.

"i don't care," he sneers, his dominant streak flaring up as he catches a sensitive spot with his tongue, making your hips jerk. "you're going to sit here until every bit of this mess is back inside my mouth where it belongs. i want to taste exactly how much you loved riding my face. look at your thighs... they're shaking so bad. your cunnie is just a pathetic dripping mess for me, isn't she?"

he pulls his head back just an inch, just enough to look up at you with a perverted, lop-sided grin. his face is a disaster; smeared with your arousal, his hair messy, and his lips swollen. "now, be a good girl and lean down. i want to taste your mouth while i'm still covered in you. i want you to taste the mess you made, angel."

he doesn’t even wait for you to move; he reaches up and hooks his fingers into your hair, yanking your head down until your face is inches from his. he looks like a total degenerate, his skin gleaming under the remnants of your own arousal, and the smell of your sex is thick and cloying between you.

"look at me," he commands, his voice a low. "look at the mess you left on my skin. i’m going to put it all back inside you."

he slams his mouth against yours in a kiss that is less of an embrace and more of a hostile takeover. it’s filthy and wet, his tongue dragging the slickness from his cheeks onto yours. his tongue thrusts into your mouth with an animalistic force, tasting of salt and the heavy, scent of your own pussy. he’s forcing you to swallow yourself, making you consume the very mess you just made on his face.

"you taste fucking delicious, darling," he mumbles against your lips, not breaking the contact, his breath hot and smelling of you. "so greedy and sweet... wanna taste your cunt on your tongue until i die."

his hands slide down from your hair to cup your face, his thumbs roughly smearing the stray drops of cream into the corners of your mouth. he’s breathing into you, sharing the same thin air, his tongue sweeping over your teeth and the roof of your mouth as if he's trying to coat every inch of your throat in the taste of your climax.

the kiss is desperate and needy, punctuated by the sound of wet, messy suction. you’re whimpering into his mouth, your mind absolute mush as you taste your yourself. he pulls back just a fraction of an inch, a thick, glistening string of spit and arousal connecting your lips in the dim light.

"you're such a good girl for hoonie.. taking back whatever i give you," he sneers, his eyes dark and dilated as he licks a smear of your juices off your upper lip. "now i’m all clean, and you’re a total wreck. i think it's time i put something else inside that mouth, don't you? wanna see you gag on me while you've still got your own taste on your breath."

[heesvnqie]

Bloodlust Secrets- Shim Jaeyun!Jake

pairing: fem!reader x shimjaeyun!jake word count: 13.7k synopsis: When you are in the desperate need for a room to live in, you find yourself shifting into the college's famous playboy's apartment. But soon you unravel a secret no one did before genre: college au, roomates, smut warnings: >> vampire, blood mentions, smut,cussing, biting/marking, fingering, begging, choking, slight hair pulling, size kink, dom!jake x sub!reader, unprotected sex (a big NO-NO), orgasm denial, edging, slight overstimulation, creampie, manhandling, petnames.

The fluorescent lights of your cramped dorm room buzzed like angry hornets, casting harsh shadows over the crumpled eviction notice in your hand. It was the third one this semester, each more insistent than the last.

Rent hikes, unreliable part-time jobs at the campus café, and now your flaky roommate, Mia, had ghosted you entirely—packing her bags in the dead of night after some dramatic fallout with her boyfriend, leaving you to foot the bill alone. You weren't rich; far from it.

Coming from a small town where your parents had a small bakery just to keep the lights on, you'd clawed your way into this prestigious university on scholarships and sheer grit. Majoring in journalism, you dreamed of exposing truths, breaking stories that mattered. But right now, the only story breaking was your own stability.

Panic clawed at your chest as you scrolled through the university's roommate classifieds app on your cracked phone screen.

Options were slim: overpriced singles, sketchy off-campus basements, or pairings with people whose ads screamed red flags.

"Seeking quiet roommate who doesn't mind cats... or my taxidermy hobby." Nope.

"Party animal wanted! Must love EDM and late nights." Hard pass.

Then, one ad popped up, sleek and straightforward amid the chaos: "Luxury apartment off-campus, one bedroom available. Male roommate (clean, respectful) seeking tidy, drama-free cohabitant. Utilities, Wi-Fi, and parking included. Prime location near campus. Contact Jake Shim."

Jake Shim. The name sent a jolt through you, like a shot of espresso on an empty stomach. If you’d been on campus longer than a week, you knew Jake.

The Shim Jaeyun, the Australian-Korean charmer who was one-seventh of ENHYPEN, the unofficial royalty of the university. They weren’t a frat, but Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki, and Jake had a stranglehold on campus culture.

They dominated parties, sports events, and even academic circles with an effortless charisma that made them untouchable. Jake, though? He was the crown jewel of their mystique.

Whispers about him were inescapable. He was the ultimate heartthrob: tall, with an athlete’s build honed from years of soccer, messy black hair that fell just right over his forehead, and a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. His warm brown eyes, flecked with gold, seemed to promise secrets, and that lazy, lopsided grin had a reputation for disarming anyone in a ten-foot radius.

But Jake’s charm came with a darker edge. He was the campus playboy, a fuckboy whose trail of broken hearts was as legendary as his conquests. Girls fell for him like moths to a flame, only to be ghosted after a night of whispered promises and fleeting ecstasy.

The rumors were vivid: girls left his bed dazed, addicted to the memory of him, but always with a strange pallor, a lingering exhaustion no one could explain. “He’s intense,” they’d say, half-dreamy, half-wary, before he’d move on to the next.

So why did someone like Jake Shim—rumored to come from a wealthy family with ties to a tech empire in Australia—need a roommate?

His ad screamed luxury, not necessity. Maybe he wanted a buffer, someone to keep his chaotic lifestyle in check. Or maybe it was a front, a way to funnel more girls through his orbit under the guise of “shared space.” Your gut twisted with unease, but the eviction notice in your hand didn’t care about gut feelings.

Your parents had poured everything into getting you here; calling them for help wasn’t an option. You’d rather sleep in the library than admit defeat.

Taking a deep breath, you typed: Hey Jake, I’m Y/N, journalism major. Saw your ad—super interested. I’m tidy, keep to myself, and can move in ASAP. Can we meet to discuss? Your thumb hovered over “send” for a heartbeat before you hit it. No turning back now.

His reply pinged back in under five minutes: Yo Y/N, sounds promising. Come by the apartment tonight, 7 PM? Address attached. Let’s see if we click. -Jake

The address was in the city’s upscale district, a far cry from your moldy dorm. By 6:45, you were standing outside a sleek high-rise with a glass lobby, a doorman eyeing you curiously as you clutched your worn backpack.

The elevator ride to the 14th floor felt eternal, your reflection in the mirrored walls showing a nervous girl in jeans and a thrifted sweater, hair pulled back in a messy bun. You didn’t look like you belonged here, but you knocked on unit 1402 anyway.

The door swung open, and there he was—Jake Shim, in the flesh, leaning casually against the frame. He was taller than you’d imagined, maybe six feet, with a lean, muscular frame that his black hoodie and low-slung sweatpants did little to hide.

His hair was damp, tousled like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and a faint scent of sandalwood and cedar hit you, warm and intoxicating. His eyes scanned you, quick but thorough, before that infamous grin spread across his face. “Y/N, right? Come in, let’s talk.”

The apartment was a revelation. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering cityscape, the living room sprawling with modern furniture: a plush gray sofa, a glass coffee table, and a flat-screen TV that probably cost more than your tuition.

The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and granite, a stark contrast to the instant ramen aesthetic of your dorm. “Holy shit,” you muttered, catching yourself too late.

Jake laughed, a low, easy sound that made your cheeks heat. “Yeah, it’s alright, isn’t it? Family hookup. Dad’s firm owns a few properties here.” He gestured to the open space. “Kitchen’s stocked, gym’s downstairs, rooftop pool if you’re into that. Your room’s this way.”

He led you down a hallway to a bedroom that felt like a hotel suite: a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a walk-in closet bigger than your old dorm room, and an en-suite bathroom with a rainfall shower. You tried not to gape. “This is... included in the rent?”

“Yup. Split 50/50, utilities covered. I’m not here to screw you over,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. His casual tone didn’t match the intensity in his gaze, like he was testing you, waiting for a reaction. “I’m usually out. Classes, soccer, parties. I’ve got... friends over sometimes, but I keep it chill. You cool with that?”

You nodded, though warning bells rang faintly. “Friends” probably meant his parade of hookups, but you weren’t here to play morality police.

“Yeah, no drama from me. I’ve got classes, work at the campus café, and deadlines. I just need a place to crash and study.” You said, softly chuckling.

He tilted his head, studying you again, like he was peeling back layers. “Journalism, huh? You one of those ‘truth-seeker’ types?”

“Something like that,” you said, managing a smile. “I like digging for answers.”

His grin widened, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something guarded, almost predatory. “Good luck with that. So, we got a deal? Move in tomorrow?”

You hesitated. This was too good to be true, and Jake was too much—too charming, too perfect, too everything.

But the eviction notice burned a hole in your pocket, and you couldn’t afford to be picky. “Deal,” you said, extending your hand.

His grip was firm, warm, and sent a strange jolt up your arm, like static electricity. “Welcome home, Y/N,” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

As you left, his scent lingered in your mind, along with that fleeting look in his eyes—something dark, hungry, and ancient. You shook it off, chalking it up to nerves. Back at your dorm, packing your meager belongings, excitement warred with unease. Jake Shim was a walking red flag, but you needed this. What was the worst that could happen?

Jake hadn’t always been this way. Born in Brisbane to a wealthy Korean-Australian family, he’d grown up with everything—private schools, soccer camps, parents who threw money at problems but never time.

His father ran a tech conglomerate; his mother, a former K-drama actress, was more trophy than parent. Jake was their golden boy, but the shine came with loneliness. Constant moves, new cities, new faces—no one stuck around long enough to matter.

At 18, he took a gap year, backpacking through Europe to “find himself.” In Prague, under a blood-red moon, he found something else. Her name was Viktoria, a woman with porcelain skin and eyes like burning coals. She’d lured him into a dimly lit club, her voice promising secrets he was too young, too reckless, to resist. In an alley, she’d kissed him—then bit him. The pain was searing, then euphoric, as his human life drained away. When he woke, he was no longer mortal. Viktoria was gone, leaving him with a curse: insatiable hunger, and a need to feed on human blood to survive.

He stumbled back to Australia, hiding his new nature. Sunlight burned but didn’t kill; mirrors still showed his face, but his reflection felt like a stranger. He was different. He aged like normal humans but his hunger for blood was the one thing that had changed. He ate food. But he needed blood side by side too. Blood banks were a gamble—too traceable. Animal blood left him weak, craving more. Humans were the answer, but feeding without killing was a tightrope. He learned to blend pleasure with pain, using sex to mask the bite. His saliva, laced with a subtle venom, dulled memories, leaving his partners with only vague dreams of ecstasy and a lingering weakness they couldn’t explain.

University offered a fresh start. He enrolled, majoring in engineering to keep up appearances, and fell in with ENHYPEN—six guys who became his brothers. They’d learned his secret by accident: a botched feeding during a party, blood on his shirt, fangs out. Instead of running, they’d stayed, vowing to protect him.

Jay handled logistics, Sunghoon scouted safe venues, Heeseung covered alibis, and the others kept the rumor mill spinning with harmless gossip to mask the truth. Jake’s playboy persona was their shield: no one questioned why girls left his bed looking pale when “heartbreak” was the easier story.

But it weighed on him. Every feed felt like a betrayal, every girl a means to an end. He craved connection, not conquest, but survival demanded the act. The apartment was his attempt at normalcy—a space to feel human, to anchor himself. He hadn’t expected you: Y/N, with your sharp eyes and quiet strength, so different from the girls who chased him. When you’d walked in, your scent—warm, alive, like jasmine and sunlight—hit him like a drug. He’d chosen you on impulse, telling himself it was practical. But deep down, he knew: you were dangerous, a temptation that could unravel his carefully built control.

That night, as you packed your boxes, you couldn’t shake the image of Jake’s grin or the way his touch had sparked something electric. He was trouble, no doubt, but you’d faced worse. Or so you thought. In the shadows of unit 1402, Jake stood by the window, watching the city lights, his reflection barely visible.

Your scent still clung to the air, stirring something primal. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Stay in control, he told himself. But the hunger in his veins whispered otherwise.

The hum of the city filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of unit 1402, a soft counterpoint to the thud of cardboard boxes hitting the hardwood floor. You’d spent the morning hauling your life from the moldy dorm to Jake’s luxury apartment, your arms aching from the effort but your heart buoyed by the prospect of a fresh start. The eviction notice was a ghost in your past now, replaced by the surreal reality of your new home. The apartment was even more breathtaking in daylight: sunlight streamed through the glass, painting the open-concept living room in warm golds, glinting off the sleek kitchen counters. Your bedroom, with its plush bed and cavernous closet, felt like a dream you didn’t deserve. But Jake’s presence—his effortless charm and that unsettling intensity—kept you on edge.

He’d helped you move, showing up at your dorm in a black SUV with Jay and Sunghoon in tow. The three of them made quick work of your boxes, their easy banter and casual strength turning a grueling task into a two-hour job. Jay, all sharp jaw and sharper wit, had teased you about your thrifted aesthetic—“You sure you’re ready for Jake’s bougie lifestyle?”—while Sunghoon, with his model-like cheekbones and cool reserve, carried your heaviest boxes without breaking a sweat. Jake, though, was the wildcard: his lopsided grin never faltered, but his eyes kept finding you, lingering a beat too long, like he was memorizing your every move.

Now, as the sun dipped low, you were officially moved in. The guys had left, and it was just you and Jake in the apartment, the air thick with the unspoken. You stood in the kitchen, unpacking a box of mismatched mugs, while he lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He’d changed into a fitted white tee and jeans, his hair still damp from a post-move shower, and the casual way he sprawled—long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest—made the room feel smaller, like he was claiming every inch of space, including your attention.

“Thanks for the help today,” you said, breaking the silence as you set a chipped blue mug on the counter. “Didn’t expect the whole ENHYPEN crew to show up.”

Jake glanced up, his grin flashing. “No biggie. The boys like to flex their muscles now and then. Plus, I figured you’d need the backup. Those boxes looked like they’d been through a war.”

You snorted, holding up a mug with a cartoon cat on it. “These? They’re survivors. My mom’s been collecting them since I was a kid. Sentimental value.”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, before the playful glint returned. “Cute. Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, truth-seeker.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to stack the mugs in a cabinet. “I’m full of surprises. You’ll see.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” His voice was low, teasing, and when you glanced back, he was watching you, elbows propped on his knees, chin in his hands. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, not entirely unpleasant. You shook it off, focusing on the task, but the air felt charged, like static before a storm.

Dinner was takeout—pizza, because Jake insisted it was “move-in tradition.” You sat cross-legged on the floor, a slice of pepperoni in hand, while he sprawled across from you, the coffee table between you littered with boxes and soda cans. The city lights twinkled outside, and for a moment, it felt... normal. Two college kids, new roommates, sharing a meal. But then you noticed the way he ate: deliberate, almost too careful, like he was savoring something more than the pizza. He caught you staring and raised a brow.

“What? Got sauce on my face?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin, that grin ever-present.

“Nah, just... you eat like you’re analyzing it,” you said, half-joking. “Engineering major thing?”

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that. Gotta make every bite count.”

The conversation flowed easily after that—music tastes (he was into indie rock and K-pop, naturally), your journalism projects (he seemed genuinely curious about your latest piece on campus funding scandals), and the quirks of living together. “I’m a night owl,” he warned, popping open a soda. “If you hear me wandering at 3 AM, don’t freak out.”

“Noted,” you said, leaning back on your hands. “I’m an early bird, so we’ll probably miss each other half the time.”

“Good. Means you won’t cramp my style,” he teased, but there was that flicker again—something guarded, like he was holding back a bigger truth.

The first hint of that truth came later that night. You were in your room, unpacking clothes, when laughter drifted through the walls. High-pitched, flirty, unmistakably feminine. You froze, heart sinking. Jake’s “friends.” Right. You’d known this was part of the deal, but hearing it so soon—on your first night—hit differently. The laughter turned to murmurs, then soft moans, muffled but unmistakable, coming from his room across the hall. You shoved in your earbuds, blasting a podcast to drown it out, but curiosity gnawed at you. Who was she? Another conquest, another girl to add to the campus rumor mill?

Morning came, and you were up early, brewing coffee in the kitchen when the girl emerged. She was stunning—long dark hair, smudged mascara, wearing a crop top and skirt that screamed last night’s party. But she looked... off. Pale, almost gray, her eyes glassy as she clutched her purse and stumbled toward the door. A faint bruise bloomed on her neck, barely hidden by her hair.

“You okay?” you asked, setting down your mug, concern outweighing your awkwardness.

She blinked, like she hadn’t noticed you until now. “Uh, yeah. Just... rough night. Too much vodka.” Her voice was shaky, and she touched her neck absently, wincing. “Jake’s... intense.”

You frowned. “Need water or anything? You don’t look great.”

She shook her head, already halfway out the door. “I’m fine. Thanks.” And she was gone, leaving a trail of unease in her wake.

Jake appeared minutes later, shirtless, sweatpants riding low, his hair a mess but his grin as disarming as ever. “Morning, roomie. Sleep okay?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter. “Not bad. Your... friend didn’t look so hot, though. She okay?”

His grin faltered, just for a split second, before he recovered. “Tara? Yeah, she’s fine. Probably just hungover. She parties hard.” He grabbed a banana from the counter, peeling it with a casualness that felt forced. “You want breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”

You declined, your mind stuck on Tara’s pallor, the bruise, the way she’d seemed almost... drained. It was probably nothing, you told yourself. College hookups, alcohol, late nights—people got sloppy. But the journalist in you, the one who dug for answers, wasn’t convinced.

Over the next few days, you settled into a rhythm. Classes started, your journalism assignments piled up, and work at the campus café kept you on your feet. Jake was true to his word: he was out most of the time, either at soccer practice, engineering labs, or parties with ENHYPEN. When he was home, he was surprisingly considerate—leaving you coffee, doing dishes, even offering to quiz you for your media ethics exam. He was easy to talk to, his charm disarming, but those fleeting moments of intensity kept you on guard. His eyes would linger too long, his smile sharpening when you laughed, like he was seeing something you didn’t.

Then came Friday night. You were studying in the living room, sprawled on the couch with your laptop, when the front door opened. Jake, followed by another girl—this one blonde, all legs and giggles, clinging to his arm. He shot you an apologetic look. “Hey, Y/N, this is Chloe. We’re just... hanging out. Cool if we use my room?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, no problem. I’ve got headphones.”

He winked—winked—and led Chloe down the hall. The sounds started soon after: laughter, music, then the telltale moans. You cranked your music louder, but not loud enough to miss the front door opening an hour later. Chloe stumbled out, her makeup smudged, her skin ghostly pale. Another bruise, this time on her collarbone. She didn’t even notice you as she left, swaying like she might collapse.

You waited until Jake emerged, now in a loose tank top, looking infuriatingly relaxed. “Another rough night?” you asked, keeping your tone light but your eyes sharp.

He shrugged, grabbing a water from the fridge. “Chloe’s a lightweight. Can’t handle her liquor.” But his fingers tightened around the bottle, and you caught a flicker of something—guilt? Fear?—in his expression.

“Two girls in a week, both looking like they’ve seen a ghost,” you said, closing your laptop. “You sure they’re just hungover?”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the room felt too small. “What are you implying, Y/N?” His voice was still playful, but there was an edge now, a warning.

“Nothing,” you said, standing. “Just... hope they’re okay.”

“They are,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I’m not a monster.”

You didn’t respond, but as you retreated to your room, the journalist in you was screaming. Something was wrong.

The bruises, the pallor, the way Jake deflected—it didn’t add up.

You opened your laptop, starting a private note: Jake Shim. Girls. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Possible drugs? You hesitated, then added: Or something else.

As you lay in bed that night, the city’s hum a faint backdrop to your racing thoughts, the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit. Jake’s charm, his playboy reputation, the girls leaving unit 1402 pale and bruised—it all pointed to something darker than a reckless college lifestyle.

Unbeknownst to you, the truth was far more sinister than drugs or debauchery. Jake wasn’t alone in his secret: every member of ENHYPEN—Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—carried the same curse, their flawless charisma and otherworldly allure masking their vampiric nature.

Each had been turned in their own time, in their own tragedy, bound together by a shared hunger for blood and a pact to protect one another.

Jake’s playboy act was just one facet of their carefully crafted facade, a way to feed without drawing suspicion, but the others had their own methods, their own victims, their own battles with the monster within.

For now, you were oblivious, chalking up the unease to your journalist’s instincts, but the truth lurked in the shadows of the apartment, waiting to unravel. And Jake, watching you from his room, knew that your curiosity could be their undoing—or his salvation.

The golden glow of the city skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of unit 1402, painting the hardwood floors in hues of amber and rose. It was Sunday evening, a week since you’d traded your moldy dorm for Jake Shim’s luxury apartment, and the space still felt like a dream you might wake from. Your bedroom, with its king-sized bed and cavernous closet, was a sanctuary, but the rest of the apartment—Jake’s domain—was a puzzle you couldn’t stop trying to solve. His effortless charm, that lopsided grin that lit up lecture halls, and the way his presence filled a room made your heart stutter in ways you weren’t ready to admit. But the girls—those endless, fleeting girls stumbling out of his room, pale and bruised—kept your budding feelings in check, tangled with suspicion and something sharper: jealousy.

You sat at the kitchen counter, a half-finished journalism article on your laptop, your fingers hovering over the keys. The cursor blinked on a blank line, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying last night. Another girl—Lila, with her red hair and dazed smile—had left at dawn, her skin ghostly, a faint bruise on her neck. She’d looked at you with vacant eyes, muttering about a “wild night” before vanishing. It was the third girl that week: Tara, Chloe, now Lila. Each one left you with the same unease, a knot in your stomach that wasn’t just concern. It was the way Jake’s eyes softened when he talked to you, then turned razor-sharp when those girls clung to him. The way his laugh felt like it was just for you, only for another girl’s giggles to echo through the walls hours later. You hated how it made you feel—small, irrational, jealous.

The front door swung open, and chaos poured in. All seven members of ENHYPEN spilled into the apartment, their voices a cacophony of laughter and banter. Jake led the pack, his soccer bag slung over one shoulder, his black athletic shirt clinging to his lean frame, damp with sweat. Behind him came Jay, sharp-jawed and smirking, carrying a stack of takeout containers; Sunghoon, all cheekbones and cool reserve, with a bottle of soju; Heeseung, quiet but intense, his eyes scanning the room like a predator; Sunoo, bright and bubbly, waving at you; Jungwon, the group’s calm strategist, balancing a tray of bubble tea; and Ni-ki, the youngest, bouncing with energy, already teasing Jake about something.

“Y/N!” Sunoo chirped, bounding over to the counter. “You’re joining us for dinner, right? We got katsu and bulgogi. Jake said you’re a foodie.”

You smiled, closing your laptop to hide your notes: Jake Shim. Girls. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Possible drugs? Something else. “Didn’t realize I was invited to an ENHYPEN feast,” you said, trying to keep your tone light despite the flutter in your chest. Jake’s grin, directed at you, didn’t help.

“Always invited, roomie,” Jake said, dropping his bag and leaning against the counter, close enough that his arm brushed yours. His scent—sweat, cedar, and something faintly metallic—hit you like a wave. “Gotta make sure you feel at home.”

Jay snorted, setting out the food. “Careful, Y/N. He’s only this nice when he wants something.”

“Like what?” you asked, half-joking, but your eyes flicked to Jake, searching for a reaction.

He just winked, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. “Just your sparkling company, truth-seeker.”

The group settled around the coffee table, the living room buzzing with their energy. Ni-ki sprawled on the floor, stealing fries from Sunoo, who swatted him playfully. Jungwon passed you a bubble tea, his smile warm but his eyes sharp, like he was studying you. Sunghoon poured soju, his movements too precise, while Heeseung watched the chaos with a quiet intensity that made your skin prickle. They were magnetic, each in their own way, but something about their synchronized grace, the way their eyes caught the light—flecks of red in the dim glow—felt... off. You pushed the thought aside, chalking it up to your overactive imagination.

Dinner was loud, messy, and surprisingly fun. They teased Jake about his soccer skills (“He tripped over the ball last game,” Ni-ki cackled), shared campus gossip (apparently, the dean was in a scandal), and asked about your journalism projects. Jake, sitting beside you, kept finding excuses to brush your arm—passing you food, nudging you to laugh at Jay’s bad puns. Each touch sent a spark through you, and you hated how much you craved more. But then you remembered Lila’s pale face, and the warmth in your chest turned cold.

As the night wound down, the door knocked. Jake sighed, standing. “That’ll be Mia,” he said, his tone flat, like he was reciting a script. He shot you a glance—apologetic, almost—before opening the door. A brunette in a tight dress threw herself into his arms, giggling. “Jakey!” she squealed, oblivious to the room’s sudden tension.

Your stomach twisted, a sharp pang you couldn’t deny. Jealousy. You looked away, focusing on your bubble tea, but Sunoo caught your expression, his smile softening. “She’s just a friend,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Jake’s... complicated, but he’s not as bad as the rumors.”

You forced a nod, but the sounds from Jake’s room started soon after: laughter, music, moans. You excused yourself, claiming exhaustion, and retreated to your room, locking the door. The jealousy burned now, irrational but undeniable. You barely knew Jake, yet the thought of him with Mia—her hands on him, his lips on hers—made your chest ache. You opened your laptop, trying to distract yourself with your article, but the words blurred. Instead, you added to your private notes: Mia. Same pattern? Bruises, pallor. Jake’s ‘friends’—why do I care?

Hours later, the apartment was quiet. You crept to the kitchen for water, the city lights casting long shadows. Jake was there, alone, leaning against the counter with a glass of something dark—too thick for wine. His tank top hung loose, his hair a mess, and his expression was haunted, nothing like the playful charmer from dinner.

“Y/N,” he said, startled, nearly spilling his drink. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Couldn’t,” you said, grabbing a glass. “Too much noise earlier.”

He winced, setting his drink down. “Sorry about Mia. I didn’t mean to... make things weird.”

You shrugged, but your voice betrayed you, sharp and shaky. “It’s your apartment. Do what you want.”

He stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “You’re pissed. Why?”

“I’m not,” you lied, turning to fill your glass. But he moved faster, blocking your path, his body inches from yours. His presence was overwhelming—warm, solid, but his skin was too cool, his gaze too intense.

“Don’t bullshit me, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice dropping to that low, velvet tone that made your heart skip. “You’ve been watching me like I’m a puzzle. And now you’re... what, jealous?”

Your cheeks burned, and you looked away, hating how transparent you were. “Why would I be jealous? I barely know you.”

He tilted his head, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “Exactly. Those girls—Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia—they’re nothing. Just... fleeting. You’re different. You’re here, in my space, in my head.” He paused, his eyes softening. “I don’t want you thinking you’re just another face passing through.”

Your breath caught, the sincerity in his voice disarming you. “Then why do they keep coming? Why do they leave looking like... like they’re half-dead?”

His expression darkened, a flicker of something—guilt, fear—crossing his face. “It’s not what you think. I’m not hurting them. They’re just... overwhelmed. I’m intense, like you said.”

“Intense doesn’t explain bruises,” you shot back, your journalist’s edge cutting through. “Or why they look drained.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Y/N, you’re digging into something you don’t understand. Just—trust me, okay? They’re fine. I’d never hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

The way he said it, raw and almost desperate, made your heart ache. You wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, but the doubts lingered. “Why should I trust you?” you whispered.

“Because I’m trying to be better,” he said, stepping closer, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. “For you.”

The air between you crackled, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But he stepped back, grabbing his glass and turning away. “Get some sleep, Y/N. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

You nodded, retreating to your room, your mind a storm of emotions. Jealousy, attraction, suspicion—they swirled together, tying you in knots. You updated your notes: Mia. Same symptoms. Jake says they’re ‘nothing,’ says I’m different. Trust him? You stared at the screen, then added: I want to.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the apartment’s windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. It was Tuesday, your second week living with Jake Shim, and the rhythm of your new life was starting to feel deceptively normal. Your bedroom had become a cozy retreat, cluttered with textbooks and coffee mugs, but the rest of the apartment—Jake’s domain—hummed with an undercurrent of mystery that kept you on edge. His easy charm, those fleeting moments when his gaze lingered too long, had wormed their way into your heart, stirring feelings you weren’t ready to name. But the girls—those pale, dazed figures slipping out of his room at dawn—fueled a jealousy that burned hotter with each passing day, tangling with your growing suspicions about what he was hiding.

You sat cross-legged on the living room couch, your laptop balanced on your knees, trying to focus on a journalism assignment about campus health disparities. Your private note was open in another tab: Jake Shim. Girls: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Jake says they’re nothing, says I’m more. Wants my trust. Something’s wrong, but I’m falling for him. The last line, added after last night’s heated exchange, stared back at you. His words—You’re more—echoed in your mind, both a lifeline and a warning. You wanted to trust him, to believe the sincerity in his eyes, but the pattern of bruised, drained girls was impossible to ignore.

The front door burst open, and ENHYPEN’s chaos flooded in. All seven members spilled into the room, their laughter and banter a tidal wave of energy. Jay led with a smirk, carrying a bag of Korean BBQ takeout, his sharp jaw catching the light. Sunghoon followed, his cool beauty almost unsettling, a bottle of soju dangling from one hand. Heeseung’s quiet intensity anchored the group, his eyes flicking to you with a knowing glint. Sunoo bounced in, waving a box of mochi, while Jungwon balanced a stack of iced teas, his calm demeanor hiding a sharp edge. Ni-ki, the youngest, was already teasing Jake, who trailed behind, his soccer jersey clinging to his lean frame, hair damp from practice.

“Y/N, you’re eating with us, right?” Sunoo called, setting the mochi on the coffee table. “Jake said you’re basically part of the crew now.”

You closed your laptop, a smile tugging at your lips despite the flutter in your chest. “Did he? Guess I can’t say no to BBQ.”

Jake grinned, dropping his gym bag and sliding onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. “Good call, truth-seeker. You don’t wanna miss Jay’s food obsession in action.”

Jay snorted, unpacking the takeout. “Says the guy who’d eat instant ramen for life if we let him.”

The group settled around the coffee table, the air buzzing with their easy camaraderie. Ni-ki stole a piece of galbi from Sunoo, who swatted him with a laugh. Jungwon handed you an iced tea, his eyes lingering a beat too long, like he was sizing you up. Sunghoon poured soju with that eerie precision you’d noticed before, his movements almost too fluid. Heeseung leaned back, watching the chaos with a faint smile, but his gaze kept drifting to you, as if he could sense your unease. They were magnetic, each in their own way—Jay’s sly charm, Sunghoon’s icy allure, Sunoo’s warmth—but something about their synchronized energy, the way their eyes caught the light with fleeting red flecks, set your nerves on edge.

Dinner was a whirlwind of laughter and stories. Jake stayed close, his knee brushing yours, his laugh warm when you teased Ni-ki about his latest dance video going viral. He leaned in once, whispering, “You’re fitting in too well. Gotta keep you on your toes,” his breath tickling your ear. The contact sent a shiver through you, and you hated how much you craved more. But then you remembered Sophie’s pale face, the bruise on her neck, and the warmth turned to ice.

As the group cleared the table, a knock at the door broke the rhythm. Jake’s shoulders tensed, and he shot you a quick look—wary, almost guilty. “That’ll be Emma,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Be right back.”

Your heart sank, the now-familiar jealousy flaring like a lit match. Emma was another one—brunette, all curves and giggles, strutting in like she owned the place. “Jakey!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around him. The sight made your stomach twist, a sharp, irrational pang that left you gripping your iced tea too tightly. Sunoo caught your expression, nudging you gently.

“Don’t worry about her,” he whispered, his smile kind but knowing. “She’s just... temporary. Jake’s got his eyes on someone else.”

You forced a nod, but the words didn’t soothe the ache. Emma’s laughter echoed as Jake led her to his room, the door shutting with a soft click. The sounds started soon after: giggles, music, moans. You grabbed your headphones, cranking your study playlist, but the jealousy burned through the noise. Why did it hurt so much? You barely knew Jake, yet the thought of him with Emma—his hands on her, his lips close—made you want to scream.

An hour later, the front door opened and shut. You peeked out, catching Emma’s exit. She looked drained, her skin pale, a faint bruise on her collarbone. She swayed slightly, muttering about needing a nap, and was gone. The pattern was undeniable now: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie, Emma. All pale, all bruised, all dazed. Your suspicions screamed—drugs, maybe, or something darker—but the jealousy overshadowed it, a raw, aching need to know why Jake kept choosing them over... what? You?

You didn’t think. You marched to his room and knocked, sharp and insistent. He opened the door, shirtless, sweatpants low, his hair tousled and his grin lazy. “Y/N? What’s up?”

You stepped inside, ignoring the coppery scent in the air. “Emma looked like hell,” you said, crossing your arms. “Same as the others. And I’m sick of watching girls stumble out of here while you act like it’s nothing.”

Jake’s grin faded, his eyes darkening. “You’re jealous,” he said, not a question, his voice low and careful. He stepped closer, the door clicking shut behind you. “Talk to me.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t back down. “Yeah, I’m jealous. Okay? I don’t get it, Jake. You say I’m different, that I’m more, but then you bring these girls here, and they leave looking like... like you’ve taken something from them. What am I supposed to think?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his expression raw, almost pained. “Those girls—Emma, all of them—they’re nothing, Y/N. They’re... moments. Distractions. They don’t mean what you do.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re in my head, all the time. Your laugh, your questions, the way you look at me like you see right through me. I don’t want them. I want you.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a tidal wave. You wanted to believe him, to let his sincerity wash away the jealousy, but the doubts lingered. “Then why do they keep coming? Why do they look like that—pale, bruised, half-dead?”

He flinched, his jaw tightening. “It’s not what you think. They’re fine, I swear. It’s just... how I am. I get carried away sometimes, but I’m not hurting them. I’d never hurt you, Y/N.” His hand reached for yours, his touch cold but grounding, sending a jolt through you. “You have to trust me on this. Please.”

You searched his eyes, finding no lies, only a desperate need for you to believe him. “I want to trust you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re making it hard.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing your knuckles before he let go. “I know. I’ll do better. For you.” His voice was soft, almost broken, and it made your heart ache. “Just... don’t pull away, okay? I need you here.”

The air between you crackled, heavy with unspoken truths. You nodded, stepping back, your mind a storm of emotions—jealousy, desire, suspicion. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, and you meant it, even if it scared you.

Back in your room, you opened your laptop, your hands trembling as you updated your notes: Emma. Same symptoms: pale, bruised, weak. Jake says they’re nothing, says he wants me. I’m jealous, and I hate it. Trust him? I’m trying. You paused, then added: I’m falling harder, and it’s dangerous.

The bass of the music pulsed through the crowded off-campus house, a sprawling Victorian mansion turned party central, its walls vibrating with the chaos of a Friday night university rager. Fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling cast a kaleidoscope of colors over sweaty bodies, red Solo cups, and the haze of vape smoke. You weaved through the throng, your heart a tangled mess of nerves and something sharper—jealousy, raw and unrelenting, that had been simmering for weeks. Living with Jake Shim, the Australian-Korean heartthrob and campus playboy, had turned your world upside down. His charm, his lopsided grin, the way his touch lingered just a second too long—they’d hooked you, despite your better judgment. But the girls, those endless girls slipping in and out of his orbit, pale and bruised, kept your feelings locked in a cage of doubt and longing.

You’d come to the party at Jake’s insistence, his text earlier that day a casual You’re coming tonight, right? Need my favorite truth-seeker there. The words had sent a thrill through you, but now, standing in the packed living room, you felt out of place in your jeans and thrifted sweater, surrounded by glittery dresses and confident laughter. Your journalism notebook was tucked into your bag, a habit you couldn’t shake, filled with notes that had grown increasingly desperate: Jake Shim. Girls: Tara, Chloe, Lila, Mia, Sophie, Emma. Symptoms: pale, weak, bruises on neck/collarbone. Jake says they’re nothing, says I’m more. I’m falling for him, and it’s dangerous. The last line, scrawled after his latest reassurance, burned in your mind. He’d sworn you were different, but the sight of him now—leaning against a wall, a brunette named Ava pressed close, her hands on his chest—made your stomach churn.

All seven ENHYPEN members were here, their presence magnetic, drawing eyes like moths to a flame. Jay lounged on a couch, his sharp jaw and sly smirk commanding attention as he sipped a drink he barely touched. Sunghoon leaned against a doorway, his icy beauty cutting through the crowd, his eyes scanning like a predator. Heeseung stood near the DJ booth, his quiet intensity a contrast to the chaos, while Sunoo’s bright laughter rang out from a group of dancers. Jungwon, ever the calm strategist, watched from a corner, his gaze flicking to you with an unreadable expression. Ni-ki, the youngest, was in the thick of the dance floor, his energy infectious but his eyes sharp, almost too sharp. They moved with a synchronicity that felt unnatural, their laughter too perfect, their eyes catching the strobe lights with fleeting red glints that made your skin prickle.

Jake caught your gaze across the room, his grin faltering as he noticed your expression. He gently disentangled himself from Ava, who pouted but let him go, and made his way to you, his soccer jersey clinging to his lean frame, his hair tousled in that effortlessly sexy way. “Y/N,” he said, his voice warm over the music’s thrum. “You look like you’re plotting my downfall.”

You forced a smile, the jealousy biting harder now. “Maybe I am. You seem... busy.”

He raised a brow, stepping closer, his scent—cedar, sweat, and something faintly metallic—hitting you like a drug. “Ava? She’s just a friend. You know that.” His tone was light, but his eyes were serious, searching yours. “You’re the one I wanted here tonight.”

Your heart skipped, but the memory of Emma’s pale face, her neck bruised, flashed in your mind. “Friends,” you echoed, your voice sharper than intended. “Like all the others who leave looking half-dead?”

His grin faded, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “Y/N, we’ve been over this. They’re fine. I’m not—” He stopped, glancing around, then leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You’re different, okay? I don’t say that lightly. I need you to believe me.”

You wanted to, God, you wanted to. His words, the way his hand brushed your arm, sent warmth flooding through you. But the doubt, the journalist’s instinct, wouldn’t let go. “Then why do they keep showing up, Jake? Why do they always look like that?”

Before he could answer, Sunoo bounced over, his smile too bright for the tension between you. “Y/N, come dance with us! Jake’s being boring.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the dance floor, but Jake’s eyes followed, dark and intense.

The night blurred into a haze of music and laughter. You danced with Sunoo, Ni-ki spinning you with a grin, but your eyes kept finding Jake. He was back with Ava, her laughter grating as she leaned into him. The jealousy flared again, a sharp, ugly heat that made you want to pull him away. You hated it—hated how much you cared, how much his attention mattered. When Ava whispered something in his ear and he led her upstairs, your heart sank. Another one.

You waited, sipping a lukewarm beer, your eyes on the staircase. An hour later, Ava hadn’t come down. Your stomach twisted, the same dread you’d felt with every girl before her. You couldn’t take it anymore. Slipping through the crowd, you climbed the stairs, the music fading to a dull throb. The upstairs hallway was dim, lined with closed doors, but one was cracked open, light spilling out. Jake’s voice, low and soothing, drifted through, followed by a soft gasp—not pleasure, but pain.

You didn’t think. You pushed the door open, and the world stopped.

Jake was bent over Ava, who lay on a bed, her eyes half-closed, her skin ghostly pale. His lips were at her neck, a thin trickle of blood running down her collarbone. Her hands gripped his shoulders, weak but clinging, a soft moan escaping her lips. The air smelled of copper and something primal, and Jake’s eyes—red, glowing, inhuman—snapped to you. His fangs glinted, sharp and stained with crimson.

“Y/N,” he rasped, pulling back, blood smearing his lips. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You stumbled back, your heart pounding, but before you could scream, the air shimmered. A gust of wind—impossible in the closed room—swept through, and ENHYPEN appeared, as if materializing from nowhere. Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all seven, their eyes blazing red, their presence overwhelming. Ava’s body went limp, her eyes fluttering shut, and then—she was gone. Not unconscious, not slumped, but gone, vanished from the bed like she’d never existed. The bloodstain remained, a stark reminder on the white sheets.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you backed against the wall. “What are you?”

Jake stood, wiping his mouth, his eyes still glowing but filled with something like panic. “Y/N, listen to me—”

“Stay back!” you snapped, your hand fumbling for the doorframe. The other six closed in, their red eyes locked on you, their movements too fast, too fluid. Sunghoon’s cool beauty was now terrifying, his gaze like ice. Heeseung’s quiet intensity felt suffocating, while Jay’s smirk was gone, replaced by a grim line. Sunoo’s brightness had vanished, his face hard. Jungwon and Ni-ki flanked the group, their youth belied by an ancient hunger in their eyes.

“We’re vampires,” Heeseung said, his voice calm but unyielding, cutting through the chaos. “All of us.”

The word hit like a sledgehammer. Vampires. The pieces snapped into place: the girls, the bruises, the pallor, Jake’s deflections. Your knees buckled, but you caught yourself, your journalist’s mind screaming to document, to understand, even as fear clawed at you.

“You... you’re feeding on them,” you said, your voice shaking but steady. “That’s why they look like that. You’re drinking their blood.”

Jake stepped forward, his hands raised, his eyes fading back to brown, pleading. “It’s not what you think. We don’t kill. We take just enough to survive. My venom—it makes them forget, makes it feel... good. They’re okay, Y/N. I swear.”

“Then where’s Ava?” you demanded, pointing at the empty bed, the bloodstain glaring. “She just vanished.”

Jay exchanged a glance with Heeseung, his jaw tight. “She’s safe,” he said, but his tone was evasive, and it did nothing to calm you.

“Safe?” you snapped. “She was here, bleeding, and now she’s gone! What did you do?”

Jungwon stepped forward, his calm demeanor unnerving. “We can’t explain that yet. But you need to trust us. We’re not monsters.”

“Trust you?” Your voice cracked, the jealousy from earlier now a distant echo beneath the terror. “You’re vampires, and I just saw Jake bite someone!”

Jake’s face twisted, guilt and desperation warring in his expression. “Y/N, I didn’t want you to see this. I’ve been trying to keep you away from it, to keep you safe. You’re not like them. You’re—” He stopped, his voice breaking. “You’re everything to me.”

Your heart stuttered, the sincerity in his words cutting through the fear. You wanted to believe him, to cling to the Jake who’d made you coffee, who’d laughed with you over pizza, who’d promised you were more. But the blood on his lips, the red eyes of his brothers, the empty bed—it was too much.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, turning for the door, but Sunghoon moved faster, blocking your path with a grace that wasn’t human.

“You can’t leave,” he said, his voice cold but not cruel. “Not until we know you won’t talk.”

“Sunghoon,” Jake snapped, stepping between you and his brother. “Back off. She’s not a threat.”

“She’s a journalist,” Sunghoon retorted, his red eyes narrowing. “She’s already halfway to exposing us.”

“I won’t say anything,” you said quickly, your voice trembling. “I swear. Just let me go.”

Heeseung raised a hand, silencing the room. “We believe you, Y/N. But this is bigger than you realize. You’re in our world now, and we need to protect you—and ourselves.”

Jake turned to you, his eyes pleading. “Please, Y/N. Stay. Let me explain everything. I know it’s terrifying, but I need you to trust me. I... I care about you. More than you know.”

The room spun, your mind reeling with the impossible truth. Vampires. Jake, Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all of them, bound by a secret you’d stumbled into. Your jealousy, your feelings for Jake, felt trivial now, yet they burned brighter, tangled with fear and fascination. You looked at Jake, his face raw with emotion, and something in you softened.

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I’ll stay. But you tell me everything. No more lies.”

Jake nodded, relief flooding his features. “No more lies. I promise.”

The others exchanged glances, their red eyes fading to normal, but the tension remained. You sank onto the bed, the bloodstain a grim reminder of what you’d seen. Your notebook was still downstairs, but you didn’t need it to know what to add: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. Caught him feeding on Ava. She vanished. They swear they don’t kill. Jake says he cares about me. I’m terrified, but I’m staying. Why?

The party raged on downstairs, oblivious to the shattered world above. Jake sat beside you, keeping his distance, his hands clenched as if fighting himself. The others lingered, their presence a silent warning. You were in deep now, bound to their secret, to Jake’s world. And as his eyes met yours, warm despite the monster within, you knew there was no going back.

The fog clung to the campus forest like a shroud, curling through the gnarled oaks and muffling the distant hum of Friday night parties. You stumbled along the uneven path, your sneakers crunching on wet leaves, your breath visible in the chill air. Jake’s hand was a cold anchor in yours, guiding you through the mist after you’d fled the chaotic mansion party where you’d seen the unthinkable: Jake feeding on Ava, his fangs glinting, her blood staining the sheets before she vanished. The revelation that he—and all of ENHYPEN—were vampires had shattered your world, yet here you were, running with him, fear and fascination twining like vines around your heart. His touch, his desperate promise to protect you, kept you tethered to him, even as your journalist’s mind screamed for answers.

Jake’s pace slowed as you reached the edge of the forest, where an abandoned lecture hall loomed, its gothic arches and cracked windows swallowed by the fog. “In here,” he said, his voice low, urgent, as he pushed open the rusted door. The creak echoed like a warning, but you followed, your pulse thudding. The interior was a cavern of shadows, rows of dusty desks illuminated by slivers of moonlight breaking through the fogged windows. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—copper, like blood.

You pulled your hand from his, backing against a desk, your eyes locked on him. Jake’s soccer jersey was still speckled with Ava’s blood, his hair tousled, his eyes flickering between warm brown and a fading red glow. He was beautiful, a dreamlike figure in the dimness—sharp jaw, lean frame, that lopsided grin you’d fallen for—but the blood, the fangs you’d seen, made him a nightmare too. “Talk,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re a vampire. Your friends—brothers—are too. Ava disappeared. I need the truth, Jake. All of it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression torn between guilt and resolve. “I know you’re scared. You should be. But I meant it—I’ll never hurt you. We’re not monsters, not the way you think.” He stepped closer, his cold hand hovering near your cheek, and the proximity sent a shiver through you, equal parts fear and a strange, magnetic pull. “We feed to survive, take just enough. My venom—it blurs their memories, makes it feel like a dream. Ava’s safe, Y/N. She’s in her dorm, thinking she blacked out from drinking. We... moved her. Fast.”

“Fast?” you echoed, your mind flashing to the party, how ENHYPEN had appeared from nowhere, their eyes blazing red, Ava vanishing like a ghost. “You mean that... teleporting thing? What the hell was that?”

Before Jake could answer, the air shimmered, a gust of wind rattling the windows despite the sealed room. Shadows coalesced, and ENHYPEN materialized—Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Sunoo, Jungwon, Ni-ki—all seven, their eyes glowing crimson in the moonlight, their presence filling the lecture hall like a storm. They stood in a loose semicircle, their movements too fluid, too silent, their beauty amplified in the eerie setting. Jay’s sharp smirk was gone, replaced by a taut jaw; Sunghoon’s icy allure felt lethal, his gaze piercing; Heeseung’s quiet authority was suffocating; Sunoo’s brightness twisted into something predatory; Jungwon’s calm hid a simmering edge; Ni-ki’s youthful energy was now a coiled threat.

You stumbled back, your heart hammering, but the desk trapped you. Their red eyes locked on you, and the air thickened with a primal hunger that made your skin crawl. “Jake,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, fear spiking but fascination blooming—a dreamlike dread, like staring into the eyes of wolves who could sing you to sleep.

Sunoo inhaled deeply, his eyes flaring brighter. “Fuck, her scent—jasmine, adrenaline, life. It’s like a drug.” His voice was a low purr, his fangs glinting as he stepped closer, his usual cheer replaced by something ravenous.

Ni-ki’s hands twitched, his red eyes narrowing. “Her pulse is screaming. I can hear it, taste it. Just one bite—”

Jungwon’s gaze darkened, his calm cracking. “She’s pure, fresh. We haven’t fed like this in ages. Jake, move.”

Jay growled, his own eyes blazing, his control fraying. “She’s right here, heart pounding like a fucking beacon. I’m starving.”

Sunghoon’s lips curled, his fangs visible. “You saw what happened at the party. The reveal’s got us on edge. Her blood... it’s calling.”

Heeseung’s eyes burned brightest, his voice a cold blade. “We’re all hungry, Y/N. The hunt tonight wasn’t enough. You’re... different. Potent.”

Terror surged, your breath hitching, but that fascination held you captive. They were terrifying, yet breathtaking—each a dark angel in the moonlight, their red eyes like stars in a nightmare sky. You should’ve run, screamed, but the dreamlike pull of their presence, the way Jake stood protectively in front of you, kept you rooted.

“Back off,” Jake snarled, his fangs extending, his body a shield between you and his brothers. His voice was raw, feral, his eyes blazing red again. “She’s mine to protect. You touch her, you answer to me.”

The tension crackled, their red eyes flickering with hunger but also restraint. Heeseung raised a hand, his authority cutting through the haze. “We stop for Jake. She’s his. But she needs to know.”

Jake turned to you, his expression softening, though his fangs and red eyes betrayed his struggle. “Y/N, listen. We’re a coven, turned against our will—different times, different places, but bound together. We feed on the willing, the reckless, never killing. The girls—they consent, in a way, drawn to us by instinct. My venom makes it painless, even pleasurable. They forget, wake up weak but alive. Ava’s fine, relocated by our speed, our... tricks. We’ve survived centuries like this, hiding as students, blending in.”

Sunoo’s eyes dimmed slightly, his hunger reined in. “Universities are perfect. Young blood, endless parties to cover our tracks. We’re careful, Y/N. We have to be.”

Jungwon nodded, his red gaze steadying. “But there are risks—other vampires, hunters. We protect each other, and now... you’re part of that, whether you want it or not.”

Ni-ki’s fangs retracted, his voice bitter. “Her scent’s too strong. I’m barely holding it together. We need to hunt, now.”

Jay clenched his fists, his eyes fading to brown. “Agreed. We’ll find others—clean feeds, no traces. Jake, keep her close.”

Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on you, red flickering. “You’re lucky he cares. Most wouldn’t survive knowing this.”

Heeseung’s voice was final. “We go. Hunt elsewhere. Y/N, trust him. He’s your shield in our world.”

One by one, they vanished—blurs of shadow melting into the fog, their red eyes winking out like dying embers. The lecture hall fell silent, save for the creak of the building and your ragged breathing. Jake stood before you, his fangs retracting, his eyes shifting back to brown, but the blood on his shirt, the intensity in his gaze, kept the truth stark.

You sank onto a desk, your hands trembling, fear coursing through you like ice. Yet that fascination burned brighter—a dreamlike pull to Jake, to the danger he embodied. He was a monster, a predator, yet the way he’d shielded you, his raw promise to protect you, made him feel like a dark knight from a twisted fairy tale. “I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady. “But I’m... drawn to you. It’s like a nightmare I don’t want to wake from.”

Jake knelt before you, his cold hand brushing your cheek, sending a shiver of fear and thrill through you. “I know. I’m terrified too—of what I am, of losing you to this. But I meant it: you’re more than a feed, more than anything. I’ll keep you safe, Y/N, even from myself.”

Your heart raced, the fear and fascination blurring into something new—a longing to understand him, to stay despite the horror. “No more girls,” you said, the jealousy from the party flaring again, sharp and raw. “I can’t watch them come and go, Jake. Not anymore.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “No more. I swear. They were survival, nothing else. You’re... everything I’ve been running from and running toward.”

The air between you crackled, his cold touch grounding you in the surreal moment. You nodded, your fear still alive but tempered by that dreamlike allure, his presence a magnet pulling you deeper into his world. “What now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“We go home,” he said, standing, his hand extended. “And we face this together. No more secrets.”

You took his hand, the coldness a stark reminder of his nature, yet the warmth in his eyes a promise that kept you tethered. The fog swallowed the lecture hall as you left, the campus a ghostly maze, but Jake’s grip was steady, a lifeline in the dark. Your notebook, left behind in the chaos, would need updating: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They hungered for me, but stopped for him. I’m terrified, fascinated, falling deeper. No more girls, he says. I believe him. For now.

The city pulsed beneath a moonless sky, its neon veins glowing through the mist that cloaked the rooftop club—a hidden enclave perched atop a sleek high-rise, accessible only to those who knew the right whispers. The club was a secret haven, its glass walls frosted to obscure the writhing bodies inside, the bass of electronic music thrumming like a heartbeat. You stood at the edge of the dance floor, your heart a storm of fear and fascination, the revelation of Jake’s vampiric nature—and that of his ENHYPEN brothers—still raw from the abandoned lecture hall. Jake’s hand rested lightly on your lower back, his touch a cold anchor that both grounded and unnerved you. His presence was a paradox: a dreamlike figure, all sharp jaw and tousled hair, whose warm brown eyes held a promise of protection, yet the bloodstains you’d seen on his lips haunted you, fueling a jealousy that burned alongside your growing feelings.

The club was alive with a different kind of energy tonight, darker, more primal. You’d come here at Jake’s urging, his text a cryptic Meet me tonight. Somewhere safe. We need to talk. But “safe” felt like a lie as you scanned the crowd. The other six ENHYPEN members wove through the throng, their beauty otherworldly under the strobing lights: Jay’s sharp smirk cutting through the haze, Sunghoon’s icy elegance drawing gasps, Heeseung’s quiet command parting bodies, Sunoo’s bright charm masking a predatory edge, Jungwon’s calm intensity like a coiled spring, and Ni-ki’s youthful energy now a dangerous spark. Their eyes, catching the neon glow, flickered with red flecks, and you noticed something new—a restlessness in their movements, a hunger that hadn’t been there before.

Jake leaned close, his breath cool against your ear. “Stay near me, Y/N. Something’s off tonight.” His voice was low, strained, and his hand tightened on your waist, possessive yet protective. You nodded, your pulse racing, the memory of Ava’s blood on his lips flashing in your mind. The jealousy still lingered—those girls, their dazed exits, the bruises on their necks—but his promise that you were more, that intimacy was his alone, kept you tethered to him. Yet the fear, the fascination, was a live wire in your veins, his vampiric allure like a dream you couldn’t escape, beautiful and terrifying.

You clutched your small crossbody bag, your journalist’s notebook tucked inside, a lifeline to your rational self. Your latest entry burned in your mind: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They hungered for me, stopped for him. I’m terrified, fascinated, falling deeper. No more girls, he says. I believe him. For now. But belief was fragile when the air felt charged with danger, the club’s shadows hiding secrets you weren’t ready to face.

The music shifted, a slower, pulsing beat that seemed to sync with your heartbeat. Jake guided you to a quieter corner, a velvet-curtained alcove overlooking the city’s misty skyline. The others followed, their presence a silent pressure, their eyes glinting redder now, more intense. You caught Sunoo’s gaze, his usual warmth replaced by a sharp hunger, his fangs peeking out as he licked his lips. Ni-ki’s hands twitched, his eyes locked on your neck, while Jungwon’s calm facade cracked, his gaze burning. Jay and Sunghoon circled closer, their movements too fluid, and Heeseung’s quiet authority seemed strained, his eyes glowing like embers.

“Jake,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you pressed closer to him, fear spiking but that dreamlike fascination holding you in place. “What’s happening? They’re... different.”

He cursed under his breath, his arm wrapping around you protectively. “Something’s wrong. The air—it’s not just the club. There’s a trigger, something old, primal. It’s waking our hunger, stronger than usual.”

Before you could ask more, the lights flickered, plunging the club into a strobe of black and neon. A strange hum filled the air, not music but something deeper, like a chant from unseen throats. The crowd didn’t notice, lost in their haze, but ENHYPEN tensed, their red eyes flaring brighter, their fangs extending. You froze as their gazes locked on you, hunger radiating like heat. Your scent—jasmine, adrenaline, life—seemed to amplify, a beacon in the dark.

Sunoo moved first, his brightness gone, his voice a low growl. “Her blood... it’s singing. I can’t hold back.” He stepped closer, his fangs gleaming, his eyes crimson pools.

Ni-ki followed, his youthful face twisted with need. “It’s too much. Her pulse—I need it.” His hand reached out, trembling but eager.

Jungwon’s eyes blazed, his calm shattered. “She’s like fire. One taste, Jake. Just one.”

Jay’s smirk was gone, his voice rough. “You feel it too, don’t you? She’s calling us. We’re starving.”

Sunghoon’s icy gaze was molten now, his fangs sharp. “Let us have her, Jake. You can’t fight us all.”

Heeseung’s control wavered, his eyes burning red. “It’s the hum—some ancient call. It’s pulling us. Her blood’s too potent.”

Fear surged, your heart pounding like a drum, but that fascination—dark, dreamlike—kept you rooted. They were predators, yet their beauty was hypnotic, their red eyes like stars in a nightmare sky, drawing you in even as terror clawed at you. Jake’s arm tightened around you, his fangs extending, his own hunger visible in the tense lines of his body. But his eyes, though red, held a desperate resolve.

“No,” Jake snarled, his voice a feral roar that shook the alcove. “She’s mine. Not for feeding, not for anything—mine to protect.” He turned to you, his gaze softening despite the crimson glow. “Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. But... I can’t stop them alone. They need to feed, just a little. Not like the others—not for sex, not for anything but survival. I’ll keep it controlled. Do you trust me?”

Your breath hitched, fear and fascination blurring into a surreal haze. The idea of all seven biting you was horrifying, yet the way Jake looked at you—raw, pleading, his love a lifeline in the nightmare—made you nod. “I trust you,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. “But only for you. No one else... like that.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched, and turned to his brothers. “One bite each. Controlled. No venom, no intimacy—just blood. You break that, you deal with me.”

The others hesitated, their red eyes flickering with hunger but bound by Jake’s command. Heeseung nodded first, his authority sealing the pact. “Agreed. For you, Jake. We take only what we need.”

The hum intensified, a low vibration that seemed to pulse from the city itself, and the air grew heavier, the mist outside thickening. Jake guided you to sit on a velvet bench, his cold hand steadying you. “Look at me,” he said, kneeling before you, his eyes holding yours. “It’ll hurt, but I’m here. You’re safe.”

Sunoo approached first, his movements slow, deliberate, his fangs glinting as he knelt beside Jake. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost human. He leaned in, his cold breath grazing your wrist, and you flinched as his fangs pierced your skin. The pain was sharp, like needles, but brief, his lips drawing a small trickle of blood. Your vision blurred, the sensation dreamlike—painful yet strangely intimate, like a secret shared in a nightmare. He pulled back, his eyes dimming to brown, licking the blood from his lips with a shudder.

Ni-ki was next, his youthful face tight with restraint. “Just a taste,” he muttered, more to himself than you. His bite, on your other wrist, was quicker, less gentle, but he stopped himself, pulling away with a growl, his eyes flashing red before fading.

Jungwon followed, his calm facade barely holding as he bit the inside of your elbow, his fangs precise but his hands trembling. “You’re strong,” he whispered, almost in awe, as he drew back, blood staining his lips.

Jay’s bite, on your forearm, was rougher, his hunger barely contained. “Fuck, you’re potent,” he growled, pulling away with effort, his eyes flickering red to brown. Sunghoon was gentler, his icy touch on your shoulder almost soothing, but his bite stung, his eyes blazing as he licked the wound clean.

Heeseung went last, his authority palpable as he took your other shoulder, his fangs sinking in with a controlled precision. “You’re a risk,” he murmured, pulling back, his eyes holding yours. “But Jake’s right—you’re worth it.”

Each bite left you dizzy, the pain sharp but fleeting, the sensation a strange mix of horror and allure. Your blood on their lips, the way their eyes glowed then dimmed, was like a dream you couldn’t escape—terrifying, yet captivating, their beauty amplified by the act. Jake watched every moment, his fangs bared, his body tense as he fought his own hunger. When Heeseung stepped back, Jake took your face in his hands, his touch cold but grounding.

“Your turn,” you whispered, your voice weak but defiant, the fascination outweighing the fear. “If they get to, you do too.”

His eyes widened, a mix of hunger and guilt. “Y/N, I—”

“Do it,” you said, tilting your head, exposing your neck. “I trust you.”

He hesitated, then leaned in, his fangs grazing your skin. The bite was different—slower, deliberate, his lips lingering as he drew a small amount of blood. The pain was sharp, but his venom, unlike the others, sent a warm rush through you, blurring the edges of fear into something almost euphoric. He pulled back, blood on his lips, his eyes brown again, raw with emotion. “You’re everything,” he whispered, wiping the blood away with his thumb.

The hum faded, the air lightening, and the others stepped back, their hunger sated but their eyes still wary. Heeseung spoke, his voice calm but firm. “It was the city—an old ritual, buried in the streets. Something woke it, stirred our hunger. You triggered it, Y/N, your scent, your life. We’re bound now, you’re part of us. We feed to survive, but we don’t kill. You’re safe with Jake.”

Sunoo nodded, his brightness returning slightly. “We’re a coven, centuries old. We hide as students, feed on the willing, erase traces. Tonight was... an exception. You’re too potent.”

Jungwon’s gaze softened. “We stopped for Jake. He loves you. That’s why we held back, why we only took a bite.”

Jay smirked, though it was strained. “You’re dangerous, Y/N. But he’s got you. We’ll hunt elsewhere, clean feeds.”

Sunghoon’s eyes lingered, his voice cold but not cruel. “Don’t tempt us again. Stay close to him.”

Ni-ki grinned, his fangs gone. “Yeah, you’re trouble. But Jake’s worth it.”

Heeseung’s voice was final. “We go. Hunt clean. Y/N, you’re his. Don’t forget it.”

They vanished into the mist, shadows melting into the night, leaving you and Jake alone. The club’s music pulsed faintly below, but the alcove felt like another world, the city’s glow a distant dream. You touched your neck, the bite marks tingling, your body weak but alive with adrenaline. Fear still coursed through you, but the fascination—the dreamlike pull of Jake’s world—was stronger. He was a monster, yet his love, his restraint, made him your protector, a dark knight in a nightmare you couldn’t escape.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said, his voice breaking as he pulled you into his arms, his cold chest a strange comfort. “I didn’t want this. But I’ll protect you, always. No one else—no intimacy, no love. That’s mine alone.”

You nodded, your fear softening into that surreal allure, his embrace a tether in the chaos. “No more girls,” you said, the jealousy flaring despite everything. “Just you and me.”

“Just us,” he promised, his lips brushing your forehead, cold but warm with intent. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

The mist thickened outside, the city a labyrinth of secrets. You left the club, Jake’s arm around you, the alley outside cold and foggy, the bite marks on your skin a reminder of the pact. Your notebook, left in the chaos, would need updating: Jake. ENHYPEN. Vampires. They all bit me, triggered by some ritual. Jake loves me, kept it controlled. I’m terrified, fascinated, bound to them. To him. No intimacy but with Jake. I’m in deep, and I don’t want out.

The storm howled outside the campus library, rain hammering the tall, arched windows like a vengeful deity, thunder shaking the ancient shelves that loomed like sentinels in the dimly lit upper floor. It was late Sunday night, the library a desolate maze of dusty tomes and flickering fluorescents, the air heavy with the scent of old paper and ozone. You sat at a secluded table, your textbook open but ignored, your fingers tracing the edge of your notebook where your latest entry burned: Jake. Vampire. Snapped at the club—blood, need, love. No other girls, just us. I’m terrified, fascinated, in love. I’m his, and he’s mine. The faint bite marks on your wrists and shoulders from ENHYPEN’s pact a week ago still pulsed, a reminder of their hunger, but it was Jake—his red-eyed desperation, his vow to claim you alone—that consumed you. Fear coiled in your gut, but fascination, that dreamlike pull of his vampiric allure, had you craving his touch, his bite, his everything.

Jake had been a ghost for days, avoiding the apartment, dodging your texts, his messages cryptic: Need space. You’re driving me fucking wild. You’d felt the tension in his fleeting glances, his clenched jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you brushed past him, his restraint fraying like a rope stretched too tight. The jealousy over his past feeds—Tara, Chloe, Ava—still stung, but his promise that you were everything kept you tethered, even as his absence left you aching. Tonight, you’d come to the library to escape, to drown your longing in work, but the storm seemed to summon him.

The heavy oak door creaked, and Jake appeared, drenched from the rain, his black hoodie clinging to his lean, muscled frame, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes blazing with a hunger that stopped your breath. He moved like a predator, weaving through the stacks with unnatural grace, his scent—cedar, rain, and that sharp, metallic tang of blood—hitting you like a drug. “Y/N,” he growled, his voice raw, barely human, as he reached you, his presence filling the corner like a storm cloud. “I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

You stood, your heart pounding, fear and desire colliding like the thunder outside. “Jake, what’s wrong? You’ve been gone for days. I thought—” Your voice broke, the ache of his absence spilling out. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

His eyes flared red, fangs glinting as he closed the distance, pinning you against the table, his body cold but radiating heat, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. “Don’t want you?” he snarled, his voice dripping with need, his breath cool on your neck. “I’ve been starving for you, Y/N. Your scent, your heat—it’s been tearing me apart. I want your blood, your body, your fucking soul. I want to make you mine forever.”

Your pulse raced, fear spiking at the intensity in his red eyes, but the fascination—the dreamlike allure of his hunger—lit you up like wildfire. He was a monster, yet in the flickering light, his sharp jaw, tousled hair, and desperate gaze made him a dark god, beautiful and terrifying, a nightmare you craved. “Then take me,” you whispered, your voice trembling but bold, tilting your head to expose your neck, the bite marks from his brothers faint but throbbing. “I’m yours, Jake. Only yours.”

His growl was feral, his control snapping like a brittle thread. He kissed you, hard and possessive, his lips cold but searing, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting the heat of your desire. His fangs grazed your lip, drawing a bead of blood that he licked away with a moan, the sound vibrating through you. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped, his hands tearing at your sweater, yanking it over your head, exposing your skin to the cool air. “Been dreaming of this for days—fucking you, drinking you, turning you. I want you with me, always.”

The word turning sent a jolt through you, fear and fascination blurring into a heady rush. “Turning me?” you gasped, your hands fisting his hoodie, pulling him closer even as your mind reeled. “You mean... make me a vampire?”

His eyes locked on yours, red and raw with longing. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough, desperate. “I want you forever, Y/N. Not just your blood, not just your body—I want you beside me, eternal, mine. I’ve never wanted this with anyone else. Say you want it too.”

Fear gripped you, the weight of eternity terrifying, but the dreamlike pull of his love, his hunger, was stronger. You’d seen his world—dark, dangerous, beautiful—and you wanted to be part of it, bound to him in a way no one else could be. “I want it,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. “Turn me, Jake. I’m yours.”

His eyes flared brighter, a primal groan tearing from his throat as he lifted you onto the table, books crashing to the floor, the storm’s roar drowning out the chaos. He tore at your jeans, ripping them down with a hunger that left you breathless, his cold fingers sliding up your thighs, parting them with urgent need. “Gonna fuck you first,” he growled, his voice thick with desire, his fangs glinting. “Make you feel me, all of me, before I make you mine forever.”

You moaned, your body arching as he ripped your panties aside, his cold fingers plunging into you, slick and relentless, working you open with ruthless precision. The sensation was electric, pain and pleasure blurring as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you tremble, his thumb circling your clit with savage intensity. “So fucking wet,” he groaned, his eyes red with hunger, his cock straining against his jeans. “You’re made for me, Y/N. Your body, your blood—mine.”

Fear flickered, but the fascination—his vampiric allure, the dreamlike haze of his hunger—drove you wild. You clawed at his hoodie, yanking it off, exposing his toned chest, pale but perfect, a dark Adonis in the storm’s glow. “Fuck me, Jake,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, the bite marks on your skin pulsing with need. “Bite me. Make me yours.”

He didn’t wait. His fangs sank into your neck, the pain sharp and searing, but his venom flooded you with warmth, a euphoric rush that made you cry out, your body clenching around his fingers. He drank deeply, his tongue lapping at the wound, moaning against your skin as he tasted you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to unbutton his jeans, his cock springing free—hard, cold, impossibly thick. He pushed into you in one brutal thrust, the stretch intense, the venom amplifying every sensation into a blinding haze of pleasure.

You screamed, the sound swallowed by the storm, your body arching as he fucked you hard, the table creaking beneath his relentless pace. His hips snapped, each thrust deep and unforgiving, his cock filling you, cold but burning, hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars. “Been wanting this,” he panted, his lips bloody, his eyes red but locked on yours, raw with need. “Days of craving you—your cunt, your blood, your fucking eternity. Gonna make you mine, Y/N.”

The pain of his bite, the venom’s rush, the brutal rhythm of his thrusts—it was too much, yet not enough. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails raking his back, drawing blood that didn’t flow like yours. “Do it,” you moaned, your voice desperate, the dreamlike allure of his hunger pushing you to the edge. “Turn me, Jake. I want forever with you.”

He growled, his thrusts faltering as he bit you again, higher on your neck, the pain sharper, his venom flooding you with a heat that made your body shake. “Need your blood first,” he rasped, his voice animalistic, his cock driving deeper, each thrust a claim. “Need you weak, ready. Then I’ll give you mine—make you like me.”

You nodded, your body trembling, the pleasure overwhelming, the fear a distant echo beneath the fascination. His thrusts grew erratic, his grip on your hips bruising, his fangs grazing your shoulder as he resisted another bite. “Come for me,” he growled, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing with desperate precision. “Come while I’m fucking you, drinking you.”

The command, the venom, his cock—it shattered you. You came hard, your body convulsing, a scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure crashed over you, blinding and surreal, a dreamlike haze of ecstasy. Jake groaned, his thrusts faltering as he followed, his release cold inside you, his fangs sinking into your neck one final time, drawing deep, leaving you dizzy, weak, your blood singing in his veins.

He pulled back, blood dripping down his chin, his eyes fading to brown, raw with love and guilt. “Y/N,” he whispered, brushing your hair back, his touch gentle now, though his body still trembled with need. “You’re sure? Turning—it’s forever. Painful. You’ll be like me, hungry, hiding. But we’ll be together.”

You nodded, your vision blurry, the venom’s afterglow and blood loss making you lightheaded. “I’m sure,” you said, your voice soft but certain. “I want you, Jake. Forever.”

He kissed you, slow and bloody, his lips tender despite the crimson smear. “Okay,” he said, biting his wrist, blood welling up, dark and thick. “Drink. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be here. Always.”

You pressed your lips to his wrist, the taste metallic and sharp, the pain immediate as his blood burned down your throat. Your body convulsed, the library spinning, the storm’s roar fading to a distant hum. Jake held you, his cold arms a lifeline, his voice a soothing mantra. “I’ve got you, Y/N. You’re mine now. Forever.”

The pain was searing, like fire in your veins, but his presence—the dreamlike allure of his love—kept you tethered. The library faded, the world blurring into darkness, and you clung to him, your dark knight, as the turning began.

The rain-soaked alley outside was your next memory, the storm a curtain around you as Jake carried you, your body weak but alive with a new, strange energy. The cobblestones glistened under neon lights, the mist curling like spirits, and Jake’s eyes, brown but flecked with red, watched you with fierce devotion. “It’s starting,” he said, setting you down, steadying you against a brick wall. “The hunger, the strength—it’ll come soon. I’ll teach you everything.”

You nodded, the bite marks on your neck throbbing, your body buzzing with something not quite human. Fear lingered, but the fascination—his love, his hunger—was stronger. You said, jealousy flaring even now, your voice rough with the turning’s strain. “Just us.”

“Just us,” he vowed, kissing you under the rain, his lips cold but warm with love, the taste of blood lingering. “You’re my eternity, Y/N.”

Your notebook, left in the library, would never be updated, but the truth was in your veins now: Jake. Vampire. Loved me, fucked me, turned me. I’m his, forever. Terrified, fascinated, eternal.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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[en-ternity]

After a disastrous year, all you wanted was to make it home for Christmas. But when the worst snowstorm in the history of the country happened, getting your flight cancelled, you found yourself with no other option than to have a sudden road trip with Jongseong Park, your ex-classmate, and who always had a secret crush on you

╰ a special Christmas miniseries

PAIRING: Jongseong x fem!reader

WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): still slow-burnish, more inaccuracies to the united states settings, mentions of alcohol, they fake-date, Jongseong being the most husband material man out there, and slow-dancing with reader (yes, it is a warning and you will understand why)

PART TWO｜9.4K｜PREVIOUS PART

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

SOMEWHERE IN OHIO

(four days before Christmas)

You woke up to the persistent sound of scraping and a soft string of muttered curses.

At first, you couldn’t quite remember where you were. Your limbs felt leaden underneath you. The kind of heaviness that came with a cramped cold and too much sleep. And it didn’t help that the windows had become fogged with frost, the glass catching what little light filtered through the gray dawn, but then, it all came back to you — the cancelled flight, the panic attack at the airport exit, and Jongseong — Jongseong.

You sat up abruptly, receiving a protest from your neck because of the awkward angle you had slept in, but you ignored the discomfort as your eyes swept around.

He wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore, having moved outside, and using what appeared to be his credit card to scrape ice from the windshield.

When he noticed you were awake he mouthed something you couldn’t quite decipher, but before you could try to react, he had moved, reaching for the door handle, and allowing a burst of frigid air to rush into the car as he climbed back into his seat.

He gazed at you, cheeks flushed, nose red at the tip. His hair had become tousled, the neat locks falling loose from whatever product he used to style them back on the day previous, and the sight of him like this — so disheveled and unguarded, made something within you stop functioning. Your chest tightened with air still stuck on it, and when you managed to make it function again, it released all of that at once.

“Morning,” he said. “The snow has stopped and I already found a convenience store just a few miles from here. I thought we could grab breakfast there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

And it felt so natural — so effortlessly right, that you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him stepping on the pedals, his right hand reaching for the gear shift as he shifted from neutral to first gear with a soft, releasing the clutch with perfect timing, and guiding the car forward onto the road that stretched ahead of you both.

The highway had been plowed at some point during the night. Towering banks of snow piled high and uneven on either side of the cleared road, catching the sun which now was beginning to break through the clouds, casting long shadows and forbidding any fresh snow to fall from the pale gray sky until you had arrived at the convenience store Jongseong had mentioned.

It stood completely alone at the intersection of two rural roads that disappeared into the distance, surrounded by endless snow-covered fields that stretched to the horizon. A squat, weathered building with a faded red sign that read Lucky’s in large letters that had surely seen better days, with a single, old-fashioned gas pump stood out front, and a parking lot that had been haphazardly cleared by someone’s plow truck, leaving irregular patches of ice mixed with exposed asphalt.

A faint bell announced your arrival, the sound quickly smothered by the harsh fluorescent lights humming and buzzing softly overhead, their persistent drone filling the space underneath a christmas song and making the early morning feel even more surreal than it already was.

You followed close behind Jongseong as he made his way through the cramped aisles, picking out granola bars and several packaged muffins wrapped in crinkly plastic that you highly doubted it would serve for a single breakfast.

He had just reached for another package when he suddenly stopped mid-motion, his attention caught by something else. And without any explanation, he turned and moved towards the small wire rack positioned by the cash register, reaching out and pulling a laminated road map of the United States, the kind of physical artifact you thought that had gone completely extinct in the modern age of GPS and smartphones. But Jongseong was already adding it to the basket with the same matter-of-fact confidence he brought to everything else, and so, you didn’t say anything.

Gary — the cashier, obviously wasn’t a great woman from the sixties. He was a man, probably from the seventies, and he didn’t give a second thought about it when you extended your own credit card telling him to split the amount despite Jongseong’s small protest.

“I could have-” he began as you claimed a small, slightly sticky table positioned by the front window. The weak morning light streamed in through the glass, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.

“I will feel bad if you pay everything,” you said. “Not to mention that if you pay for everything, then it’s like I’m be-” you stopped abruptly.

“Beholden to me?” he supplied, immediately and all at once earning a gasp from you.

It had been the word slipping through your lips, but you had caught on to the implications of it before you had finished, and thought you would be saved, but then there was Jongseong saying it, a pleased smile on his lips — almost wistful, and it was even worse because you weren’t used to wistful Jongseong.

You weren’t used to Jongseong, to be honest.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you said, reaching out for the map at his hand and spreading it out.

“Okay,” Jongseong said, reaching into the inside pocket of his heavy winter coat. You watched as he pulled out a pen, and you weren’t sure why the sight surprised you — of course the man who wore analog watches and bought maps would have a proper pen with him at all times.

He clicked it open with his thumb, the small mechanical sound oddly loud in the relative quiet of the nearly empty convenience store.

“We are here,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he brought the pen to the map and circled a spot somewhere over the center of Ohio before his finger traced slowly across the laminated surface, moving steadily westward across state lines.

“Seattle is here,” he continued, tapping the coastal city with his index finger for emphasis. “That’s about two thousand miles, give or take a hundred.”

“That’s a lot of miles,” you said — though you found yourself watching him rather than focusing on the daunting distance stretched across the map before you.

In the way you both stood, you could catch sight of the birthmark on his neck — just an inch above the collar of his coat.

“That’s why what you said yesterday makes sense,” he replied, and you forced yourself to look at the map, catching his pen hovering thoughtfully over the surface. “We should take proper breaks, find decent hotels in between stops instead of sleeping cramped in the car again like last night.”

He traced a potential route west with his fingers, the movement so slow and contemplative, physically feeling out the journey ahead. “What if we aimed for Chicago next? I think we could get there by late afternoon if the roads stay clear and we have a good time.”

His question was light enough, but there was something in it — a subtle weight that you might have missed if you weren’t paying such close attention to him.

But you were.

He wanted to go to Chicago, you realized — maybe to see the famous lights, or walk along the waterfront, or simply — because.

“Chicago sounds good,” you managed. “But wouldn’t everything be completely booked around big cities? I mean — it’s Christmas week. Hotels must be impossible to get.”

Jongseong’s expression shifted, the pen in his hand stilling completely against the laminated surface of the map. For a moment he said nothing, his jaw working slightly as if carefully considering his next words, and you could see the conflict playing out behind his eyes — disappointment warring with practicality.

“Maybe we should avoid staying there then, we can try getting a motel close by,” you said. “A few cities down and have a little walk there — even if we don’t stay the night in the city itself. We could still stop for a few hours, see what it's like.”

Jongseong turned to you, his expression brightening with a genuine smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we could definitely do that.”

❄︎

The sun had broken through by the time you finally left the convenience store, the first sun you seemed to have seen in quite a while — spilling golden light across the snow-dusted landscape with a warmth that felt almost impossible given the season, the sky now a brilliant crystalline blue that stretched endlessly overhead like a promise.

You settled back into your seat with a contented sigh as he started the engine, making the heater immediately whirred to life, beginning its work of pushing warm air into the cold car interior.

The drive to Illinois stretched before you like an endless white ribbon unfurling across the landscape, the scenery shifting gradually and almost imperceptibly from Ohio’s gently rolling fields and modest hills to the flatter, more expansive terrain that characterized the Midwest as Jongseong shifted to the sixth gear, the BMW pushing a bit faster.

“You’re good at this,” you said out of silence.

He glanced over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road, one dark eyebrow raised in question. “At what?”

“Driving. Manual transmission. The whole road trip thing,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely at the dashboard and the snowy landscape beyond.

“My dad taught me when I was sixteen. Said automatic was for people who didn’t really want to drive — who just saw it as a chore.”

You forced a gasp out of you, a dramatic offensed sound before you muttered a small thank you, and Jongseong laughed then, that one burst that caught his eyes clinking and his head inclined as if he was shy — noticing that his father’s saying could have included you.

“It’s just practice,” he admitted. “I could help you.”

You looked at him, your heart racing because it was the first time you were actually considering it. It was a sunny day, the roads were clear and empty — the few cars you had encountered fastly disappeared after an exit or two there were no reasons for you to say no.

“And if I stall it?” you asked.

“You stalled it.”

“And if I grind the gears”

“You grind it.”

“It would be difficult to find a tow here.”

“But not impossible,” he said.

You picked at the corner of your nails, an anxious motion you seemed to have acquired and didn’t know how to stop.

“I will help you,” he said.

Jongseong pulled over, the car idle as you switched places. You slid the seat up as close to the wheel as it would go and in fact — didn’t stall.

The BMW revved, strong and sure, and the car surged forward.

Differently from what you expected the BMW gear stick wasn’t as smooth as the fanciness gave away, and you struggled to change from the first to the second.

When you were to change it to the third, Jongseong reached out — he didn’t speak or anything, he merely placed his hand above yours, his fingers tightening and giving you the strength you needed.

“You are good at this,” he said. “Why did you say you were bad?”

“Matthew,” you said, your voice coming with a venom that surprised even yourself.

“The ex?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “When I got my license, I asked to use his car a few times, but he was always saying how bad I was at this — he even used to place his hand on the wheel while I was driving.”

Jongseong scoffed then, a small thing that you always took as an annoyed trait, but as you glanced at him, he had rested his elbow at the window as he rubbed the tip of his fingers through his mouth, eyes completely focused on the road.

He was annoyed, you could tell — but with Matthew, and it made something flutter inside of your chest, skittering unevenly beneath your ribs.

❄︎

By the time you crossed the state line into Illinois, the afternoon light was already beginning its slow fade, gradually painting everything in deepening shades of blue and purple as the sun sank lower in the winter sky. Jongseong had called ahead during a brief rest stop to a motel on the outskirts of Chicago — a place called the Pinewood Inn that a friendly woman at a gas station had enthusiastically recommended, assuring you both with absolute certainty that it was safe, reasonably priced, and most important clean.

The motel materialized out of the growing dusk like something straight from a nostalgic movie — a low, single-story building with faded green shutters that had probably once been vibrant, and a neon sign that flickered VACANCY in bright pink letters against the afternoon sky, buzzing faintly with electrical current.

Inside the small lobby, the air smelled strongly like artificial pine air freshener mixed with the burnt aroma of old coffee that had been sitting too long on a heating plate. Behind the desk sat a woman who looked to be somewhere in her sixties, her reading glasses perched precariously on the very end of her nose as she glanced up from a half-completed crossword puzzle, her pen pausing mid-word.

Jongseong spoke quietly and politely to the woman at the desk, sputtering and stopping only when she asked how many rooms, his eyes in yours as he let you take the lead.

And there it was again, that heat in your cheeks that seemed to be becoming a frequent feeling around him. But he waited patiently, although the woman was less so, and you sounded far too quiet when you said, “two.”

“Two rooms,” you said, “Please.”

Jongseong just nodded — just once, a single sharp movement of acknowledgment before he pulled out his leather wallet from the right pocket of his coat. “Two rooms, then.”

The woman handed over two keys, each attached to plastic tags shaped like pine trees that matched the motel’s name and theme. “Rooms twelve and thirteen, just down that way to the left,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her pen. “Continental breakfast starts at seven sharp, but honestly, I’d strongly recommend the diner across the street if you actually want something decent to eat.”

You thanked her and followed Jongseong out into the cold evening air, your carry-on clutched in your hands, the handles already making your fingers ache from the cold. The rooms were side by side, exactly as the sequential numbers suggested they would be, and when Jongseong unlocked his door and pushed it open, you caught a brief glimpse of the interior — dated but appearing genuinely clean, with a floral bedspread in muted colors and dark wood furniture that had almost certainly been there since the 1980s, maybe longer.

“So,” he said, turning to face you fully in the narrow concrete walkway between your two doors. His breath clouded thickly in the frigid air between you, forming small white puffs. “What’s the plan?”

You adjusted your grip on your bag, shifting its weight. “I was thinking — shower first, definitely, maybe a short nap? And then we could head into the city later this evening? Walk around for a while?”

“That sounds good,” Jongseong said, and his smile was so genuine and warm, reaching his eyes fully in a way that made something flutter unexpectedly in your stomach. “How about we meet back here around seven? That should give us both enough time to clean up and rest a bit.”

“Seven works perfectly,” you agreed, already turning toward your own door with your key in hand. But you paused with the key halfway in the lock, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “Jongseong?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something deep and unreadable crossing his features before that soft, gentle smile returned to his face. “Of course, Ribbons.”

Inside your room, you dropped your luggage heavily on the couch and exhaled a long, deep breath you hadn’t even realized you had been holding in your chest.

The shower wasn’t temperamental like your own at Hell’s Kitchen, and you took the opportunity to take a long, hot shower — letting the steam gradually fill the small bathroom until the mirror was completely fogged over, obscuring your reflection entirely as you wrapped yourself in motel’s robbed afterwards.

You set an alarm on your phone and collapsed onto the bed.

The mattress was considerably softer than you had expected from a roadside motel, the pillows visibly worn but still comfortable enough, and despite your firm intention to just rest your eyes for a brief moment, you fell asleep almost immediately, exhaustion claiming you completely.

❄︎

You woke up before the alarm, laying in the quiet stillness of your room before you reached for your phone resting on the nightstand.

It was the end of the afternoon already, something past six and late enough on the west coast for your mother to accept your call.

“Darling,” your mother’s voice came through the phone speaker, warm and familiar and comforting, immediately soothing something tight in your chest you hadn’t even realized was there. “Iwas hoping you would call around this time — your father went out for some errands — now we can talk properly without interruption. Tell me how’s it going.”

“I am fine, Mom,” you said, sinking down onto the edge of the bed and getting comfortable. “I am in Illinois now. Just outside Chicago.”

“Illinois!” She sounded genuinely surprised. “You’ve made excellent time then. And the roads? They’re safe? Not too icy?”

“Yeah, they were okay,” you said, then paused, picking absently at a loose thread on the bedspread. “We stopped at a motel for the night. We are going to head into the city later this evening.”

There was a brief beat of silence, and then your mother’s voice dropped, “is he treating you well? This is the same boy from school, yes? The one you thought that hated you?”

“He never hated me,” you said, feeling heat creep steadily up your neck, suddenly thankful that your mother couldn’t possibly see you blushing. “That was just — I asked him about it yesterday and he said he was just shy.”

“Oh God, all those years thinking he couldn’t stand you, and now look at this — he’s driving you across the entire country,” your mother said, making a thoughtful, knowing sound. “He must be very kind to do this.”

“He is,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been really good about everything.”

Your mother laughed, the sound bright and knowing and full of implication. “And handsome? Is he handsome?”

“Mom—” you protested weakly.

“I’m your mother! I’m allowed to ask these things,” she said, her voice coming a bit firmly although you could sense the wide smile in her voice. “So? Is he?”

“Yes,” you said, not even needing to take a second thought.

You always had thought Jongseong was handsome — even before you had encountered him at the airport and discovered how the years had sharpened his features, leaving only the echoes of it for when he smiled down at you, and oh — he had been smiling at you a lot lately.

You wouldn’t go as far as to say that you had a crush on him back in your school days because you were truly convinced he hated you, and so, you tried your best to remain as far as you could, never having straight interaction or going to his small concerts at the school garden on Friday despite your wish to — you remained inside the building and went to the library instead, strategically getting the table under the windows because once you open it, you could hear him without him ever knowing.

“Yes,” you said again. “Yes, he is.”

“Great. And more importantly — how do you feel? About him specifically? About this whole situation?”

“I have been thinking,” she said once you didn’t reply. “If you are uncomfortable or something, me and your father can take the road too — meet you somewhere in the middle.”

You rolled through the bed, starring at the bedsheets as though it would make the room smaller and your confession a secret kept. “It’s alright, mom. I mean, we barely knew each other before yesterday, and now we are spending all this time together, and he is so—” You struggled to find the right words. “He is so nice and easy to be around. I guess you both don’t have to worry”

“Alright,” she conquered. “But tell me, just in case.”

“Sure,” you agreed. “Have you decorated the house already?”

“Yes, but not completely — still have some bits and pieces that I would prefer you here to help.

You felt tears prick unexpectedly at your eyes, though you weren’t entirely sure why the emotion was surfacing. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course. Now go — go see those Chicago lights with your handsome road trip companion. And call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line went quiet and then disconnected, and you set the phone down carefully beside you on the bed before you stood up to dress, taking more time than you would like to admit to decide your clothes despite the fact it was the same variation you used to your daily basics at the library — just trading the usual high heels for a more practical boot and precisely seven o’clock, you stepped outside.

Jongseong was already standing in the doorway, leaning against its wall as his hands fidgeted with the BMW’s keys.

You stared at him, more conspicuous for the fact that you tried to be inconspicuous about it.

He had showered too, his hair slightly damp, and again — out of whatever he had used on the day previously, allowing the locks to fall almost tousled, and so, despite the expensive long coat, and the grayish button-down you had never seen, the old familiarity of him pierced you.

“Ready?” he asked, pushing himself up.

You confirmed with a nod, stepping out into the cold parking lot beside him.

“Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, shaking the BMW keys at you, but you only shook your head.

“The cities might be a bit too much.”

❄︎

The drive into Chicago was relatively short, just fifteen minutes down a highway that gradually transformed from dark, empty stretches of nothing into the glowing, vibrant sprawl of the city.

Jongseong found parking in a multi-level garage near Millennium Park, having to maneuver the car up to such narrow ramps — you found yourself truly glad by the fact that you hadn’t accepted the keys back in the motel, having just the trouble of having to come out of the BMW and signaling if he had gotten into the parking correctly before — finally, you stepped out onto Michigan Avenue, allowing the full overwhelming force of Chicago’s holiday splendor to hit you all at once.

The city had been transformed into something almost magical. Every single tree lining the famous Magnificent Mile had been wrapped in tiny white lights, creating long, glowing tunnels of pure luminescence that stretched as far as you could see as the stores windows were elaborately decorated with animated holiday displays — mechanical reindeer that moved their heads in repetitive patterns, artificial snow that seemed to fall perpetually behind thick glass. The buildings themselves were outlined in lights, their architectural details highlighted and emphasized against the dark winter sky.

You gasped, stopping abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk to take it all in.

Jongseong stopped beside you, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets against the cold, and when you glanced at him, you found him watching you rather than the lights, his gaze soft and focused entirely on your face.

“Pretty impressive, right?”

“It’s beautiful,” you said with genuine awe. “Have you ever come before?”

“No,” he admitted, and for a second he thought he had ended the conversation once again, but then he kept going, “my father used to come here a lot during this time of year, and suggested me to — I never heard him.”

“I am glad you finally came,” you said then.

❄︎

Chicago during the holiday season was not just beautiful — it was absolutely crowded.

You tried your best to stay close to Jongseong as you wove through the dense city, but despite your constant attention, you caught yourself failing.

The boy came out of nowhere, running in a game you couldn’t quite tell with his brother, and pushing you.

Jongseong was fast to catch you, his hand closing around your elbow to prevent you from falling, and for a moment you were the only silent spot in the bustling city. He kept his hand on your elbow even after it was clear you were safe, his thumb moving in a small, unconscious circle against the inside of your arm — a gesture so brief and subtle you might have imagined it.

“Here,” he said, making a small pressure for you to move to his other side, walking away from the main current of foot traffic. “I don’t want you getting trampled.”

And after that, he didn’t let go. As you continued down the avenue with its strings of lights and decorated storefronts, his hand remained a constant around you. Sometimes his fingers rested at your elbow, a warm weight through the sleeve of your coat. Sometimes, when you paused to admire a particularly elaborate window display or to let a group of carolers pass, his hand would migrate to the small of your back, his palm settling there with a familiarity that felt both presumptuous and yet — exactly right, gently steering you through gaps in the crowd.

When you crossed streets — the walk signals beeping, cars honking impatiently, slush spraying up from tires — his fingers would mold around your wrist, circling it completely, and keeping you tethered to him like you might drift away if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“Sorry,” he said at one point, as he guided you around a particularly dense cluster of tourists who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take photos, completely blocking the flow of traffic. His hand moved to your waist again, fingers spanning your hip as he maneuvered you through the narrow space between bodies. “Is this okay? I just don’t want to lose you in all this.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice coming out softer than you intended, almost intimate in a way that made you flush. “I am thankful, actually — I have never managed big crowds.”

You walked for nearly an hour, taking in the sights the enormous Christmas tree in Millennium Park — easily forty feet tall and dripping with thousands of lights that reflected off the surrounding buildings in fractured patterns of red and gold and silver. The ice skaters glided across the rink in circles, their laughter carried on the cold air. The Bean sculpture in all its impossible, mirrored glory, surrounded by people taking photos, its reflective surface capturing and distorting the lights and the crowd and the city skyline into something abstract and dreamlike as street vendors sent up clouds of fragrant steam, selling hot chocolate so thick it was almost pudding, and soft pretzels that you didn’t need to give Jongseong a second look before you both hovered to the line.

By the time eight-thirty rolled around, you knew that soon after your stomach would start growling, having worked out all the muffins you and Jongseong had shared on your way there, and the pretzel, making its displeasure known with increasingly loud protests. Jongseong must have sensed it too, or maybe it was just him — always worried, but he leaned down slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your cold cheek, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Hungry?” he asked, and you nodded at him.

He pulled out his phone, the screen casting a blue-white glow on his face as he scrolled briefly through search results, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then he pointed down a side street that branched off from the main avenue, narrower and quieter, lined with brownstones instead of storefronts. “There’s a place a couple blocks from here. Italian — My treat.”

❄︎

The restaurant, when you found it tucked away like a secret, was everything the main avenue wasn’t — modest, unassuming, the kind of place you could walk past a hundred times and never notice.

It occupied the ground floor of an old brownstone, its exterior weathered brick and a simple wooden door with a brass handle worn smooth from decades of use as a sign in elegant script read Carmella’s slightly faded above, and warm golden light spilled from its tall windows onto the snow-dusted sidewalk, pooling there like liquid honey.

Jongseong was the one to lead once again, talking to the hottest who directed you to a table at the far wall of the place, the furniture draped in crisp white linen that looked freshly pressed, topped with a small candle flickering inside an amber glass holder that cast dancing shadows across the tablecloths and Jongseong’s watch as you checked the menus.

When the food arrived, you traded bites across the table, and everything was rich and perfectly seasoned, the kind of food that made you close your eyes with appreciation and small sounds of pleasure escape unbidden from your throat.

When you moved to tell him you were in love with everything, Jongseong was already looking at you through the top of his wine glass, that solemn attention you had just recently discovered.

Your cheeks burned underneath it, but you didn’t need to turn you gaze away, didn’t need to hide, Jongseong was already turning away himself, snapping his head so fast he nearly gagged on the wine, but it made you smile then, a small chuckling escaping though because that was the Jongseong you remember — not merely an echo, but him entirely.

Your Jongseong.

“There is,” he began, and then cleared his throat, pulling the glass over the table with deliberate attention. “There is a place similar to this in New York,” he told you. “We could go — once we are back — after the holidays.”

The realization arrived like a hand pressed suddenly to your chest — gentle at first, then insistent, and impossible to ignore.

This trip had an ending. Of course it did. And beyond that ending lay New York: your grim apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with its paper thin walls and temperamental shower, Mrs. Driscoll’s tupperware at your door, all the small failures of your life waiting patiently for your return.

Jongseong narrowed his eyes from across the table, reading what you hadn’t said.

“You don’t want to go back to New York,” he guessed.

“I-” you began, not really sure of how you were supposed to continue.

Truthly speaking, you had to go back to New York — you had already paid the January rent, and despite it not being much, you had a few possessions of which you hadn’t stuffed in your carry-on, but it’s true that you didn’t feel like going back to it.

“Do you want to move back to Seattle?” he asked then.

But the question was even worse, because you hadn’t thought about it.

You wanted to go back home for the holidays, but your plan had stopped at the imagined moment of when you stepped inside of your parents’ house, there was no after just then.

“I don’t know. I haven’t — I haven’t thought about it yet,” you admitted. “When I moved to New York, I had my whole life visualized — from the university I would study, to the place I would work and live,”

“But I have — I think I lost the entrance to it somewhere and I don’t know how to go back and find it — I don’t know because-”

“Everyone acts like you’re supposed to have it all figured out by now, like there’s some master plan you should be following,” he said. “But I don’t think anyone really does. We’re all just making educated guesses and hoping they work out.”

“That’s either very reassuring or very terrifying,” you said.

He smiled, that lopsided expression that made your stomach flip. “Maybe a little of both.”

❄︎

By the time you finished — it was past ten. Chicago’s night even colder than before and the shock of the temperature change after the warmth of the restaurant made you gasp, your breath crystallizing instantly in the frigid air, but before you could do anything, Jongseong was rolling his scarf around your neck — the same one he had gave you in the airport and you had returned somewhere over Ohio.

“You should dress more warmly,” he said, already turning to walking back toward where you had parked.

You were about half a block from the parking garage, when you heard someone call out, the voice cutting through the ambient noise of the city.

“Wait, is that—”

You turned, regretting it the exact same moment when you did.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

“Who?” Jongseong murmured.

“Matthew’s friends,” you whispered back, the words coming so breathlessly that you wondered if Jongseong had even heard, but he raised an eyebrow at you then, something unreadable flickering across his expression before he turned so he could properly face Isaac and Andrew.

“Hey!” Isaac’s voice carried across the snowy sidewalk, louder now, as he closed the distance between you with long strides.

“I thought that was you,” he said, his breath forming thick clouds in the cold air that hung there before dissipating. He was bundled in an expensive-looking peacoat — cashmere, probably, with horn buttons — his cheeks ruddy from the cold and possibly from drinking. “What are the chances? We were heading home but our flight had an emergency stop here because of the—”

“Storm,” Andrew supplied, appearing at Isaac’s shoulder. He looked the same as you remembered — sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, that particular preppy aesthetic that all of Matthew’s friends seemed to cultivate.

“Small world,” you managed, though what you truly wanted to say was evil world.

Matthew, Isaac, and Andrew had all met through the random lottery system of the university dorms in their first year, despite the fact that all of them were from New York, or at least the wealthy outskirts — Westchester, Greenwich — or some places where people had groundskeepers and tennis courts at the back of their houses.

They had been inseparable ever since, a trio of privilege and easy confidence.

“So,” Isaac continued. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you said, and the lie arrived before you could think better of it, smooth and practiced as breathing. “I am here with my boyfriend.”

To his credit, Jongseong didn’t falter — God, the man didn’t even blink before he reached for your hand, curling his fingers around yours and using it to pull you toward him, drawing you in until you were almost fully in front of him, his chest a solid existence of warmth at your back, as he looped his arm around your waist.

It was a perfect fit — his hand settling on your hip like it had been made to rest there, the scratch of his fingers catching in the belt loops of your jeans, his thumb pressing against the soft flesh just above your hipbone in a way that made your breath catch.

“Hi,” he said, extending his free hand to Isaac, then Andrew. His voice was pleasant enough as he greeted both, but you could feel it — the way he was holding you as if to keep them away from you. “I am Jongseong.”

“Isaac,” Isaac said, straightening himself to his full height. “And this is Andrew. We’re friends of Matthew.”

The name landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples outward. You felt Jongseong’s hand press more firmly against your waist — not quite protective, but grounding.

“Matthew,” Jongseong repeated, as if testing the weight of it for beat. Then another before finally — with the kind of bright, helpful tone one might use when correcting a minor factual error: “Oh, you mean her shitty ex?”

You made a sound that might have been a laugh or a choke — possibly both.

“Right, yes.” Jongseong’s expression remained perfectly pleasant, almost cherubic in its innocence. “She has mentioned him.”

Isaac’s smile flickered. Andrew’s jaw tightened in that way you had seen a hundred times before — and for a small fraction of a second you thought, he was about to say something as he looked between you and Jongseong, but he let it all go as Isaac continued. “We were just catching up,” he said, recovering with the kind of forced lightness that fooled no one. “Haven’t seen her in ages — since-”

“New Year’s Eve,” you supplied.

You didn’t expect Jongseong to remember.

You had mentioned the night Matthew cheated on you just once — the spout you had released in the middle of the airport’s restaurant with a lot of other information, but his eyes landed on you then, his brow furrowing in a concern that was out of the character he had pulling.

Your hand met his on your waist, and he released the hold just enough so your fingers could weave through his.

“We have just finished dinner” Jongseong started, his tone turned pleasant and conversational once again. “Or else I would invite you both to — catch up, but we had a long trip today and I have to take her back to Seattle, you know? A lot of miles ahead still.”

“Right, love?” The endearment rolled off his tongue like warm honey, sweet and natural and devastatingly convincing.

“Yes, I am quite tired,” you admitted softly, which was true, though not the whole truth. The whole truth was that you just wanted to leave, wanted to escape this increasingly awkward encounter and preserve the perfect evening you had been having, wanted to get away before the duration of their presence could puncture the bubble of happiness you had found yourself in.

Jongseong squeezed your waist reassuringly, his fingers pressing gently against your hip in a way that sent warmth spreading through you, understanding everything you weren’t saying in that uncanny way he seemed to have.

Without another word, he waved politely at the pair with his free hand, wishing a merry Christmas and a safe trip for them before he guided you out of the conversation and down the snow-dusted street, his hand never leaving yours — protective and possessive and perfectly natural all at once.

Jongseong guided you away from them, holding you close against the biting Illinois cold as you retraced your steps through the city and then, further — allowing Chicago’s bustling streets to gradually give way to quieter residential neighborhoods where warm light spilled from curtain windows, highlighting your cold breaths.

It hadn’t snowed while you were at the restaurant, but you had moved so far from downtown that the powder still felt fresh, the sound of your boots crunching against the snow being the only thing mingling through the cold air.

“I am sorry,” you finally said, the words breaking the silence like cracking ice, sharp and sudden in the quiet night. “I didn’t mean to put you into such a strange situation — I just-” You halted, struggling to articulate what you had felt in that moment. “I guess I didn’t want them to think I am still stuck on Matthew.”

“Are you?” he asked. “Stuck on him?”

“No,” you replied. “When I look back now, I wonder why I was still with him.”

Jongseong was quiet for a long while, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns on the back of your hand as you walked through the snowy streets, the gesture both soothing and distracting. The silence felt contemplative rather than uncomfortable, filled with the soft crunch of snow and the distant sound of the city.

“I just think,” he finally said. “I am more of husband material anyway.”

“What?” you asked, your head snapping up to look at him, trying to read his expression in the shifting shadows cast by the streetlights.

Jongseong was smiling, that lopsided, devastating smile that tugged at the right corner of his mouth and made something within you shift.

You quickly realized he was merely joking around, trying to lighten the heavy mood that had settled over you both. But your mind had already betrayed you, racing back to each and every moment that proved that yes — he was more of a husband material.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, his smile fading into concern as he noticed how you had gone quiet.

“I guess I just need a drink,” you said.

It had been just an automatic reply, but Jongseong was already looking around — searching the quiet street for whatever establishment could come to supply this sudden need.

❄︎

The jazz bar held no sign outside announcing its presence, no bright neon or wooden placard, no warnings or advertisements — it was just the sultry sound of live music spilling from its open doors.

You stepped in without much fanfare, your fingers still intertwined with Jongseong’s, but the view almost made you laugh out loud — not because it was ridiculous, but because of the sheer, unexpected charm of it all.

A man in his sixties sat at a well-worn piano in the corner of the dimly lit room, his white suit slung carelessly over his shoulders as his fingers danced across the piano keys with the fluid confidence and muscle memory of someone who had been doing exactly this for thirty years or more. Another man — not much younger, with distinguished silver threading liberally through his dark hair — sang nearby into a vintage microphone, his voice rich and smoky like aged whiskey, full of lived experience.

And they would be among the youngest people there aside from you and Jongseong.

Senior citizens spun gracefully across the old wooden floor in pairs, moving with the effortless synchronicity that came only from decades of dancing together, of knowing instinctively exactly how their partner would move, where they would step, how they would turn.

Jongseong turned to look at you questioningly, his eyes searching your face in the low golden light, silently asking if this place was okay.

You didn’t want to shout across the small distance between you, didn’t want to break the spell of the music that wrapped around, so you took a step closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, reaching up on your toes until your lips were near his ear, your breath ghosting across his skin.

“It is okay for me,” you said softly, feeling him shiver slightly at your proximity, “as long as they have alcohol — you?”

Jongseong dropped his head, bringing his mouth close to your ear so you were the one now shivering.

“I love old people,” he said, and it made you laugh, truly laugh. There was wistful Jongseong once again, and you were loving to have him.

The bar itself was tucked against the far wall, a long stretch of dark wood polished smooth by decades of elbows and glasses. It was tended by a woman who looked like she had been standing in that exact spot since the place first opened its doors, she barely looked up as you and Jongseong approached, her weathered hands already reaching for glasses with the practiced efficiency of someone who had mixed thousands of drinks and could do it in her sleep.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

You halted then, not sure of what the options in a place like this were, but Jongseong was fast to help you, ordering a cocktail with strawberry and a whiskey sour for him.

“How do you know?” you asked. “The strawberry thing — how do you know it’s my favorite type of drink?”

“Senior year,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You furrowed your brows at him, your confusion falling heavy into your features, and you waited, waited for the small softness before he finally opened up, but it didn’t come this time, the conversation ending as the woman slid your drink across the bar.

Jongseong reached for his, raising in the unmistakable sign for a toast.

“To cancelled flights,” you said.

“To Chicago,” Jongseong countered warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, touching his glass to yours with a soft, clear clink that rang out like a bell.

The first drink disappeared faster than it should have, the cocktail spreading warmth through your chest and loosening something that had been wound tight inside you since you had run into Isaac and Andrew on the snowy street as the pianist transitioned seamlessly into something faster, his fingers finding a melody which made the couples on the floor adjust their movements accordingly, swaying close together rather than spinning now, moving as one in the dim light.

“My grandma would love this place,” you said.

“The one who screams about the refrigerator?”

“That one,” you told him. “You should come for Christmas, and see — since you like old people, you know?”

Jongseong laughed at that, that one bright burst before he said that he might. And you ordered another round, and then another after that. The bartender kept them coming without comment or judgment, just a knowing look as she mixed and poured.

“How long have you been together?” she asked, and maybe it had been the previous lie still lingering over your tongue, maybe it had been the alcohol on your head, or the night itself, and the fact that it was true, but you allowed the words to spill then.

“Not long enough.”

Jongseong choked on his breath, but the waitress only smiled, pushing the cups before moving away.

Outside it may be early winter, layers of snow covering the streets, but down here, it was mid-spring, that warm weather where one could tell the harshness has ended and the bright days were surely coming — or maybe that was just everything heating you from the inside out, but you had shrugged off your coat sometime during the third drink, draping it over the back of your chair. Your cheeks felt flushed and hot, and when the sound shifted going into a known song from your grandma’s collection, you laughed, telling this fact to Jongseong.

He gazed at you, and you were not sure what he found there, but it made him stand up, extending his hands at you with a small “come”.

He guided you to the dance floor and you showed him where to put his hand, and how to feel the rhythm in your hips. You showed him how to lead, how to twirl you, and dip — not really sure if you were doing it right because your only teacher and partner had been your grandma, but at some point you started laughing and couldn’t stop, the joy bubbling up from somewhere deep inside, and Jongseong was laughing too, his face open and younger-looking in the dim golden light.

You lost track of how long you danced, how many songs played and blended into each other. The elderly couples gradually filtered out into the snowy night as you were still going back to the bar, a drink for you and water for Jongseong because he was already done with alcohol considering that he had to drive you both back before you were back on the floor, and the room had taken on that pleasant, soft-edged fuzzy quality that came with being just the right amount of drunk, where everything felt warm and possible.

When you reached Jongseong this time, a slower song had begun.

You had been so long on the dance floor that there had been no novelty on allowing Jongseong to guide you, but there was something different about doing it when the night had fallen more slowly.

It felt softer.

He placed your hands on his shoulders, but he didn’t let go easily. You felt his fingertips slowly tracing your pulse before his hands molded to your waist, bringing you closer at the same time he leaned in — just enough to rest his cheek against yours, but every contact was like a static shock, a spark of life where his skin met your skin, and your heart picked up.

“I don’t know how to slow dance,” you said in the rush. “My grandma only taught super fast songs.”

“Neither do I, but we can figure it out.”

And you did — swaying gently in the dim golden light, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the way you fit against each other, the way his breath ghosted across your temple, the way your hands slid to the back of his neck for support, but your palms fitted so well on the slope curve that you couldn’t help but run your palm over it, fingers curling at his hair and making Jongseong shiver beneath your touch, the soft rustle of his breath hitching against your skin almost imperceptibly.

You were close — too close. Jongseong had to look down to find your gaze, and when he did, you felt his breath against your mouth, the softest gust of warm air against your lips.

The seconds seemed to melt together, and you couldn’t tell how long you had been breathing on each other when his fingers spread at the side of your waist, thumb seizing for your skin as he angled you to him.

You were already warm from the sticky air and dancing, but you could swear you grew even warmer when he closed his eyes and came closer, brushing his nose on yours.

Your every sense was acutely aware of his proximity. You could feel the firmness of his chest pressing against yours, and the steady rhythm of his breath. Jongseong was all around you, all inside of you, the scent of his woody perfume and the whiskey he had been drinking. And you trembled with the thought, a little chill settling through your skin despite the warmth of the place.

But then, he clenched his jaw, brows knitted together as if something was suddenly hurting him, and before you could ask what happened, he moved, abruptly and all at once stepping back.

“You are drunk,” he said. “We should go. It’s already past one, anyway.”

And the moment slipped through — like a dream you wake up too hastily from. By the time his hand reached for you, fingers finding the slots between yours and guiding you back to where you had abandoned your coats, you wondered if you truly almost had kissed him.

Jongseong let go of your hand only so he could help you into your coat, his fingers lingering at your collar as he adjusted it properly, making sure you were covered against the cold, and then you were pushing through the doors and outside in the shocking, breathtaking cold, the dramatic temperature differential making you gasp and stumble.

The walk back to the parking seemed longer than it had before, the streets emptier and more deserted now, the snow deeper where it had continued to fall.

Between one step and another your feet started to feel disconnected from your body — tiredness wearing you out to the core, and you stumbled once on an uneven patch of sidewalk, then twice more, catching yourself on Jongseong’s arm each time.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, stopping under the yellow glow of a streetlight. “Come here.”

“What?” you asked, confused as he turned his back to you and crouched down slightly, his shoulders broad and steady.

“Get on,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at you. “You are going to break an ankle like this.”

You shook your head weakly, lips parting on a retort you never managed to give because you stumbled again on nothing at all, and Jongseong just raised one eloquent eyebrow at you in a look that clearly said I told you so.

“Get on,” he repeated.

You hesitated for only a moment, some last shred of concious making you pause, before giving in to the inevitable. You looped your arms around his neck, feeling the soft fabric of his coat collar against your forearms as he hooked his hands securely under your thighs and stood up, lifting you with an ease that made something flutter dangerously in your chest and made you wonder just how strong he actually was. Your chin came to rest on his shoulder, fitting there perfectly, and you could smell that scent that was distinctly, uniquely him — expensive perfume with notes of sandalwood and vanilla, musk, cedar and something warmer, more fundamental underneath that was just Jongseong.

“This is embarrassing,” you said.

“This is practical — better than having to find a hospital at this hour of the night,” he corrected, his breath coming out in white puffs that you could see over his shoulder “and it’s no trouble at all.”

“Liar,” you said, but you were smiling against his shoulder, unable to help it, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Chicago passed by around you in a dreamlike blur of streetlights and falling snow, the cold night air slowly sobering you but not enough to make you want to get down and lose this moment.

You hadn’t felt safe in so long that you had forgotten what it was supposed to feel like — not the absence of danger, but this — the presence of someone who would not let you fall. It was the kind of safety that made you aware of every previous moment you had had to hold yourself upright, white-knuckled and alone. The kind that hurt a little. And so, you sank into it — into him, closing your eyes.

“Jongseong?”

“Tell me what it is, Ribbons,” he said softly, and you could hear the smile in his voice, feel it in the way his shoulders shifted.

“Of all the people I could have encountered in that airport,” you whispered. “I am so glad it was you.”

His steps faltered — just for a fraction of a second, barely perceptible — but you felt it in the way his hands tightened on your legs, in the way his breath caught before he released it in a slow, deliberate exhale that ghosted warm against the cold air.

“I am glad too,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before — something almost raw and unguarded that made your heart skip.

hello, my loves! thank you so much for staying with me for another chapter ♡ i had so much fun writing it, especially the last scenes, so i hope that reading it was as enjoyable :) don’t forget that comments, asks or any type of feedback is more than welcome! i love knowing what you guys are thinking of my stories, so never think twice before reaching out to me!!!

(♡) special thanks to my girlies as always! @miszes, @wonlysm, @choiwrld, and @dulcetnostalgia

[en-ternity]

After a disastrous year, all you wanted was to make it home for Christmas. But when the worst snowstorm in the history of the country happened, getting your flight cancelled, you found yourself with no other option than to have a sudden road trip with Jongseong Park, your ex-classmate, and who always had a secret crush on you.

╰ a special Christmas miniseries｜(expected) 35K+

PAIRING: Jongseong x fem!reader

TAGLIST IS OPEN! updates are going to be released every tuesday, thursday, and saturday at 10am (kst) starting from december 12th, but if you would like to be tagged, feel free to drop a comment, send me an ask, a message, or anything that you feel comfortable with ♡

PINTEREST MOODBOARD

PART ONE｜9.7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): slow-burnish, inaccuracies to the united states settings, and panic attacks, mentions of a cheating ex, usage of pet names, reader cries a lot, but please, forgive her, she (and i) had a tough year, kinda of yapper broke girl x quiet rich guy type of relationship

PART TWO｜9.4K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): still slow-burnish, more inaccuracies to the united states settings, mentions of alcohol, they fake-date, Jongseong being the most husband material man out there, and slow-dancing with reader (yes, it is a warning and you will understand why)

PART THREE｜7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): at this point my inaccuracies to the united states should be considered a crime as well as the slow-burn, but hold my hand through this, mentions of alcohol, mentions of a minor character death, i feel like it’s the slower (and angsty) chapter of the miniseries, but it’s important for my boy, Jongseong :(

PART FOUR｜9.2K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): panic attacks, one-bed tropé (we cheer!), smut, dry-humping, nipple play (f. receiving) because yes! they are in their lovers era

PART FIVE｜7K｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): mentions of alcohol, smut, fingering and oral (f. receiving), condom removal, shower sex

PART FINAL｜on going｜WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): mentions of alcohol, smut, oral (m. receiving), unprotected sex, accidentally made my boy a sub for a few hot minutes in this one (this chapter contains the dirtiest smut of the series, but anyway, consider it a reward for keeping up with me? and my Christmas present?)

(♡) special thanks to @miszes for helping me with the title; i hope she forgives me for going for her second favorite option instead of the first, @dulcetnostalgia for supporting me since the moment i have told her that i was writing this, and even telling me i could brainstorm with her any time; what i did, and my american moots (aka @choiwrld & @jungmeowz) for answering the most dumb questions and still having an awesome patience with me; Sara going through each and every neighborhood in NYC to help me choose the character’s places and Rin not only explaining the whole schooling system in seattle but reading the plotline and helping me sort this out? GIRLS’S GIRLS and i love them all ♡

[en-ternity]

After a disastrous year, all you wanted was to make it home for Christmas. But when the worst snowstorm in the history of the country happened, getting your flight cancelled, you found yourself with no other option than to have a sudden road trip with Jongseong Park, your ex-classmate, and who always had a secret crush on you

╰ a special Christmas miniseries

PAIRING: Jongseong x fem!reader

WARNINGS & CONTENTS (for this part): slow-burnish, inaccuracies to the united states settings, and panic attacks, mentions of a cheating ex, usage of pet names, reader cries a lot, but please, forgive her, she (and i) had a tough year, kinda of yapper broke girl x quiet rich guy type of relationship

PART ONE｜9.7K｜MINISERIES MASTERLIST

NEW YORK CITY

(five days before Christmas)

The woman in front of you was stressed — a hint of exhaustion in her eyes that not even the cheerful Santa hat perched atop her flight attendant uniform could hide, and honestly — you couldn’t blame her.

Overhead, another flight flickered from delayed to cancelled on the departure board, and a collective groan rippled through the terminal as she read something over her monitor screen, tucking an nonexistent strand of hair behind her ears in an anxious motion that you didn’t notice you had been mirroring until she turned her gaze back at you.

“I am sorry,” she said. “If your flight was towards anywhere else, we could try rescheduling it for tomorrow, but as the storm is moving to the west, all the flights in this direction are cancelled indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely,” you echoed, the syllables hesitating slightly on your tongue, as if it was unfamiliar and you were trying to grasp its meaning, but if anything, the attendant — Kathleen, according to her name tag — nodded at you.

“I can add you to a waiting list, but with the storm moving like this, I wouldn’t count on anything for at least thirty-six hours.” Her voice softened, “Maybe more.”

You felt something crack inside of your chest then — that same fragile thing that had shattered on New Year’s Eve when you found Matthew with someone else. 

You had to go to Seattle — there was no other option in your mind. Not only because you had promised your parents you would make it back every Christmas, but because you needed to. 

There was something about the way your parents’ house brimmed at this time of the year — the air filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon, while the warm aroma of baking blended with the cozy smell of wool blankets by the fireplace. You could already see those twinkling yellow lights your mother loved hanging all over the Christmas decorations, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. 

It was comfort personified, safety made tangible. It was love you could walk into and wrap around yourself like a blanket, and recover from this disastrous year. 

The flight took less than seven hours. It was all about dispatching your luggage, passing through the scans, get your ticket checked, settle yourself into your designated seat, and wait until the moment you would have the terrible dilemma of choosing between pasta — and pasta because you had become a vegetarian on your second semester at the university and chicken was permanently off your menu — all the while you were watching some romantic comedy at the plane’s tiny television and then — you were there.

Seattle.

Home.

God — you just wanted to go home.

Kathleen was still talking — something about hotel vouchers and discounts on new plane tickets, but her words dissolved before you could clasp them. Your throat had tightened at its base and suddenly the air felt oppressively thick and humid despite the winter storm raging outside, and you were dizzy and in need to go anywhere else.

Your vision blurred as you grabbed your carry-on, your fingers tightening around the worn handle as you stumbled towards the busy exit, getting as far as the open door, the four short steps from the airport to the curb, before something in you gave.

Snow had started to fall outside, spattering at the taxis’ hoods as people kept arriving for flights they would never catch.  A steady current of unaware travelers filling the sidewalk, yet still — no one asked what happened when you slumped onto yourself. No one stared as you fought to draw air into your lungs and it was one of those grim reminders of how one’s life was small and the world was big because even when it felt like it was falling down — it was only falling down on you.

Only you.

The thought brought another wave of shock within you, and your lungs contracted once again, refusing to allow in the slightest gush of air.

“Ribbons?”

It could have been anything — anything, but a whole lifetime of hearing that ridiculous nickname from your classmates had wired your brain to respond. And so, despite your blurred vision and the panic clouding over your thoughts, you lifted your head, scanning through the shuffling mess of travelers and luggage.

And then, you saw him.

Your heart hammered inside of your chest — impossibly.

Maybe homesickness had finally broken your brain, maybe you were now conjuring ghosts from Seattle and creating hallucinations because that was where your heart was trying to crawl back to. But even if it was possible — why would your subconscious choose him — Jongseong Park, a classmate who had never quite turned into a friend — never made it to an acquaintance?

Yet — when he crouched in front of you, you felt the warmth radiating from his presence, that heat that seemed to cut through the cold panic flooding through your body. And the way his shadow fell across you was unmistakable, the same angle and shape you had known throughout all of your school years from when he reached past you in the hallways. And it was so specific and real.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

It was actually happening.

“Ribbons?” he tried again. But when you tried to respond, the words you attempted stumbled and stammered somewhere within your throat, allowing you nothing more than a gasp. His features changed almost immediately upon the sound of it — concern taking into his features, and softening the sharp angles of his face.

It took him a second, maybe less to reach out for you. One of his hands curled around yours, bringing it to his chest as the other cradled your face, drawing you toward him until your noses had bumped and your foreheads were pressed together. 

“Breath for me,” he requested, inhaling deliberately loudly so you could follow.

And you did — or at least, you tried to — matching your rhythm to his, and letting the steady rise and fall of his chest to guide you until the tightness in your lungs had begun to ease and you noticed that you had been trembling — more from emotions than cold, but Jongseong was already letting go of you — unwinding a dark scarf from around his neck and draping it over your shoulders, adjusting it gently so it covered you properly. 

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded at him, giving the greatest confirmation you could at the moment, but still — Jongseong didn’t move away. His hands brushed over your arms, falling around your hands once again, and cupping them as though he was trying to warm you.

The gesture was so casual it felt almost practiced — as if he had done it a thousand times before.

And maybe he had.

You couldn’t know — you never knew him much, despite all those years you have studied together.

“You need to drink something, and eat,” he said. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I — I didn’t-”

“Come,” he said, using your still-connected hands to draw you to your feet and with him.

And perhaps it was the year finally wearing you out to the core — perhaps it was because of the whole unreal feeling still surrounding you, but you allowed him to guide you back inside. 

❄︎

The airport hadn’t improved in your short absence — actually, it had turned worse. 

Families huddled around charging stations as more flights got cancelled, and children sprawled across luggage like makeshift beds in a cry that rang against your ears — all together with the voices from the coffee shop near the exit with its line that went through halfway down the concourse.

Jongseong guided you through, his hand still wrapped around yours.

A man strode toward you, but just as you thought about stepping aside to free the space, Jongseong was already using your connected hands to pull you in front of him, his hand migrating to the small of your back as he nodded towards a small restaurant tucked ahead. 

It seemed to have escaped the worst of the crowd and as you entered it — you could understand why.

While every other airport eatery had simple wooden chairs, this place featured cream-colored upholstered seats that matched the porcelain dishes and the serviette. Not to mention that when the waiter served you water, it came in actual wine glasses and the menu had a cover so smooth — you suspected it was velvet — genuine velvet.

Everything screamed expensive, and far beyond what you could afford.

God — you haven’t even finished paying for your plane tickets.

You straightened yourself at the chair, pulling your hands over the table as you picked at the corners of your nails.

The gesture went unnoticed by you until Jongseong reached out — his index finger giving your hand two light taps before he gestured toward one of the glasses.

“You should drink,” he said, and you obeyed, swallowing the whole thing before you placed it back onto the table. 

“Are you alright?” Jongseong asked, but you merely blinked at him — uncertain of how to respond. 

It wasn’t that you doubted Jongseong’s kindness — you knew that he was a good person — had seen him paying for his friend’s bus fares more than once so they could go home safe on rainy days. He held doors for people and was always the first one to stand whenever a teacher seemed to need help to carry books and utensils. It was just that you had never been the one to receive much from his kindness. 

Actually — back in middle school, you had this suspicion that he hated you. 

Jongseong never looked at your face — not even when you were directly speaking to him. And by the end of that school cycle, you had logged into a more friendly relationship with the school’s security guard and the cafeteria staff than you had ever had with him.

By the time you both reached high school, you believed he hated you enough to stop trying at all. 

“Ribbons?” he called, bringing you back to where you were. “Are you alright?”

The question hovered in, turning over your mind despite its simplicity. 

It had been three words — three words that you had heard a dozen of times — sometimes even in the same day, and for which you deflected with a smile and a nod, combining lies that kept conversations on surface level and safe because that was what people wanted.

But there was something about the way Jongseong asked it — his dark eyes locked on yours with a patience felt too real for the answer not to matter, and it made those automatic deflections catch in your throat. 

Your lips parted, and then closed, staying like this for a heartbeat more before they parted again. 

“I — I don’t know,” you told him, and strangely — it had been the most honest thing you had said to anyone in months and perhaps it had been this realization but you felt something crack inside of your chest — a fissure so small but still, large enough that you could feel it. 

Your nose trickled at that telltale of tears, giving you a single moment before they spilled down on your cheeks, and then, you told Jongseong about Matthew. About New Year’s Eve and the fireworks painting the apartment walls while you stood in the doorway watching your boyfriend — well, ex-boyfriend now — with the woman he had always solemnly sworn to be only a childhood friend when you arrived earlier from your annual trip to your parents’. The sound of your palm connecting with his cheek had been both satisfying and empty. And you had laughed then — laughed under those fireworks bursts because what else could you do when your life had just imploded?

You packed your things while New York was still celebrating, the air reeking of gunpowder and champagne as you wheeled your luggage across the city because the subway wasn’t running anymore.

And then, there was your new apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with its paper-thin walls that allowed you to listen to all your neighbors’ conversations late at night and its temperamental shower.

“It gives you exactly three minutes,” you said. “Three minutes before it decides its own temperature. Sometimes it’s scalding — sometimes it’s ice. And sometimes it simply goes back and forth.”

“That can’t be up to code,” he said.

“Probably not,” you agreed. But honestly — honestly, you wouldn’t have minded it. You wouldn’t have minded the commute time if there had been any cash left in your bank account, but with your student loan still on debt, it didn’t and when Mrs. Driscoll, a seventy years old lady who lived at the apartment by your side, caught you coming from your work with the promotional combo from the restaurant down the street for the third time in a row, she started leaving tupperwares on your doorstep with a note saying she had cooked too much — as if you wouldn’t notice that she had only now started to cook too much.

Yet still —  you accepted every time because you were embarrassed about yourself and what you had become. 

Whenever you scrolled through your social media lately it felt like you had missed something. Like all your past classmates had joined a lesson where life’s secret code had been deciphered to them — they knew exactly where they fit in the world, how to make their careers flourish, and how to find a long-lasting love meanwhile, you remained adrift, not even knowing how to start.

You hadn’t thought about it, but the words kept coming rushed and messed up, a single stream of phrases being pulled out of you, and by the time you finished — telling him you just wanted to go home, Jongseong had his attention so focused on you that you were suddenly thankful that he didn’t look at you at school because now you realized that when he did look at you, he gave you his whole attention.

His brows had drawn together through your spout in that way that made him look almost stern — a slight furrow between them with the expression of someone couldn’t care for anything else — as if you were the only one in his eyes’ sight and perhaps his whole world.

Your cheeks burned with the realization, the heat spreading down your neck, and making you reach up for the scarf around your shoulders, pulling it higher in an attempt to hide yourself, and realizing a moment too late that it had been a mistake because the scarf was Jongseong’s and it very much smelled like him — sandalwood and vanilla, musk and cedar — that distinctive perfume he had worn throughout all of your high school years, and left a woody smell whenever he passed through you. 

You were saved by the arrival of the waiter then — a notepad and a Sharpie already in hand, ready to take your order despite the fact that neither of you had even glanced at the content of the velvet-covered menus. But Jongseong didn’t lose a beat, ordering a plate of buttermilk pancakes for each of you, a cup of coffee, and whatever drink that had strawberries. 

The last item earned an odd look from the waiter, but it made your breath catch in the middle of an inhale, your chest tightening — not with panic this time, but with something else entirely. The restaurant seemed to tilt slightly, or perhaps it was just you — suddenly unsteady in your seat because how could he know?

“I am sorry,” Jongseong said once the waiter left. “Everything you said — it really sucks.”

It was such a simple response — almost comically inadequate for the magnitude of what you had just told him, and yet — it somehow was exactly what you needed, and the laugh that escaped you was real this time. It started deep in your chest, moving up unexpectedly, and making it impossible for you not to throw your head back, allowing the sound to come out too loud for the refined restaurant, probably drawing stares from other tables. But when you straightened yourself and looked at Jongseong once again, he was simply watching you with a small smile tucked into the corner of his lips, and it was a line of light breaking the shadows of his face. 

“So,” you started, suddenly desperate to redirect the whole thing into a safer conversational territory. “How long have you been in New York City?”

“Since university,” he said. His voice didn’t falter — didn’t fall, but for an instant, embarrassment sprinted across his face because he did tell you once, so — you were supposed to know.

And you did know — that was exactly the reason why you continued, “well, I know that — it’s just — I told you to contact me,” you said. “After the graduation ceremony — when people were signing each other’s yearbooks and my friend Emma asked you to sign hers — she was asking everyone what university they were going to and you said-”

“Columbia,” he supplied, and for a moment you were back at the school garden, Jongseong standing right in front of you as you told him to contact you because you were moving to New York as well. His eyes had met yours, and he held it — perhaps for the first time in all those years.

You had been writing so many periods that day, putting so many endings on people’s histories with you, but he felt like an ellipse then — a maybe.

But although you waited, it never came. 

Well, until now.

“I thought it was just that polite thing people say to classmates — that let’s stay in touch when they can’t even remember your first name. And I mean,” Jongseong paused, his eyes dropping to his hands for a quick moment before he looked up at you again. “I didn’t think you noticed me that much.”

“Me?” you gasped, his assumption astonishing you so completely that you nearly choked. Not only because you both had attended the same school for fourteen years, but because everyone had noticed Jongseong Park — or at least every girl. Your female classmates had been collectively infatuated with him while growing up. And you couldn’t blame them, Jongseong had that messy hair and always sat at the back of the classroom in studied nonchalance. Not to mention that he played the guitar — every Friday at lunch, creating small concerts in the school garden that had girls sighing and swooning over him.

He didn’t have messy hair anymore — actually, his hair was now impeccably styled — very tidy, very dark, and perfectly pushed back. He also wore very expensive clothes, a beautiful coat, and a watch on his wrist that probably cost more than your monthly rent — annually perhaps.

Up close like this, you could see how much five years had changed him. He looked older — you were older too, obviously, but most days you still felt like an uncertain teenager playing with high heels and those formal attires your work required. And apparently, every bartender and delivery person in New York agreed with that self-assessment as they always asked for your ID. But Jongseong looked like he had genuinely grown up — like he, as well, had successfully made the transition to real adulthood.

Your gaze dropped to your lap, pinching at the hem of your coat as embarrassment took over you once again.

“I think it was the other way around,” you finally said.

“I doubt that — it was really hard not to notice you.” The words came a little bit breathless, and he cleared his throat, looking away briefly before turning back to you, his expression more controlled, but there was still something in his eyes.

“It was the ribbons I was always wearing, wasn’t it? They were so big it was kinda difficult not to notice, I don’t blame people for nicknaming me after them,” you said, and it was Jongseong’s time to laugh. The vehemence of it made his eyes disappear into crescents of pure joy, the corners crinkling with an unguard delight. It was those types of laughs that started in people’s chest and bloomed across his face — infectious, genuine, utterly disarming and you were thankful that the waiter came back then, bringing your order and saving you once again.

❄︎

You were halfway through finishing your pancakes when somewhere over the pockets of your coat, your phone started to ring.

It was already late in the morning in New York City. But on the west coast, the sun would just be rising — precisely when your parents would be waking up, shuffling into their robes, and padding to the kitchen to turn on the television for the morning news, and then — they would see the coverage of mass flight cancellations.

“It’s my parents,” you said. “Do you mind if I—”

“No,” he said quickly. “Go ahead, please.”

You reached for the device as you stood, weaving through the restaurant toward the entrance, and stepping out.

“Darling,” your mother sighed at the other end of the line. She didn’t need to say anything more, you had felt all her worry in the single word she had uttered. “We have — we have just seen.”

“I imagined.”

“Do they have any prevision?” she asked then. “On the news they say indefinitely, but I thought that they could be mistaken.”

And there was this word again — indefinitely.

Perhaps it had just been how the official airport report had been written, and everyone else was echoing it, but you were already starting to take it personally — pulling it into your list of most hated things — right by Matthew’s side, and his childhood friend.

“No, it — it had been the exact same thing the attendant told me,” you said. “Especially because the storm is moving towards the west.”

“What about trains?” your father asked, but even the idea of it made you snort. It was Christmas, the most celebrated holiday in the United States — if not the world. To get a plane ticket had already been difficult months previously — you couldn’t imagine how impossible it would be to find a train with seats still available. “Buses?”

“Are you still at the airport?” your mother cut in.

“Yes. I ran into an old classmate at the exit and we are having something to eat.”

“From university?”

You spun around, finding Jongseong through the restaurant’s entrance. He was still sitting exactly where you had left him, his expensive coat draped on his shoulders and that perfectly styled dark hair catching the cold December light.

“No, from school — from Seattle,” you clarified. “Jongseong.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” You heard your father asking, but the way his voice had been muffled told you that the question had been to your mother instead.

“The Korean boy?” your mother replied. “The one who hated you in middle school and made you cry?”

“Well, yes,” you said. 

A few days after being in the same class, you had been distressed enough to cry on your way back home. Six years old you simply couldn’t understand why he kept ignoring you when you had done nothing aside from politely talking to him, resulting in a long spout at your mother’s car, your voice blending in with the spring rain and your mother’s favorite Queen’s song. But she didn’t get mad, if anything she stopped her car a few streets away from the school still, and gave you the advice that molded the non-existent relationship between you and Jongseong.

“Listen — I’m going to try to find another way home, ok? Maybe the trains aren’t all booked, or the buses—”

“We will be checking options from here too,” your mother promised.

“Tell us if you need any help with the money,” your father said. And it was the fine blow, when you blinked tears flowed through your eyes.

“I will,” you lied. “We should talk later, alright? Love you.”

You hung up before they could respond, dropping your head back and allowing yourself another full moment of self-depreciation, before you walked back to the restaurant.

Jongseong had already finished by the time you had reached him — his plate had become empty and his cup of coffee hadn’t a single sip to be nursed on. He had even taken his wallet and phone out from whichever pocket he had been keeping them, and it somehow felt like a dismissal.

You didn’t sit again, remaining up as you took the handle of your carry-on, wheeling it slightly closer to you.

He stood up too, taking the few items he had left on the table before he reached for his own carry-on.

“I already paid,” he said.

“Oh,” you said. “Thank you.”

Jongseong glanced toward the chaotic terminal, and it felt like the genuine end of everything — that one moment where you both would finally put that period on your history with no real prospect of ever seeing each other again. And the thought made something within you ache with unexpected sharpness because once he did leave, the world would shudder back into its quiet shape.

You had grown accustomed to the loneliness over these past months, but having him here — even if just for a few had been too nice.

“Do you drive?” he asked abruptly.

You blinked at him, uncertain if he was asking whether you had driven to the airport or-

“Do you have a driver’s license?” he clarified.

“Yes, I do.” You had gotten your license during your first year at university — and even recently applied for a renewal although in practice, you rarely have sat behind a wheel. Living in New York meant public transportation. It was awful, yes — but it did get you anywhere you needed to go.

“It takes around forty hours to drive to Seattle,” he said. “I left my car at my apartment. We can take a taxi there to get it — if we take turns driving, even with small breaks  we can arrive in Seattle by the twenty-first.”

“You—” you started, although you were not sure of what the rest of the sentence was supposed to be. But Jongseong wasn’t waiting for your response — he was already walking toward the airport exit, raising his hand to signal a taxi as if he was afraid that if he hesitated, even for a second, he might lose his nerve.

The taxi pulled to the curb almost immediately, the driver hopping out to open the trunk.

You watched as Jongseong handed his carry-on to the driver and helped adjust it in the trunk before he looked back, a question forming on the furrow of his brows.

You knew, in the back of your mind, that this was a careless idea. You hadn’t seen Jongseong for more than five years, and he could be a whole new person now. But when you looked at him, you didn’t see a risk. Even with the expensive clothes, and slicked back hair, there was an echo of the Jongseong you knew then, the same boy who had always held doors open, and paid bus fares for friends — and although he never talked to you, he never had been unkind neither, and it didn’t matter that you never had been the one to receive much of his kindness and words back then, because now you were — you were, and he was willing to drive across the country with you and so, you were moving too, giving the few steps within and handing over your own carry-on — letting him arrange it beside his before you slid into the back seat and held your breath, expecting to feel some rope draw tight inside you, binding you to change your mind, but there was no tether or lurch — only heart racing with a mixture of disbelief, hope, and something else you couldn’t quite name — something warm and so cautiously optimistic, you were almost afraid to examine too closely in case it could disappear.

“Where to?” the driver asked once you were all settled inside.

“Columbia Heights,” he replied. “Brooklyn.”

❄︎

Jongseong’s apartment occupied the entire top floor of a charming brownstone on a tree-lined street. A classic Brooklyn architecture with ornate cornices and a stoop so beautiful — you caught yourself wishing to visit once the winter had passed.

You followed him up the staircase, the noise of your carry-ons occasionally hitting a step making you extremely aware of the place’s quietness. There were no screaming neighbors like Hell’s Kitchen, no music streaming from wireless speakers, and no smells of questionable origin — when you both stopped at his door, it was just a thick carpet and crown molding with the hush that comes with real sound insulation. 

Jongseong unlocked the door, pushing it open, but instead of stepping inside, he gestured for you to enter first, and it was suddenly intimate in a way the airport and the taxi hadn’t been. 

You hesitated over the threshold, having to receive a nod of confirmation from Jongseong before finally you stepped inside, and gasped. 

The apartment was beautiful. The late morning sun streamed through enormous windows — full-length, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned one entire wall into a panorama of Brooklyn below, and the hardwood floors were so polished they almost gleamed, catching the light and throwing it back in warm amber tones. The ceiling was high — at least ten feet, maybe more — with exposed wooden beams that added character without feeling rustic. 

And yet — it was empty, not in furniture, but feeling. From the black leather couch to the sleek glass coffee table and the pristine white rug — everything appeared carefully curated as if staged for a real estate showing rather than living in. You wouldn’t blame him for not having decorated for Christmas, considering that you hadn’t too and both of you were going to be away during the season, but the walls held no photographs and no books lay scattered on surfaces, their spines cracked in the way you often saw in the library from the amount of times they had been read. Not even a single mail sat piled on the kitchen counter waiting to be sorted.

The only sign of Jongseong was a collection of guitars clustered at the far end of the room — one of them being the acoustic guitar he had always brought to school on Fridays — its familiar grain and small scratch near the sound hole simply unmistakable because well — you had seen it when it happened.

You turned around, about to comment on the remaining existence of this guitar, but you lost your train of thought as you caught the Brooklyn Public Library building over the window — its white facade unmistakable even from blocks away, not only because of the magnitude of the place, but because you worked there.

Back at the airport, it hadn’t felt particularly absurd that you had never encountered each other despite the fact that you both had been living in the same city for five years. New York was enormous — the most densely populated city in the entire country, according to that one article you had read once you decided to move there — with millions of people living parallel lives that never once intersected

But standing here now, staring at your working building from his apartment — it felt different.

How many times had you almost passed each other on these streets? How many near-misses had there been, moments when your paths had almost — almost crossed but didn’t?

Did he know about the bakery at Clark’s Street? Had he been there?

You found Jongseong walking to where you had stopped, your gazes encountering and for the first time, he wasn’t the one to look away, but you — spilling back so you were facing his windows once again.

“Do you see the white building over there?” you asked. “Right in the street corner?”

Jongseong’s eyebrows furrowed at your sudden question, his confusion setting heavy on his features despite the lightness with which he nodded at you. “It’s Brooklyn’s Public Library, right?”

“I work there.”

“There?”

“Yes, forty-hours a week to be more exact,” you said. “Checking rooms’ temperature, separating books that have been reserved, and organizing books that have been returned into their alphabetical place in their very specific shelves, pulling up banners and organizing chairs when there are events.”

“Boring, I know — but there are days when I have to spend an hour on the phone with one old man because he wants me to look up a love poem and spell every single word of it for him.”

“Should I ask the reason why?”

“Even if you did, I couldn’t come answer,” you said. “I don’t know why he does this — I never asked, but I guess he is too old to go there by himself, and even older to understand how Google works, and so I just — spell every single word of a love poem to him,”

“You should go there someday and see — the events, of course, not me spelling Dover Beach.”

Jongseong snorted then, a smile curling at the corner of his lips as he shook his head slightly.

“I might,” he said. “To see the events, I mean — I don’t need to go to the public library to understand why you would spend an hour spelling out poems to a stranger.”

But before you could ask what he meant by that — he had already moved  away, walking toward a door on the left side of the living room and reached for its knob.

“I will get the keys,” he informed over his shoulders. “Make yourself at home — I would offer something, but I cleaned the fridge because of the trip-”

“It’s alright,” you replied. “Thank you.”

He disappeared inside, but you remained still, not quite brave enough to move to the unused couch, or the pristine rug until Jongseong appeared again, his hand raised with the car keys.

“So, forty hours,” he said. “How far have you driven?”

“Two hours,” you replied — perhaps less, because your ex-roommate had insisted on stopping at a gas station in the middle of it. “You?”

“Three,” he replied, immediately stealing a laugh from you.

This was either a fun adventure or the most absurd thing you had ever done.

But that was it — you were going home for Christmas.

❄︎

When Jongseong mentioned his car, you hadn’t given it much thought beyond a vague mental portrait — something sleek and black, perhaps, something that would suit the quiet intensity Jongseong carried with him. But the actual brands, and models — this had completely slipped from your mind. And now, standing in the underground parking garage with the soft echo of your footsteps fading into silence, you realized that you probably should have asked more questions before agreeing to drive it.

Jongseong’s car wasn’t just any car.

It was a BMW — and not one of the modest, practical models you occasionally saw through New York’s streets. No— this was the kind of BMW that belonged in glossy magazine spreads and luxury showrooms, all smooth curves and aggressive lines that whispered of its engineering precision and a price tag you didn’t want to contemplate. Not to mention the interior. When you glanced over the tinted windows it had leather seats, a dashboard bristling with so many buttons and screens it resembled something out of a cockpit rather than a vehicle meant for ordinary roads and it was manual.

Your stomach dropped.

“Jongseong,” you called out, your voice carrying an edge of panic you couldn’t quite suppress. “This is a manual.”

“Yes,” he answered simply, his head appearing over the raised trunk lid as he glanced toward you. “It is.”

“I can’t — I mean, I can drive manual. I learned on one, but that was years ago, and I was never particularly good at it even then, and this car — this car looks like—"

This car looks like it costs more than everything you could earn in your whole life and one mistake could destroy you.

“It’s fine,” Jongseong said. “I can drive while we’re in the city, and you can practice once we reach the open roads.”

“But what if I stall it?” you asked. “Or grind the gears? What if I—”

“Then you stall it — and you grind the gears. It happens.”

“It’s just a car,” he continued. “If you’re anxious about it, I can take most of the driving.”

There was something that should be said at that moment, you could feel it trickling through the corners of your mind, but before you could find what exactly it was, Jongseong took a step closer, ending some of the distance between you.

“We will figure it out,” he said suddenly — almost unwittingly, but the words ached within you so wonderfully that you felt something warm blooming very deep inside of you even before he had reached for the passenger door, opening it and waiting for you to fold yourself into the seat to close it with a soft slam.

The BMW felt less imposing when you were inside and somehow smaller — cluttered with him and his everyday things, and the density of it overwhelmed you. A mini guitar hung in the rearview mirror and a notebook was thrown at the carpet at your feet, opened to reveal his meticulous handwriting, always in black tint pens and telling you something you couldn’t comprehend about rent installments or whatever real estate agents felt the necessity to write down.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding, and when you breathed in again, it too, was filled with him and his woody perfume — but it could be because he had just gotten inside.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not really,” you admitted. “But let’s go.”

❄︎

The drive out of New York City was slow at first — traffic clogging the streets as other holiday travelers made their escape. And you both used the opportunity to call your families and explain the sudden change of plans. But once you had hit the interstate, the urban sprawl gradually gave way to the rolling hills of Pennsylvania, and something in your chest began to loosen.

It all felt a little surreal, like some type of fever dream. Snow dusted the evergreens along I-80, creating a winter wonderland that stretched as far as the eye could see. And suddenly, New York, the busy airport and your cancelled flight seemed like part of another world because you were sitting in the front seat of Jongseong Park’s car, and he was driving you back home. Home.

And how strange it could be.

It wasn’t like Jongseong was a stranger. He wasn’t — not really. It was difficult to be a stranger when you had grown up in the same neighborhood and shared the same classes from kindergarten to high school. You had grown up with Jongseong — not by his side, exactly, but there. Whenever you thought of the past, it wasn’t hard to find him somewhere in the margins of your memories. And perhaps that was why now — sitting beside him as the miles stretched out before you, you found it surprisingly easy to be there.

Too easy, actually.

It had been over an hour, perhaps two, into Pennsylvania when you turned to look at him properly, your cheek pressed against the fabric of the seat as your gaze settled over him, cataloguing the changes that time had wrought.

His face was all clean lines in the December sun. The sharp angle of his jaw. The dark brush of his brows-

You cleared your throat when he caught you staring, heat rising to your cheeks as you quickly turned back at the window. But you could swear his eyes lingered on you for just a second longer, before the road demanded his attention back.

“So, do you always go home for Christmas?” you asked.

“I — yes, I try to.” he said. “How about you?”

“Always,” you admitted. “It's a thing I promised my parents when I moved to New York.”

“Christmas is that time of the year for your family?”

“Well,” you began. “What would you classify a family who has two Christmas trees in their living room?”

“Only in their living room?” he asked, turning his head towards you for a millisecond before he moved his attention back to the road. “What about the whole house — how many trees are there in total?”

“Four.”

“Four?” he echoed. It had been an affirmation, but the way his voice rose at the end with surprise, subtly turned the period into a question mark and it made you laugh. “Totally Christmas haters — a family full of Grinchs.”

“Has your family always been like this?” he asked.

“Big Christmas haters?”

“Yeah.”

“My father’s family had never commemorated Christmas, but my mother’s family is big Christmas fans, and so he just got converted — who converted his mother, and then, his siblings,” you said. “On Christmas, at least four generations of both sides of our family reunite at our house, and it’s a mess. The kids always spare all the type of game boards through the room, and the refrigerator door hung open and expectant for minutes at a time, making my grandma yell all night long or well — until she is a few cup of wines in, and I am not talking about those wines that come in glass bottles, but those extremely cheap ones that come in gallons and FDA should check on it, then she is turning on some jazz and making everyone dance, and God — the food! Everyone brings so much food that we eat the same things until the middle of January — as well as the desserts,”

“It’s just-”

“Nice,” he completed. “It seems really nice.”

“But how about you?” you asked.

“What?”

“No Christmas traditions?”

“No, I — I just go home,” he said, sliding his hands through the wheel until it rested at six o’clock, fingers tapping out the rhythm of some tinny Christmas song coming from the radio.

It took you a moment to realize he had ended the conversation — and although it made you feel a little bit sad because he was making it so easy for you to open up, and you wished you could do the same for him, you let him be, turning your focus to the window once again, and watching Pennsylvania’s rolling hills gradually flattening as you crossed into the state of Ohio, the sky slowly turning purple and navy from the upcoming dusk, and when it finally settled, Jongseong made the first stop.

The diner sat off the highway like something plucked straight from a 1950s postcard — all chrome and red vinyl, with large windows that glowed warmly against the winter darkness with a vintage Coca-Cola sign hung near the entrance, and strings of colorful Christmas lights had been wrapped around the building’s trim, giving it a festive glow.

And the inside — God, the inside was exactly what you had expected by the outside.

A long counter had been built at the far wall as red leather booths lined the windows, giving it just enough space for a jukebox to sit in the corner — currently playing Blue Christmas at a volume just an inch too loud, but you imagined it was because the diner was empty aside from the waitress — a gray haired woman who immediately smiled as you both stepped in.

And despite the stretched silence within the last miles, you found it easy to slide into a booth across from Jongseong, passing the same laminated menu, your fingers brushing, until he had settled for The Famous Meatloaf and a can of coke, while you decided on The Turkey Club — without the turkey, and a strawberry milkshake.

Dotty gave you an odd smile, but noted it anyway, stepping away to pass it to the kitchen.

“Do you have something against turkeys?” Jongseong asked.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you explained. “Back in my first year at the university, I shared a dorm with a biology student — she was a vegan herself, kind of became an activist, but anyway — she showed me a few things that made me feel bad about eating meat.”

“Has it been hard?”

“Not really,” you admitted. “I’m more of an ovo lacto vegetarian, so I still eat eggs and drink milk which makes it way easier and even a bit silly-”

“No. It’s nice,” he said. “Really nice.”

You hesitated then, studying his face for any sign of mockery or dismissal because usually, people were trying to convince you otherwise, listing all the reasons your choice was inconvenient or unnecessary.

Matthew more than once had stated how the butchery industry would keep going you being part of it or not, but Jongseong seemed to mean it — truly mean it, and it made something loose in your shoulders, the tension you hadn’t realized you had been carrying releasing all at once, and when you smiled at him, warmth bloomed across your cheeks.

“You are making me feel bad about my order,” he said. “Maybe I should catch Dotty and change-”

“Don’t,” you laughed.

At the other side of the window, snow had started to fall, accumulating on the park lot in soft, thick layers. A semi-truck pulled into the lot, its driver trudging inside with tired eyes and snow-dusted shoulders just as the jukebox had switched to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

“This place could easily be part of a movie set,” you said.

“The kind of place we would never find in New York.”

“Who knows?” you asked. “It’s an odd city.”

Another woman, this one wearing a Santa hat, brought you the food, the plates clicking in the same filling sound it remained through the whole dinner, and when you both were finished and Jongseong called for the bill, he refused to allow you to pay, and Dotty — a great woman from the sixties, she told — seemed to appreciate his chivalry and refused to accept your credit card too, ending the discussion with a fast swipe of Jongseong’s card and dismissing you both with a Merry Christmas.

The cold hit you the moment you stepped outside in a sharpness that immediately stole the warmth from the diner in seconds. You pulled your coat tighter as Jongseong led the way back to the BMW, his breath forming small clouds in the freezing air.

Inside the car, he started the engine and cranked up the heat, both of you sitting in silence as you waited for the windshield to defrost. The snow was still falling — harder now, the flakes blubber and heavy, swirling in the glow of the diner’s Christmas lights.

“It’s really coming down,” you observed.

“We will be fine,” Jongseong said, though his eyes lingered on the windshield a moment longer than necessary. “We just need to take it slow.”

And he did take it slow — at first. The BMW pulled back onto the highway, its headlights cutting through the darkness and the snow, illuminating the white lines of the road that were already beginning to blur beneath the accumulation, yet still — manageable.

But then it got worse.

The snow intensified, going from steady to relentless. The world beyond the windshield became a churning wall of white. The flakes were so thick and fast they seemed to come at you in waves. The windshield wipers, even on their highest setting, could barely keep up — barely cleaning the patch before it had been covered again.

The few other cars you have been encountering at the roads had disappeared — either pulled off to wait out the storm or simply nowhere near this stretch of highway — it was just you, Jongseong, and the endless white.

“Maybe we should find a place, and wait a bit,” you said

“I know,” he said. “I’m looking.”

But there was nowhere safe. The highway stretched on, featureless and white, no exit signs, no rest stops, nothing but the snow and the darkness pressing in from all sides. Jongseong slowed the car even more, nearly crawling now, until finally — he spotted what looked like a small pull-off area, barely visible through the storm.

He eased the BMW off the road, the tires crunching over the snow-covered gravel and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the wind howling outside and the rhythmic thump of snow hitting the windshield. Jongseong reached for the mini guitar hanging at the rearview mirror, giving it a small tap.

“Do you still play?” you asked. “Guitar — do you still play guitar?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

“I always thought you would follow the music path, you know? — You were always wearing those rock band t-shirts.”

“I felt like it wasn’t a very established path.”

“I guess that was my mistake,” you said softly, more to yourself than to him.

“What do you mean?” Jongseong asked, shifting to face you, his cheek pressed against his seat.

“I just — I don’t know. I feel like I did something wrong between high school and now. Like I took a wrong turn somewhere,” you said. “I like the library, but I feel like I’m going nowhere. It barely pays my rent and I—”

You halted then, heat flushing your face. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. You must be tired of my rants already.”

“You are not,” he said firmly. “Do you know who always talked too much?”

You looked at him, thrown by the sudden change in direction.

“Megan-”

“Cunningham!” you completed. “Oh my God, sometimes I still have nightmares about her.”

“I can still hear her saying but teacher-” he said, perfectly imitating her whiny, persistent tone and immediately stealing a laugh from you — a real laugh, the sound filling the small space of the car and driving away some of the heaviness.

“Sometimes I wish I had chosen music,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t mind my job. I mean, some days I actually do like it. But I never feel like I’m doing something — I don’t know. Selling overpriced penthouses to rich people who don’t even appreciate them is extremely easy. Too easy.”

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “About whatever you feel like, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Jongseong echoed, smiling at you in the darkness like this was something you had done a hundred times before, like you had been friends your whole life instead of acquaintances who had barely spoken in years, and in the rush of your thoughts you allowed the question to spill.

“Why did you dislike me?” you asked. “Back in school?”

“I never disliked you.”

“Oh, come on,” you began. “Even my mother remembered you as the guy who hated me. I always tried to talk to you but you would stare at your shoes or anywhere but my face — even when I was doing a presentation in front of the class, you would be looking anywhere but me.”

“I didn’t dislike you,” he confirmed, “I was just afraid.”

“Of me?”

“No — it’s just,” he began, but didn’t continue, and he was quiet for a moment so long after that you thought he might not answer at all — ending the conversation just like he had done earlier in the afternoon. But his lips parted then, shaping on the words that would come slowly, almost measured. “I was afraid of embarrassing myself. My family only spoke Korean at home, so I couldn’t speak English properly when we started kindergarten. And everyone kind of left me on the sidelines, avoided me because I couldn’t communicate.”

His voice lowered.

“Except for you,” he said. “You always tried to break through the language barrier, and I was terrified I would say something wrong — turns out it didn’t work either because you did stop talking to me.”

The confession hung in the air between you, rewriting years of assumptions in a single breath, and your eyes burned with the sudden sting of unshed tears as memories flickered through your mind — every time he had looked away, every awkward silence you had interpreted as dislike. All of it had not been in the way you had thought.

“Jongseong,” you whispered, reaching out to him and placing your hand gently on top of his. “I spent years thinking you couldn’t stand me. I thought — God, I cried in my mother’s car once because I thought I had done something wrong, that I was too much, too loud, too—”

Your voice faltered then, and you had to stop. He turned to look at you fully.

“You weren’t.” he said. “You weren’t.”

Your hand was still on his, and it hadn’t dawned on you how intimate the gesture was until you felt Jongseong moving beneath your touch, but before you could pull away he had already turned his palm into yours, squeezing you lightly.

“We could have been good friends,” you said softly, though the words felt inadequate for the strange ache blooming in your chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “We could have been.”

Jongseong turned at the windshield once again, his mouth hitching up in a small grin, that one grin that pulled his bottom lip just a bit lower on the left.

“You know,” you started, retreating. “Maybe we should plan this better tomorrow. Make a few proper stops along the way — driving straight through seemed like a good idea back then, but I don’t know.”

Jongseong flipped his wrist around to examine his watch despite the fact that his dashboard was perfectly working and showing that it was not much past seven. The night had barely begun, but it was winter, and snowing and everything felt too still for such an early hour.

“It’s not going to end soon, is it?” he asked, but before you could confirm he was already stepping on the brake pedal and pushing the handbrake.

“You should lower your seat,” Jongseong said, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the heater. “Rest a bit. It’ll be more comfortable.”

You nodded, your hand fumbling along the seat — at the front first, and then to the sides, searching for the familiar lever. But his car — God, his car seemed to have been designed from scratch.

“I can’t find-”

“Wait,” he said, and before you could even react, the soft click of his seatbelt unbuckling broke in the space within you.

You turned your head just in time to see him shift in his seat, leaning across the center console and toward you.

Your seatbelt loosened as he pressed the button, the fabric sliding away before he moved even closer — closer than he had been all night, and the very nearness of him had almost been unbearable.

Your heart hammered somewhere inside of your chest. And the other side of the heartbeat, he was still there.

“Here,” he murmured, his fingers finding the lever on the side of your seat, and pulling it.

Your seat reclined slowly, and you sank back into it, suddenly hyperaware of everything — his arm was hovering near your shoulder, the warmth radiating from him despite the cold outside, the faint scent of his perfume.

It wasn’t overpowering, just — there. Clean and woody with a hint of something warmer — something that reminded you of winter evenings and crackling fireplaces.

Jongseong pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light, and for a moment neither of you moved. His face was so close you could see the effect the melting snowflakes had on his hair, leaving it slightly humid and sticky, and he had a freckle between his brows — so faint that you had never noticed before although you had the birthmark on his neck well memorized.

“Jongseong,” you called, not because you needed to tell him something, but because you were suddenly afraid he could hear the pounding of your heart underneath the silence of the night if you remained quiet.

He swallowed then, his gaze flickering down to your lips for just a fraction of a second before he pulled back, clearing his throat as he settled into his own seat, adjusting it to recline as well.

“Try to rest,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. “Even if the snow stops, it will take us a while to find a proper hotel.”

“Yes — of course,” you whispered, settling the car on another stretch of silence despite your desire to say something more, to fill the space between you with words that might relieve the strange feeling blooming in your chest, but exhaustion was already pulling at you, heavy and insistent. And so, instead, you let your eyes drift closed, allowing yourself to sink into the warmth of his car, as a small thank you slipped from your lips, although you weren’t sure for what you had been thanking him — perhaps for reclining your seat and listening to you, or perhaps simply everything.

Jongseong turned to you, gazing straight at you for almost a little too long — a little too soft — because you weren’t looking before he moved back at the windshield, his mouth parting into a smile.

“Of course, Ribbons,” he replied, but you had already fallen asleep, losing the way he had said your nickname like he had been carrying it carefully underneath his tongue all these years — waiting for a chance to say it.

Because well — he had.

hello, my loves! thank you so much for reading until here. i feel like this chapter was long for no reason at all, so! i genuinely hope i didn’t bore people down cause we have a long run ahead of us lmao but anyway! see you on the next part!

(♡) special thanks to my girlies: @miszes, @wonlysm, @dulcetnostalgia, and — with honorable mention, @choiwrld, my favorite new yorker! hands down cause the way she helped me through this chapter was insane!!! she gave me so much content and i am so sorry that i couldn’t put it in this chapter due to the plotline, but maybe in the near future? :)

don’t forget that my taglist is always open! just drop a comment, an ask, a message, some smoke signal, or a letter lmao whatever you feel comfortable with, and also that i love hearing some opinions (aka feedback)!!!

[liloaeu]

AUTASSASSINOPHILIA ✦ p.sh

🖇️ #4 of the kinktober 2025 series

pairing: killer!sunghoon x male!reader you were just scrolling through tiktok, when a screeching sound vibrated through the air, and there he stood covered with knives, a crazed grin plastered on his face. but what he didn’t know was that you were the real predator.

warnings: drabble, mdni, smut, uses of bdsm, ropes, chains, cuffs, handjobs (2), subby sunghoon, soft dom reader, overstimulation, edging, teasing, dacryphilia (a bit), whines, finished sex, mentions of past kills, zero gore this time, aftercare.

heavy thuds echoed through the room as the mysterious figure stalked towards you, head bowed down, his hoodie fully covering his identity. loud screeching sounds followed after him, a large, long spear dragging behind him. you could feel his gaze, hot and burning as he stands right in front of you, staring down at you.

--

he thought he had the upper hand in that situation, he really did.

he blurted out all his past kills, how he was a professional and that he would not hesitate to kill you too.

too bad your attention span for bullshit was too short!

but you had him pinned down on the couch soon after, spears and knives discarded on the floor, catching the reflection of the moon. just sitting there like pretty, totally harmless accessories.

your breaths tangled with each other, the silent stretching in the empty room. suddenly the air feels too stuffy, the clothes too tight, the temperature too hot even when it's nearing winter.

one by one, his clothes were ripped away and thrown hastily beside the weapons.

you started to run your fingers up and down his pretty length, all pink and perked up for you, and only you. his revealed face was red with embarassment.

oh how the tables has changed.

whenever his hips lifted up or weakly thrusted into your fingers, you would rip your hands away from his shaft, watching how it jumped and leaked precum out when you scolded and degraded him even more. :c

finally he couldn't take it anymore and gave in! soft, high pitched whimpers that he didn't even know he had in him spilled out in huge waves. you merely brushed away his hair from his forehead, mockingly smiling, whispering, "my baby needs to cum? mhm, he needs to cum so bad?"

he would choke out words of mercy, hoping that you would finish him properly. but no, that wasn't your plan. of course, you jerked him off, pace relentless and fast, twisting your hands at the tip before tightening when pumping down. when his muscles start to tense?

you stopped.

he would cry, big tears rolling down his face. :cc

you cooed at him, running your thumb through his wet slit to gather his precum as lube before snaking your fingers towards his hole as he thrashed and tossed in your strong muscular grip. even though he had muscles, you were way stronger than him, easily pushing his head into the pillow to muffle his complains.

once his hole was gaping and desperate for something to fill it, you pulled your own cock from your boxers and ran the tip in sunghoon's (you learnt his name) precum.

since you were feeling rather nice, you talked him through it. "okay now, biiiiiiigggg stretch baby, stay with me, yeah?" you stroked your length once more, before pushing in slowly. sunghoon was too overstimulated to even say anything at this point.

his face contorted into pain, then discomfort, finally to pleasure. his eyebrows pinched together, eyes rolled all the way to the back of his head, his pretty plump lips redden from all the biting!

you thrusted faster, hips snapping into his, cock constantly rubbing against his prostate. at this point, you're just abusing it. sunghoon on the other hand, was seeing stars, spit dripping out of his mouth.

after you spilled your seed deep deep deep into his tight hole and he spilled his on your hand that was wrapped gently around his length, you walked over to the weapons to grab ropes, cuffs, leashes and collars. the metallic chains clinked against each other, the sharp sound tiggering his cock. it jumped with every sound made! poor sunghoon..

you tied his hands, cuffed them together and to the sofa leg, then started working on the collar and leash, securing it around his neck. but you made sure it was not too tight for him. then you went back to teasing him, tip of your fingers lightly grazing his tip until he screamed out of frustration and exhaustion. when his body slumped against the pillows in defeat? you pulled him up gently, making him look you in the eyes as you stroke his cock wayy too slowly.

in the end, you did let him have his way, hips frantically thrusting and slamming up into your hands until his white liquids spurted out uncontrollably.

only then did you let him off, slapping his cheeks harshly before untying him and letting him wash up.

but sunghoon couldn't even stand straight without your help, oh his knees would buckle whenever he took a step towards the bathroom.

you gave in and happily helped him to clean up, notcing how his thighs still trembled from the session. you got warm towels to wipe him down before slotting him into some of your boxers and hoodies, but the boxer fell off in the end.. so he just plopped onto your bed naked under!

sunghoon gradually warmed up to the environment, wrapping his small arms around you like a lost kitten, before drifting off to sleep. :o

well, that was unexpected, wasn't it?

--

ryl's rants : lowkey lazy to do sunoo and jungwon in less than two hours now.. maybe a short drabble.. hmm..

kinktober 2025 taglist (closed) ➝ @kikidoul, @vampelic, @openhrts, @chaericitos, @sunhrtss, @lvwonvs, @swiftjay23, @ziyulegalwifey, @kitkateh, @brokenengene, @iclimbjungwon, @staarflowerr, @jun2ki, @chaewonmyheartt, @gett-fukedd, @psyches-reid, @nishimurarizzler, @dr-wholehearted

[swiftjay23]

MY BABY'S FUCKING TALENTED YALL

[swiftjay23]

—⟬⟭—𝓜ᴀɪɴ 𝓝ᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ 𝓟ᴏꜱᴛ—⟬⟭—

—Most of my works contain NSFW elements; proceed with caution; kindly do not read if uncomfortable; fics are clearly labelled with warnings

@swiftjay23©

«𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒖𝒂𝒍»

—𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

—𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

—𝐉𝐚𝐲

—𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞

—𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

—𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

—𝐍𝐢-𝐤𝐢

—𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 (𝐎𝐓7)

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[swiftjay23]

Hii 👋 love your work 🥹🥹 may you please do one where niki receives head for the first time 🙈

Ni-ki’s back was pressed against the headboard, chest rising and falling faster than usual. His usual composed, predatory aura was cracked, barely held together, as he stared down at you, watching your hands tremble slightly as you leaned closer to him.

“Are… are you sure?” he asked, voice low but tense, a flush creeping over his cheeks. He’d never let anyone see him like this, vulnerable, anticipating, not in control. Not until now.

You nodded, biting your lip, trying not to shiver as you shifted forward. “I… I want to,” you whispered. “I wanna make you feel good.”

That little confirmation, soft and trembling, made something dark and feral flicker in Ni-ki’s gaze. He swallowed hard, trembling slightly as he spread his legs just enough for you. “H-hurry then,” he urged, voice rough, almost desperate. “I… I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

You swallowed, heat pooling low in your stomach as your hands gripped him at the base. Carefully, you brushed your lips along the tip, letting your tongue drag softly over the sensitive head, teasing him. He gasped sharply, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and you smiled against him, hearing the slight hitch in his breath.

“You like that?” you asked, breath warm on his skin.

“Y-yes…” Ni-ki’s voice was strained, barely under control. “God, yes…”

Encouraged, you took a deeper breath and slowly enveloped him, sliding your mouth over the tip of his cock with deliberate care. His hips twitched reflexively at the new sensation, hands tightening in the sheets, trying to keep steady.

Ni-ki’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown. “Oh, fuck… oh shit, that feels…” His words broke off into short moans, the grip on the sheets tightening. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“Shh,” you cooed softly, tongue dragging over the sensitive underside as your hands stroked the base. “Just… let me.”

His back arched slightly, and you could feel how hard he was already, how desperate. Ni-ki wasn’t used to being on the receiving end like this, he was usually the predator, the one in control. But your lips, your hands, the warm wet heat of your mouth… it had him trembling in ways he didn’t know he could.

“Fuck… you’re… you’re… damn,” he groaned, jaw tightening as you deepened your mouth, careful at first, then a little faster, letting him push in gently. Each movement made him gasp, eyes squeezing shut, hips jerking slightly, and his voice grew hoarse.

“Like that?” you whispered, pulling back for just a moment to see his reaction.

Ni-ki nodded, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Y-yeah… just like that… please…” He was gasping, panting, voice rough and a little high-pitched as he tried to gather his composure.

You took that as encouragement, letting your hands and mouth work together, sloppy and wet, more confident now. Your tongue traced up and down, swirling around the tip, licking into every sensitive crease, and your hands stroked in sync, learning his reactions.

Ni-ki let out a shaky laugh, almost incredulous. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t think… this would, this would feel…” He groaned, tugging slightly at your hair, but not roughly, just enough to guide your rhythm. “So… good… god…”

He hissed as you bobbed your head, the wet, messy sounds filling the room, and he finally let himself fall back against the headboard, surrendering to the sensation. His hands clutched at the sheets, hips rocking into your mouth unconsciously.

“Ni-ki…” you murmured, lips and tongue working faster now, feeling how sensitive he was, how desperate, how much he needed this. “You feel so good… just like this…”

“Oh—fuck… don’t stop… please, don’t stop…” His voice was strained, desperate, laced with a hint of awe. “I… I didn’t… didn’t think anyone… could… like this…”

You teased him even more, swirling your tongue at the tip, letting your lips tighten around him, sucking just enough to make him shiver violently. Ni-ki let out a strangled groan, gripping the sheets as his back arched, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You… you’re amazing,” he gasped, voice breaking slightly. “God… I’ve… never… felt—like this…”

His hips jerked suddenly, and you felt him twitch in your mouth. You held him carefully, letting him ride out his first intense orgasm, sucking and licking him through every shudder, every gasped word, every shaky exhale. Ni-ki’s chest heaved, flushed, and he let his head fall back, utterly undone by your mouth, entirely at your mercy.

When he finally shivered to stillness, you pulled back gently, lips glistening, breath uneven. He looked down at you, eyes dark, pupils dilated, and for a moment, all the composure he usually carried melted away.

“God…” he whispered, voice hoarse, chest rising and falling rapidly. “That… that was… insane… you… you’re insane…”

You smiled, cheeks flushed, brushing a strand of hair from his damp forehead. “First time,” you murmured.

Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, incredulous smile. “Yeah… first time… but… I don’t know if I can ever…” He shivered again, leaning down slightly to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I… I don’t think I’ll ever forget this…”

(Masterlist)

⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands, ⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie,  ⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk  ⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful,  ⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish, ⟡ @enbplvr, ⟡ @6abriellaa, ⟡ @fateismoonstruck, ⟡ @artemesiareads, ⟡ @d0einheadlights, ⟡ @miuuuw,  ⟡ @butwhyareyoureyessosad, ⟡ @rainofcrime, ⟡ @darkblueblueberr, ⟡ @zone444girls, ⟡ @bombombakudanmeow, ⟡ @en-cityy,  ⟡ @koya2000, ⟡ @tttbearblog, ⟡ @yb763, ⟡ @freakseung2001  ⟡ @nics-fxy, ⟡ @irers, ⟡ @seungsoftly, ⟡ @iyaiyaohhh, ⟡ @xnatqq, ⟡ @strawberrykkk1

✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧

⟡ @rosepetals09, ⟡ @cherry-blossomfrag, ⟡ @mari-marimar,  ⟡ @paradieseoul, ⟡ @microwavedstrawberries3,  ⟡ @thatonerandomblondechick, ⟡ @heebambilee,  ⟡ @simjaeyunsdoll, ⟡ @sinceresilverstrawberry,  ⟡ @heeseungslefttoee, ⟡ @shayinthesims, ⟡ @larichard,  ⟡ @noinspirationkisstoday, ⟡ @frenziedseerdesolation,  ⟡ @wtfisgoingright, ⟡ @heekijakey, ⟡ @luvwonsito,  ⟡ @cheetosthabratt, ⟡ @en-ner-jay, ⟡ @shouldergangsterrj,  ⟡ @brennanmeijalover00,⟡ @wondash, ⟡ @kimuranishi,  ⟡ @thep3rfectgirl25, ⟡ @doraemon02, ⟡ @rotttenhalo,  ⟡ @oldeubois-blog, ⟡ @putrescentpoet, ⟡ @jinnibug, ⟡ @vayuzzz,  ⟡ @kimmyaaaa, ⟡ @ppcarolina9, ⟡ @giagotthezoomies, ⟡ @slut4heespam, ⟡ @lovestruck-sky ⟡ @roze-latte-zz, ⟡ @sociallyawkward18 ⟡ @lyserie @enstarzzi

[swiftjay23]

Absolutely insane, FILTHY, epic rough sex w jungwon pls🙏🙏🙏 can you throw in some choking and heavy risk of getting caught in there as well🫡🫡

Yang Jungwon. 18+. MDNI. Brother's best friend. Heeseung cameo. P in V. Unprotected Sex (DON'T!). Penetration. Choking. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Semi Public Play. Doggy Style. Risk of getting caught. Orgasm.

Jungwon barely makes it two steps into your house before he’s already looking for you, jaw tight, eyes sharp, shoulders tense in that way that tells you he’s been climbing the walls since the last time he had you. Your brother shouts something from upstairs, calling for him, and Jungwon shouts back, “Yeah, I’m here!”

But he’s already walking straight past the stairs, straight down the hallway, straight to the bathroom where he knows you always slip away when you hear him arrive.

The second the door clicks shut, he’s on you.

Your back hits the sink, his hand hits your throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he growls, low, furious in that way that always means he missed you. His thumb presses right under your jaw, tilting your head back so he can kiss you hard, teeth, tongue, a week of pent-up frustration. “A week? You think I’m gonna survive a whole week without you?”

You’re barely able to answer, your breath stuttering because his grip tightens, not dangerous, but possessive, claiming, like he’s correcting your posture with just one hand. His other hand is already shoving your shorts down, cursing when he feels how warm you are.

“You’re already wet?” he laughs, but it’s not a nice laugh, it's a dark, breathless one, like he's the one being pushed to the edge just by touching you. “Yeah. Yeah, of course you are. Bet you were thinking about me every night I wasn’t here.”

He bends you over the sink, fast, rough, like he’s been waiting to do it since Monday. Your palms slap the cold countertop. He kicks your legs wider. Stands behind you, chest pressed to your back, breath hot on your ear.

Then, “Keep your voice down,” he murmurs, and his hand slides back to your throat, holding your head up so you’re forced to see him in the mirror. “If your brother hears you, I’m blaming you for it.”

He pushes into you in one hard, desperate thrust.

Your breath breaks. His grip tightens. The mirror fogs instantly with your gasp.

“Fuck! Jungwon—”

“Shh,” he warns, hips snapping into you again, harder, his free hand gripping your hip so tight you know you’ll see the bruises tomorrow. “You’re being loud already. I haven’t even started.”

He has started. He’s fucking you like he’s trying to make up for every hour he’s been away, fast, sharp, hips hitting the back of your thighs so hard you feel the sting. Every time you open your mouth to moan, his hand squeezes your throat just enough to shut the sound down.

“Look at you,” he pants in your ear, staring at your reflection. “Trying so hard to stay quiet. You’re gonna get us caught, aren’t you?”

Heeseung calls from down the hallway.

“Yo, Jungwon? You want something to drink?”

Jungwon doesn’t stop. He smiles. He keeps fucking you, rhythm steady, brutal, like he wants you to feel his answer.

He leans down, lips at your ear, voice a whisper no one else can hear, “Don’t you dare make a sound.”

You almost do when he slides his hand from your throat to your mouth, forcing your head back against his shoulder, holding you still while he pounds into you harder, deeper, punishing you for leaving him starved for a week.

Your eyes water. Your legs shake. His breath is ragged on your skin. And then he growls,“I’m not leaving this bathroom until you come on my cock.”

Your knees nearly give out. Because he means it. And he’s not slowing down. Jungwon goes still for one second when your brother’s voice carries down the hall.

“Hee’s here,” you whisper, panic in your voice.

Jungwon’s hand clamps over your mouth before you can say another word.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice a razor’s edge:

“I know he’s here. That’s why I’m not stopping.”

He pulls his hips back and slams back into you so hard the sink shifts under your palms. You choke on a cry, muffled entirely by his hand. Jungwon watches you in the mirror as your eyes go wide.

“Look at you,” he breathes, fucking you deeper, slower, deliberately louder against your skin. “All scared because your big brother’s right outside. You shouldn’t like this.”

But you do. And he sees it. His fingers tighten over your mouth as he bends you further, pushing your spine into a bow so he can hit deeper.

“God, if Heeseung knew I had you like this…” Jungwon laughs softly, dark, breathless, the sound of a boy who knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but can’t stop. “He’d kill me. Actually kill me.”

He grinds in slowly, intentionally, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your breath shake behind his palm.

“But you want me,” he whispers, lips to your neck, “more than you want to protect me.”

Your brother’s footsteps echo closer. Jungwon freezes only his hips, everything else stays exactly where it is.

Heeseung knocks on the door. “Hey, anyone in there?”

Jungwon’s hand flies from your mouth to your throat, forcing your head up, pinning you against the fogged mirror as he silently mouths:

“Don’t. Make. A. Sound.” Heeseung rattles the doorknob. “Hello?”

Jungwon stays buried inside you. You’re trembling so hard your knees almost buckle. He answers, voice perfectly calm, not even breathless:

“One sec, hyung! I’m washing my hands!” His hips move. He’s fucking you while talking to Heeseung.

Just small thrusts at first, slow, deep, obscene. His hand around your throat shakes from how hard he’s holding back.

Heeseung sighs. “Hurry up, dude.”

Jungwon’s lips curl into the slightest smirk against your cheek.

“Yes, hyung,” he calls out, and then he slams into you. Hard. Twice. Like he’s punishing you for existing.

You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood. When Heeseung finally walks away, Jungwon exhales, grabs your hips, and snarls: “You’re fucked.”

He bends you even lower over the sink and fucks you the way he’s been wanting to for a week, fast, brutal, filthy, hips snapping into you with loud, wet slaps that echo off the tile.

“I almost came from that,” he admits against your ear, breath shaking. “Your brother talking to me while I was inside you, fuck.”

Your legs give out. He pulls you up by the throat again.

“You’re not done.”

His thrusts get even rougher, punishing, each one lifting you onto your toes.

“You’re coming,” he growls, voice almost breaking, “and you’re doing it quiet. If Heeseung hears you, I’m fucking you again with the door unlocked.”

You fall apart on his cock so hard you nearly collapse, but he catches you, wraps his hand over your mouth, and keeps fucking you through it, whispering, “Good girl, good girl, fuck—just like that—”

He follows you seconds later, burying himself deep, holding you still while he comes inside you, teeth pressed to your shoulder to stop himself from making noise.

The sink is shaking. Your legs are shaking. His hands are shaking. And Heeseung is still in the hallway, completely unaware.

(Masterlist)

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✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧

⟡ @rosepetals09, ⟡ @cherry-blossomfrag, ⟡ @mari-marimar,  ⟡ @paradieseoul, ⟡ @microwavedstrawberries3,  ⟡ @thatonerandomblondechick, ⟡ @heebambilee,  ⟡ @simjaeyunsdoll, ⟡ @sinceresilverstrawberry,  ⟡ @heeseungslefttoee, ⟡ @shayinthesims, ⟡ @larichard,  ⟡ @noinspirationkisstoday, ⟡ @frenziedseerdesolation,  ⟡ @wtfisgoingright, ⟡ @heekijakey, ⟡ @luvwonsito,  ⟡ @cheetosthabratt, ⟡ @en-ner-jay, ⟡ @shouldergangsterrj,  ⟡ @brennanmeijalover00,⟡ @wondash, ⟡ @kimuranishi,  ⟡ @thep3rfectgirl25, ⟡ @doraemon02, ⟡ @rotttenhalo,  ⟡ @oldeubois-blog, ⟡ @putrescentpoet, ⟡ @jinnibug, ⟡ @vayuzzz,  ⟡ @kimmyaaaa, ⟡ @ppcarolina9, ⟡ @giagotthezoomies, ⟡ @slut4heespam, ⟡ @lovestruck-sky ⟡ @roze-latte-zz, ⟡ @sociallyawkward18 ⟡ @lyserie @enstarzzi

[heesvnqie]

Always Yours-Yang Jungwon

pairing: yangjungwon! x f!reader genre: mafia x reader, dark romance, smut, angst warnings: dark romance, killing, threatening, stalking, explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 12.9k

The chandelier above glittered like a constellation trapped in glass, casting soft light over the ballroom. You smoothed the skirt of your emerald dress, heart racing with a cocktail of excitement and nerves. Tonight wasn’t just another gala—it was the night you’d meet Yang Jungwon, the man your family had chosen as your future husband. The idea of an arranged marriage should’ve scared you, but instead, it thrilled you. A new adventure, a new puzzle to solve. You were an ambivert, equally at home charming a crowd or slipping into the background to soak in every detail. And tonight? You were ready to shine.

Your mother nudged you forward, her voice a hushed whisper. “He’s over there, Y/N. Be polite, but don’t hide who you are.”

You grinned, tossing your hair over one shoulder. “When do I ever hide?”

She sighed, but you were already moving, weaving through the crowd with a dancer’s grace. You’d spent years honing skills most girls in your circle didn’t dream of—sparring with your older brother, mastering lockpicks, even throwing knives at targets in your backyard. You weren’t reckless, but you were bold, and the idea of meeting someone who could match your energy sent a spark through you.

Jungwon stood near a marble pillar, surrounded by six other men who laughed too loudly, their eyes too sharp. He was different, though—quieter, his posture relaxed but coiled, like a cat lounging before a pounce. His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes, which scanned the room with a predator’s focus. When those eyes landed on you, your breath hitched. He didn’t smile, not right away, but something flickered in his gaze—curiosity, maybe, or challenge.

“Y/N,” he said as you approached, his voice smooth, almost purring. He extended a hand, and you took it, noting the calluses that didn’t match his polished appearance. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” you replied, your tone light but your grip firm. “Though I’m guessing you’ve got your own sources.”

His lips twitched, a hint of a smirk. “You could say that. They tell me you’re… resourceful.”

You laughed softly, leaning closer. “And they tell me you’re untouchable. Care to prove it?”

The men around him—his brothers, you assumed—exchanged glances, but Jungwon’s eyes never left yours. “Careful what you wish for,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, like he was sharing a secret. “You might not keep up.”

“Oh, I’ll keep up,” you shot back, your smile daring. “Question is, can you handle me?”

He chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and gestured to the dance floor. “Let’s find out.”

The dance was a game of cat and mouse, his movements fluid, precise, like he was always one step ahead. But you matched him, your boldness shining through as you spun and dipped, your laughter mingling with the music. He was magnetic—charming one moment, elusive the next, his dimples flashing when he let his guard down but his eyes always holding something back. You were hooked.

Months later, you stood in a cathedral, the weight of your wedding dress lighter than you’d expected. The ivory lace hugged your frame, and your hair was swept up, a few strands framing your face. You weren’t nervous—not exactly. You were buzzing, your fingers twitching with the urge to fidget, to do something. Jungwon had become a constant in your life since that first dance, his cat-like charm pulling you in even as his secrets kept you guessing. You’d sparred with him verbally, flirted shamelessly, and once, when he’d caught you practicing knife throws in your garden, he’d joined you, his aim terrifyingly perfect.

As you walked down the aisle, his eyes found yours, sharp and soft all at once. In his tuxedo, hair pushed back, he looked like a dream—one you weren’t sure you could trust. When you reached him, he took your hand, his thumb grazing your knuckles. “Ready for this, Y/N?” he whispered, his voice laced with that cat-like tease.

“Born ready,” you whispered back, winking. “Don’t get too comfortable, though.”

His grin was all trouble, and the vows felt like more than words—like you were stepping into something bigger, something dangerous and thrilling.

The reception was a whirlwind of champagne, laughter, and dancing. You moved through it like a spark, your ambivert charm winning over Jungwon’s associates while still stealing quiet moments to catch your breath. His six brothers—Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Ni-ki—were a chaotic force, their banter loud and their loyalty to Jungwon fierce. They teased you mercilessly, but you fired back, earning their laughs and raised glasses.

Jungwon stayed close, his hand brushing your waist, his breath warm when he leaned in to murmur something clever. But you caught his eyes flicking to Heeseung, a silent exchange passing between them. When Heeseung slipped out of the ballroom with a subtle nod, Jungwon’s posture shifted—still relaxed, but with that coiled energy you’d noticed the first night.

“Everything okay?” you asked, twirling a champagne flute to hide your curiosity.

“Perfect,” he said, his smile too smooth, too practiced. “Just need to handle something. Keep shining, yeah?”

Before you could push, he was gone, slipping through the crowd like a shadow. Your excitement surged. Whatever he was up to, you weren’t staying behind. You set your glass down, hiked up your dress, and followed, your heels clicking softly. You weren’t stealthy by trade, but you were quick and bold, weaving through guests with a smile that disarmed suspicion.

He disappeared through a side door, and you eased it open after a beat. A spiral staircase plunged into darkness, and you kicked off your heels, stashing them behind a decorative urn. Barefoot, you padded down, your pulse racing with the thrill of the chase. The staircase ended at a heavy steel door, slightly ajar. You peeked through, your breath catching.

The room beyond was massive, a towering chamber that screamed power. Sleek computers lined one wall, their screens glowing with maps, encrypted files, and grainy surveillance feeds. A long table dominated the center, strewn with blueprints, burner phones, and neatly stacked weapons—knives, pistols, things you couldn’t even name. The air buzzed with quiet menace, like a machine humming just before it strikes.

Jungwon stood at the far end, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, muscled forearms. Heeseung and Jay flanked him, their voices clipped and urgent. “…shipment’s at risk… they’re closing in… need to reroute now.” Jungwon’s posture was all control, his cat-like grace sharpened to a razor’s edge. He tapped a screen, his fingers swift, commanding, like he’d been born to rule this world.

You slipped inside, sticking to the shadows, your dress whispering against the floor. You were bold, and your curiosity burned brighter than any fear. Jungwon’s head snapped up, his eyes pinning you in place. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, like a cat catching sight of prey. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You stepped into the light, chin high, your excitement barely contained. “And miss this? Not a chance.” You gestured at the room, your voice bold but laced with awe. “What is this, Jungwon? Your secret empire?”

Heeseung coughed, hiding a smirk, but Jungwon crossed the room in a few strides, stopping close enough that you could feel his heat. “You’re too curious,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, sharp and unreadable. “This isn’t a place for games.”

“Good,” you said, holding his gaze. “Because I’m not playing. This is mafia, isn’t it? You’re not just some rich kid—you’re running something big.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you like a cat deciding whether to chase or let you run. “And you’re not running?”

“Running?” You laughed, stepping closer, your voice dropping. “I’m obsessed. I married you thinking you were just a pretty face with a title, but this? This is so much better.”

His smirk returned, slow and dangerous, like he was seeing you in a new light. “You’re trouble,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with promise. “You have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“Then show me,” you said, your heart racing, your boldness shining. “I’m not here to sit pretty, Jungwon. I can handle this—whatever it is.”

He stared at you, something flickering in his eyes—admiration, maybe, or something darker. “You’re insane,” he murmured, but there was heat in his voice, like he was thrilled by your nerve.

Jay cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Jungwon, we’ve got a clock on this.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from you. “Stay here,” he said, his tone firm but laced with that teasing edge. “We’ll talk later.”

He turned back to his brothers, but you didn’t budge, your eyes glued to the screens, the weapons, the raw power of the room. This was his world—your world now. And you were ready to burn bright in it, no matter how dangerous it got.

The underground office pulsed with tension, the glow of computer screens casting stark shadows across Jungwon’s face as he leaned over the table, his fingers darting across a tablet. You stood in the corner, your wedding dress a striking contrast against the cold steel walls and blinking monitors. Your heart raced, not with fear but with a wild, electric excitement. This room—this world—was thrumming with secrets, power, and danger, and you wanted to be part of it. Jungwon’s warning to stay put only stoked your curiosity. If he thought you’d wait like some docile bride, he was in for a shock.

Heeseung muttered something about a “breach” and “rerouting the shipment,” his voice sharp as he typed furiously. Jay stood by a wall of screens, cross-referencing data with a scowl. The other four men—Jungwon’s brothers, you assumed—moved with the same quiet intensity, each focused on their tasks. You studied them, your ambivert instincts kicking in: you could charm your way into their circle, but first, you needed to know who they were.

Jungwon’s head snapped up, his cat-like eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, teasing, but edged with exasperation. “I told you to stay put.”

“And I told you I’m not sitting this out,” you replied, stepping forward, your smile bold and unapologetic. “This is incredible, Jungwon. Whatever you’re doing here, I want to know more. I want to help.”

He straightened, his smirk flickering like he was both amused and annoyed. “Help? This isn’t a game, kitten. You don’t just waltz into—”

“Into what?” you cut in, your voice bright but firm. “Your empire? Your war? I’m not here to play dress-up, Jungwon. I’m your wife now, and I’m not afraid of this.” You gestured at the room, your excitement spilling over. “I’ve spent my life dodging punches and outsmarting people who thought I was just a pretty face. Let me be part of it.”

The room went quiet, the other men pausing to glance at you. Heeseung raised an eyebrow, Jay’s scowl softened into something like intrigue, and the others exchanged looks ranging from skeptical to curious. Jungwon tilted his head, his gaze narrowing, like a cat sizing up a new toy. “You’re serious,” he said, not a question but a realization.

“Dead serious,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re not scaring me off. If anything, this makes me want you more.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous and thrilled passing through them. Before he could respond, one of the men—a tall, lean figure with sharp cheekbones and an icy stare—stepped forward, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Well, damn,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with mischief. “Jungwon, you didn’t tell us your bride’s got fire. I’m Sunghoon.”

You grinned, matching his energy. “Nice to meet you, Sunghoon. You the one who handles the scary stuff or the shiny stuff?”

He laughed, a sharp, genuine sound. “Bit of both. I keep things… clean. You good with that?”

“Cleaner than you, probably,” you shot back, earning a chuckle.

Another stepped up, his warm smile cutting through the room’s tension. “Jake,” he said, offering a hand. His accent had a slight lilt, and his eyes sparkled with easy charm. “I handle the tech side—hacking, surveillance, that kind of thing. You ever mess with computers?”

“Not my thing, but I’m a quick learner,” you said, shaking his hand firmly. “Show me a keyboard, and I’ll figure it out.”

“Noted,” Jake said, glancing at Jungwon with a grin. “She’s trouble, mate.”

“Tell me about it,” Jungwon muttered, but his smirk was back, softer now.

A third man approached, his energy bright and infectious, like he could light up the room without trying. “I’m Sunoo,” he said, his smile wide and disarming. “I’m the one who makes sure we don’t all kill each other. Also, I’m great at getting people to talk—without breaking their fingers.”

You laughed, liking him instantly. “Good to know. I’m pretty good at talking my way out of trouble, too.”

“Oh, we’ll get along, then,” Sunoo said, winking.

The youngest of the group—tall, lanky, with a mischievous glint in his eyes—sauntered over next. “Ni-ki,” he said, his voice casual but his posture alert. “I’m the one who gets us out of tight spots. Fast hands, faster feet. You ever run from trouble?”

“Run toward it, more like,” you said, grinning. “But I could use a few pointers.”

He smirked, nodding. “We’ll have fun, then.”

Another man, broad-shouldered with a commanding presence, stepped forward, his dark eyes assessing you. “Jay,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “I handle logistics—moving product, securing routes, making sure nothing goes wrong. If it does, I fix it. You sure you’re ready for this kind of heat?”

“Born for it,” you said, meeting his gaze with a confident smile. “I don’t break under pressure.”

Jay’s lips twitched, a hint of approval in his expression. “We’ll see how you hold up, then.”

The last man, leaning against the table with his arms crossed, finally spoke. “Heeseung,” he said, his tone calm but carrying weight. “I’m Jungwon’s right hand. Strategy, planning, keeping us from crashing and burning. You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But this life chews up people who aren’t ready.”

“I’m not just ready,” you said, your voice steady, your excitement blazing. “I’m made for this. I want in—all the way.”

Jungwon stepped closer, his presence stealing the room’s air. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but his eyes held a spark of intrigue. “This world—our world—is blood, secrets, and power. You step in, there’s no stepping out.”

“Good,” you said, your smile bold, your heart pounding with a thrill you couldn’t name. “I don’t want out. I want the rush, the stakes, the control.”

He stared at you, his cat-like gaze unreadable, but you caught the way his lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but there was heat in his voice, a trace of admiration.

Before you could push further, an alarm blipped on one of the screens, sharp and insistent. Heeseung cursed under his breath, and Jungwon’s demeanor shifted, all business again. “They’ve hit the warehouse,” he said, his voice clipped. “We need to move. Now.”

The brothers sprang into action, grabbing gear, checking weapons, their movements seamless, like a well-oiled machine. You watched, your pulse racing, not with fear but with a hunger to be part of it. Jungwon glanced at you, his expression torn between frustration and something else—something like trust.

“Stay here,” he said, but his tone was less commanding this time, almost pleading.

“Not a chance,” you said, stepping forward. “I’m coming with you.”

“Y/N—” he started, but you cut him off, your voice firm, your eyes blazing.

“I’m not fragile, Jungwon. I can handle this. Let me prove it.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then sighed, his smirk returning. “Fine. But you stick close, and you do exactly what I say. Understood?”

You nodded, your grin wide and fearless. “Lead the way, boss.”

Sunghoon snorted, slinging a bag over his shoulder. “She’s gonna run circles around you, Jungwon.”

“Shut up,” Jungwon shot back, but his eyes never left yours, and you saw it—the spark of excitement, the challenge, the possibility that you were exactly what he’d been looking for.

As the group moved out, you fell into step beside Jungwon, your wedding dress trailing behind you like a flag of rebellion. The night was young, and the city was a maze of danger and opportunity. You didn’t know what was coming, but you were ready—ready to fight, to learn, to claim your place in this electrifying world of shadows and power.

The night air was sharp, cutting through the thin fabric of your wedding dress as you moved with Jungwon and his brothers through the city’s underbelly. The streets were a labyrinth of shadows, neon signs flickering like warning signals. Your heart thrummed with exhilaration, the weight of the unknown fueling your steps. Jungwon’s warning to stick close echoed in your mind, but you weren’t here to be coddled. You were here to prove you belonged—his partner, not his shadow.

The group headed toward a derelict warehouse, its rusted walls looming under the moonlight. Jungwon’s posture was all focus, his cat-like grace now a predator’s prowl as he led the way, his brothers fanning out behind him. You kept pace, your bare feet silent on the pavement, the hem of your dress slightly torn from the rush. The adrenaline coursing through you felt like fire—every sound, every shadow, sharpening your senses.

“Stay sharp,” Jungwon murmured, his voice low, his eyes flicking to you. “This isn’t a drill.”

You flashed him a grin, bold and unafraid. “Good. I don’t do boring.”

Sunghoon snorted from behind, but before anyone could respond, a rustle came from the alley to your left. Jungwon’s hand shot up, signaling a pause, but it was too late. Three men emerged from the darkness, their faces obscured by hoods, their movements quick and predatory. They spotted you first, your white dress a beacon in the dim light.

“Well, well,” one sneered, his voice rough as he stepped forward, a knife glinting in his hand. “Lost your way, princess?”

The others laughed, spreading out to flank you. Jungwon tensed, his hand moving to his side, but you were faster. “Stay back,” you said, your voice bright with excitement, your body already shifting into a fighter’s stance. “I’ve got this.”

“Y/N—” Jungwon started, but you were already moving.

The first man lunged, his knife slashing toward your side. You sidestepped with ease, your body fluid, trained from years of sparring with your brother. Your fist snapped out, connecting with his jaw in a clean, brutal strike. He staggered, eyes wide, before you spun, delivering a high kick to his temple. He dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The second man came at you, swinging a fist. You ducked under it, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back in a smooth lock. With a quick pivot, you slammed your elbow into his nose, hearing the crunch of cartilage. He howled, stumbling back, blood streaming down his face. You didn’t pause, sweeping his legs out from under him with a low kick. He crashed to the pavement, clutching his face.

The third man hesitated, clearly rattled, but he charged anyway, wielding a metal pipe. You grinned, the thrill of the fight igniting every nerve. You dodged his wild swing, the pipe whistling past your head, and closed the distance in a heartbeat. Your fist drove into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. As he doubled over, you grabbed his wrist, twisting until the pipe clattered to the ground, then finished him with a knee to his chin. He collapsed, out cold.

The whole fight lasted less than a minute. You stood over the three men, barely winded, your dress pristine, not a scratch on you. Your fists were still clenched, your blood singing with the rush of victory. You turned to find Jungwon and his brothers staring, their expressions a mix of shock and awe.

“Holy Jesus—” Jake started, cutting himself off with a laugh. “You didn’t even give them a chance!”

Sunghoon crossed his arms, his icy stare warming with a grudging respect. “Not bad, princess.”

“Princess?” you said, wiping your hands on your dress with a smirk. “Call me that again, and you’re next.”

Sunoo clapped, his bright energy cutting through the tension. “I’m obsessed. Can you teach me that elbow move?”

Ni-ki grinned, bouncing on his toes. “Told you she runs toward trouble.”

Jay, still holding a tablet, gave you a nod, his gruff voice laced with approval. “You fight like you mean it. Good.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, glancing at Jungwon. “You sure you can keep up with her?”

Jungwon’s eyes were locked on you, his cat-like gaze intense, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “She’s perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—pride, desire, maybe both. He stepped closer, his hand brushing your arm as he checked you for injuries. “You okay?”

“Not a scratch,” you said, your voice bright, your grin fearless. “Told you I could handle it. Now, are you going to let me in on the real action, or do I have to keep proving myself?”

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent a shiver through you. “Oh, you’re in, kitten. But you’re sticking with me from now on. No running off.”

You leaned closer, your voice teasing but bold. “Only if you can keep up, boss.”

The warehouse loomed ahead, and Jungwon’s expression hardened as he turned back to his brothers. “Let’s move. They’ll know we’re coming now.”

As the group advanced, you fell into step beside Jungwon, your mind racing. Those men had been a test—small fry, probably scouts for whoever was targeting Jungwon’s operation. The fight had only whetted your appetite. You wanted more—not just the thrill of a brawl, but the power, the strategy, the world Jungwon commanded. You saw the way his brothers moved, each a piece of a larger machine, and you wanted to be a part of it, to carve out your place in this maze of danger and control.

Inside the warehouse, the air was thick with the smell of oil and metal. Crates were stacked high, some pried open, revealing glimpses of sleek black cases—weapons, you guessed, or something equally valuable. Jungwon’s brothers fanned out, checking corners, while he pulled you behind a stack of crates, his hand firm on your wrist.

“You’re good,” he said, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. “Better than good. But this—” he gestured to the warehouse, the tension in the air—“this is just the start. You sure you want this life?”

You didn’t hesitate, your excitement spilling over. “I’ve never wanted anything more. I’m not here to be your arm candy, Jungwon. I want to fight, to plan, to be in the thick of it. With you.”

His smirk returned, slow and predatory, but there was something new in his gaze—respect, maybe, or trust. “Then welcome to the family,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with promise. “But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight.”

You grinned, your heart pounding. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

An explosion rocked the far end of the warehouse, shouts and gunfire erupting in its wake. Jungwon’s hand tightened on yours, his eyes flashing with that cat-like focus. “Time to move,” he said, pulling you toward the chaos. “Show me what else you’ve got.”

You followed, your blood singing, ready to dive deeper into his world—your world now—where every fight, every risk, only made you feel more alive.

The warehouse was a storm of fire and shadow, flames clawing at the walls, their flickering light dancing across the concrete floor littered with shattered crates. Smoke stung your eyes, but you thrived in the chaos, your wedding dress—torn and singed—feeling like a badge of defiance. Jungwon was beside you, his cat-like grace honed to a lethal edge, his dark eyes glinting with focus. His hand brushed yours, a silent promise, as you moved together through the haze, a team forged in the heat of battle.

The explosion had shaken the warehouse minutes ago, and now gunfire echoed, sharp and relentless. Jungwon’s brothers were scattered—Heeseung barking orders through an earpiece, Jay and Sunghoon carving a path through rivals, Jake sniping from a catwalk, Ni-ki darting like a phantom, and Sunoo disarming foes with deceptive ease. You and Jungwon were at the heart of it, your synergy electric, your movements seamless as you faced a new wave of enemies.

“Ready?” Jungwon asked, his voice low and teasing, a smirk playing on his lips despite the danger. He twirled his pistol, his stance coiled, ready to strike.

“Always,” you replied, your grin bold, your body buzzing with adrenaline. You’d already taken down a group of scouts outside, your fists and kicks leaving them crumpled without a scratch on you. Now, you craved more—not alone, but with Jungwon, your partner in every sense.

A squad of six rival enforcers emerged from the smoke, their tactical gear stark against the firelight. Two wielded guns, three brandished knives, and one swung a steel pipe. They spotted you and Jungwon, their eyes narrowing, mistaking you for easy targets. Big mistake.

Jungwon grabbed your hand, his grip firm, his eyes locking onto yours with a spark of mischief. “Together?”

“Together,” you said, squeezing his hand, your excitement surging.

The gunmen fired first, bullets whizzing past. You and Jungwon moved as one, hands still clasped, dodging in perfect sync. He pulled you low, rolling behind a crate, and you followed without missing a beat. As the gunfire paused, you both sprang up, hands breaking apart only to strike.

Jungwon lunged at the first gunman, disarming him with a twist of his wrist, his pistol clattering away. You were right behind, grabbing the second gunman’s arm as he aimed. With a quick yank, you stole his gun—click, boom!—firing a shot into his foot. He screamed, dropping, and you spun, slamming the gun’s bottom end into his head, knocking him out cold.

Jungwon stared, his own fight paused mid-motion as he disarmed another attacker. “Where the hell did you learn that?” he demanded, his voice thick with awe, his smirk creeping back.

“Older brother, bad neighborhood,” you said, twirling the stolen gun with a grin. “Want me to keep going?”

The knife-wielders charged, blades flashing. Jungwon glanced at you, his smirk widening. “High jump?”

“Let’s do it,” you said, your voice bright with thrill.

You clasped hands again, your bodies moving like they’d been trained together for years. With a shared nod, you ran forward, your momentum building. As the knife-wielders closed in, you and Jungwon leaped, hands locked, your bodies soaring in a perfect arc. Mid-air, you both lashed out with synchronized high kicks, your feet slamming into the chests of two attackers. They flew back, crashing into crates, out before they hit the ground.

Landing lightly, you didn’t pause. The third knife-wielder swung at you, but Jungwon was there, blocking the blade with his forearm, his free hand still in yours. You used the grip for leverage, spinning around him to deliver a crushing elbow to the man’s jaw. He crumpled, and Jungwon finished with a knee to his stomach, the two of you moving like a single, unstoppable force.

The pipe-wielder roared, charging with his weapon raised. You and Jungwon shared a glance, your grins mirroring each other. “One more,” he said, his voice laced with excitement.

Hand in hand, you rushed him, dodging his wild swing with ease. You dropped low, Jungwon going high, your clasped hands anchoring you both. Your kick slammed into the man’s knee, buckling it, while Jungwon’s fist connected with his temple. The pipe clattered away, and the man collapsed, defeated.

You stood together, hands still entwined, your breaths heavy but your spirits soaring. The six enforcers lay scattered, not a mark on either of you. Your dress was a mess, but you didn’t care—you’d never felt more alive, fighting side by side with Jungwon, your movements a dance of trust and power.

The warehouse fell quiet, save for the crackle of flames and the distant shouts of Jungwon’s brothers mopping up stragglers. You and Jungwon stood, still back to back, your chests heaving, your hands brushing as you turned to face each other. Not a scratch on either of you, but the air between you crackled with something hotter than the fire around you.

“You’re unreal,” Jungwon said, his voice rough with adrenaline, his cat-like eyes searching yours, a mix of pride and something deeper—something that made your pulse race faster than the fight.

“You’re not bad yourself,” you said, your grin wide, your body still buzzing with the thrill. “We’re a damn good team.”

He stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing ash from your skin. “More than good,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate. “You’re mine, and I’m keeping you in this fight.”

“Good,” you said, leaning into his touch, your voice bold. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Heeseung’s voice cut through the moment, urgent over the earpiece. “Jungwon, Y/N, south exit—now. They’re sending reinforcements.”

Jungwon’s smirk returned, his hand dropping to hold your hand but his gaze stayed on you. “You heard him. Ready for round two?”

You squeezed his hand, your excitement uncontainable. “With you? Always.”

As the flames roared higher, you and Jungwon moved deeper into the warehouse, hands breaking apart but your bond unbreakable. His brothers fell in around you, their nods acknowledging your skill, but it was Jungwon’s grin that fueled you—a promise of more battles, more victories, together in this dangerous, electrifying world you now called home.

The warehouse was a battlefield, smoke curling like ghosts, flames painting the walls in flickering orange. Gunfire cracked, sharp and relentless, but you and Jungwon stood at the epicenter, back to back, an unbreakable unit. Your torn wedding dress fluttered like a war flag, and Jungwon’s black suit was dusted with ash, but neither of you faltered. His cat-like grace matched your bold, fearless energy, your bodies moving in sync like you’d been fighting together forever. His warmth against your back grounded you, his steady breaths a rhythm you mirrored as a dozen rival enforcers closed in, their weapons gleaming—knives, bats, and guns aimed at the heart of Enhypen.

“Ready, love?” Jungwon’s voice was a low purr, teasing but edged with steel, his head tilting just enough for you to catch his wicked smirk.

“Let’s make them cry,” you replied, your grin bright and wild, your fists clenched, ready to unleash hell. Your heart pounded with pure exhilaration—this was where you belonged, shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Back to back,” he said, his tone sharp but thrilling. “Don’t let them through.”

“Never,” you shot back, your voice electric as the circle of enemies tightened.

The enforcers attacked, a swarm of blades and bullets. You and Jungwon spun into action, your backs pressed tight, covering every angle like a single, lethal force. A gunman to your left fired, the bullet grazing the air. You ducked, feeling Jungwon shift with you, and lunged, grabbing the man’s wrist. You twisted hard, the gun clattering to the floor, and slammed your fist into his jaw, dropping him instantly. Behind you, Jungwon dodged a knife swipe, his elbow crashing into his attacker’s nose with a wet crunch, blood spraying as the man fell.

“Nice one,” you called, your voice bright, already pivoting to face two more—a bat-wielder and a knife-wielder charging together.

Jungwon’s laugh was low, dangerous. “Keep up, wifey.”

You grinned, and when he nodded, you knew what was coming. “High jump?” you asked, your excitement spiking.

“High jump,” he confirmed, his eyes glinting.

You clasped hands for a split second, your grip tight, and launched into a synchronized leap, your bodies soaring like you’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Mid-air, you both lashed out with high kicks, your feet slamming into the bat-wielder’s chest and the knife-wielder’s shoulder. They flew back, crashing into a stack of crates, wood splintering as they hit the ground, out cold. You landed together, back to back, your breaths in sync, unscathed and unstoppable.

Four more enforcers rushed in, two with knives, two with guns. You felt Jungwon’s back shift as he faced his pair, and you took yours. A gunman aimed at you, but you were faster, diving low and tackling his legs. He hit the ground, and you smashed your elbow into his temple, knocking him out. The knife-wielder swung at you, but you rolled aside, popping up behind him and locking his arm in a vice grip, forcing him to drop the blade. A quick knee to his stomach, and he was down.

Behind you, Jungwon was a blur, disarming a gunman with a flick of his wrist, then spinning to kick a knife-wielder’s hand, sending the blade skidding. He finished with a brutal punch to the man’s jaw, and you both turned, backs reconnecting, as the last two enforcers hesitated, their confidence shattered.

“Together?” you said, your voice a mix of challenge and thrill.

“Always,” Jungwon replied, his smirk audible.

You moved as one, rushing the final pair. You dodged a wild punch, grabbing the man’s arm and flipping him over your shoulder, his body slamming into the concrete. Jungwon mirrored you, twisting his opponent’s wrist and delivering a spinning kick to his chest. The enforcers collapsed, and the warehouse fell silent, save for the crackle of flames and the groans of defeated rivals.

You and Jungwon stood, still back to back, your chests heaving, your hands brushing as you turned to face each other. Not a scratch on either of you, but the air between you was electric, charged with the rush of victory and something deeper. His cat-like eyes locked onto yours, his smirk softening into something warmer, more intimate.

“We’re a damn good team,” he said, stepping closer, his hand grazing your cheek, wiping away a smudge of ash. “You’re a force, Y/N.”

You leaned into his touch, your grin fearless. “And you’re my match. I want this life, Jungwon—with you, like this.”

Heeseung’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent via the earpiece. “Clear for now, but they’ll be back. Base, now.”

Jungwon nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “Time to go, love.”

You grabbed his hand, your excitement still burning. “Let’s roll.”

The underground office was a stark contrast to the warehouse’s chaos, its sleek computers and glowing screens a quiet hum of power. The steel door sealed behind you, shutting out the city’s dangers. You stood near the long table, your dress a mess but your spirit soaring, as Jungwon and his six brothers gathered around. The air was heavy with the aftermath of battle, but their eyes—ranging from Heeseung’s calculating stare to Ni-ki’s restless grin—held respect, maybe even awe, as they looked at you.

“You’re insane out there,” Jake said, leaning back in a chair, his warm smile breaking the tension. “You and Jungwon—bloody unstoppable.”

Sunghoon nodded, his icy demeanor thawed by a smirk. “You fight like you were born for this.”

You grinned, your ambivert charm sparking. “Maybe I was. But I need the full picture. What’s Enhypen? What’s this world I’m stepping into?”

Jungwon leaned against the table, his cat-like eyes softening as he glanced at you, then nodded to his brothers. “She’s earned it. Tell her.”

Heeseung went first, his voice calm but commanding, his arms crossed. “Enhypen’s more than a crew. We’re a family, bound by loyalty, not blood. I’m the brain—strategy, plans, making sure we’re always ahead of the game. This city’s a chessboard, and I play to win.”

Jay spoke next, his gruff tone steady, his broad shoulders relaxed. “I’m logistics. Shipments, routes, deals—I move what needs moving, make sure it gets where it’s going without a hitch. Nothing slips through my cracks.”

Jake’s grin widened, his tech-savvy energy lighting up the room. “I’m the eyes and ears. Hacking, surveillance, data—I control the tech. Those screens?” He jerked a thumb at the monitors. “That’s me keeping tabs on everyone, everywhere.”

Sunghoon’s voice was cool, his knife glinting as he twirled it. “I’m cleanup. Bodies, evidence, loose ends—I make them vanish. You want something gone, I’m your guy.”

Sunoo’s bright smile was a contrast to the room’s edge, but his words carried weight. “I’m the talker. Deals, alliances, smoothing over enemies—I get people to bend without breaking them. Keeps us in the game without unnecessary blood.”

Ni-ki, restless as ever, tossed a pen in the air. “I’m the way out. Traps, chases, tight spots—I move fast, think faster. No one’s catching me, and I make sure we all get out clean.”

Jungwon stepped forward, his presence commanding, his voice low and intense. “And I’m the heart. The leader. I hold this together, make the calls, take the risks. Enhypen isn’t just about power—it’s about control, survival, and keeping what’s ours. We run the shadows, Y/N, and we don’t bow to anyone.”

You leaned forward, your excitement blazing, your mind racing with the weight of their words. This was a world of danger, strategy, and unbreakable bonds—and you wanted it all. “I’m in,” you said, your voice bold, your grin fearless. “I want the fights, the plans, the stakes. I want to stand with you, Jungwon, with all of you.”

Jungwon’s smirk softened, his hand finding yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’re already one of us,” he said, his voice warm but laced with promise. “But this is just the start. The city’s alive, and it’s waiting for us.”

The brothers nodded, their approval clear—Jake’s grin, Sunoo’s wink, Ni-ki’s smirk, Jay’s nod, Sunghoon’s glance, Heeseung’s faint smile. You stood with them, Jungwon’s hand in yours, the screens flickering with new alerts, the city’s pulse calling. This was your world now, and with Jungwon at your side, you were ready to rule it.

The underground office was a sanctuary of steel and secrets, its glowing screens casting sharp shadows across the room. You stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jungwon, your tattered wedding dress a stark contrast to his ash-streaked suit, his cat-like eyes glinting with a mix of pride and anticipation. Your hand brushed his, a spark of connection after the warehouse fight where you’d moved as one, back-to-back, tearing through enemies like a storm. The brothers lounged around the long table—Heeseung studying a tablet, Jay checking a rifle’s clip, Jake typing furiously, Sunghoon twirling a knife, Sunoo scrolling a burner phone, Ni-ki pacing restlessly. The air was thick with the calm before a storm, and your heart thrummed with a wild, electric hunger for what came next.

Jungwon’s gaze flicked to you, his smirk teasing but warm. “Still buzzing from that fight, love?”

You grinned, bold and fearless, your ambivert charm dialed up. “Buzzing? I’m ready to set the city on fire. What’s next?”

Before he could answer, a low, eerie chime rang from the main screen. Jake froze, his fingers hovering over his laptop. “That’s not our system,” he said, his voice sharp. “Someone’s piggybacking our signal.”

Heeseung was at his side in a second, his strategist’s calm fraying. “Trace it. Now.”

Jake’s fingers flew, but the screen flickered, and a live feed hijacked the display. It showed a glass tower across the city—the Zenith, a glittering skyscraper owned by a tech mogul nobody crossed. The camera panned to a penthouse, where a single figure stood silhouetted against the city lights, holding a sleek, silver orb that pulsed with crimson light. A distorted voice, neither male nor female, filled the room.

“Enhypen,” it said, cold and precise. “You’ve been playing kings too long. The Zenith is mine, and so is its secret. Meet me at midnight, or the city learns what’s buried beneath it.”

The feed cut out, the orb’s pulse lingering like a threat. You glanced at Jungwon, your excitement spiking. “What’s buried under the Zenith?”

His jaw tightened, his cat-like eyes narrowing. “No idea. But if they’re this bold, it’s big.”

Sunoo set down his phone, his bright smile gone. “The Zenith’s owner, Kim Taeyong—he’s been off-grid for months. Rumors said he was working on something… dangerous.”

“Like what?” you pressed, leaning forward, your voice alive with curiosity.

Heeseung’s voice was grim. “Taeyong was into AI—self-evolving, military-grade. If that orb’s part of it, we’re not dealing with a rival crew. We’re dealing with a machine that thinks it’s God.”

Your pulse raced, the thrill of a new, insane challenge igniting your senses. “Then let’s go meet this ‘God’ and shut it down.”

Jungwon’s smirk returned, his hand finding yours. “You and me, love. Let’s make it a date.”

The Zenith towered over the city, its glass facade a mirror of the night sky. Enhypen moved like ghosts, their black van parked in an alley a block away. You and Jungwon led the approach, your steps silent, his hand brushing your arm as you reached the service entrance. Jake had already hacked the cameras, looping footage to keep you invisible, while Ni-ki scouted ahead, his fast feet making him a blur. Jay and Sunghoon flanked the rear, Heeseung and Sunoo on comms.

The entrance was unguarded, the lock disabled by Jake’s tech. You and Jungwon slipped inside, back-to-back, your senses on high alert. The lobby was dark, its marble floors gleaming under emergency lights. An elevator waited, its doors open, a single red light blinking inside.

“Trap,” you whispered, your voice bright with excitement.

“Obviously,” Jungwon replied, his cat-like grin flashing. “Ready to walk into it?”

“With you? Always,” you said, squeezing his hand.

You stepped into the elevator together, the brothers piling in. The doors closed, and it shot upward, faster than normal, the numbers climbing past the penthouse to an unmarked floor. When the doors opened, you faced a vast, open space—glass walls, a panoramic view of the city, and in the center, the silver orb, now glowing blood-red, floating above a pedestal. No figure, no guards—just the orb, its hum like a heartbeat.

“Creepy,” you muttered, your grin unfazed.

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed. “Too quiet.”

As if on cue, the floor vibrated, and panels slid open, revealing a dozen humanoid drones—sleek, metallic, their eyes glowing red like the orb. They moved with unnatural precision, armed with retractable blades and tasers. The distorted voice echoed from the orb itself. “You came. Now prove you’re worthy.”

You and Jungwon didn’t hesitate, falling back-to-back, your bodies syncing instinctively. “Center stage, love,” he said, his voice thrilling. “Let’s dance.”

The drones attacked, a swarm of metal and menace. You moved like lightning, grabbing a drone’s blade arm and twisting it until it snapped, sparks flying. Jungwon was a blur beside you, his pistol firing—bam, bam!—taking out two drones’ cores. You spun, your kick smashing another’s head, while Jungwon ducked a taser, grabbing the drone’s arm and using it to tase another.

“High jump?” you called, your voice electric.

“High jump!” he shouted, grabbing your hand.

You leaped together, hands locked, your bodies soaring in a perfect arc. Your kicks landed in unison, crushing two drones’ chests, their circuits exploding as they crashed. You landed back-to-back, Jungwon’s laugh wild, your grin blazing. The brothers joined the fray—Jay tackling a drone, Sunghoon slicing through another, Ni-ki dodging tasers, Jake and Sunoo disabling the rest with EMP pulses from Jake’s gear.

The last drone fell, and the orb’s glow flickered, its voice hissing. “You win this round. But the Zenith’s secret is awake.”

The floor shook, and a hidden panel opened, revealing a holographic map of the city. Red lines pulsed beneath it—tunnels, bunkers, a network nobody knew existed. At its center, a digital blueprint: a self-evolving AI, codenamed Eclipse, designed to control the city’s infrastructure—power, water, security.

Jake whistled, his laptop already plugged in. “This is insane. Eclipse could shut down the city in seconds.”

Heeseung’s eyes darkened. “Or weaponize it.”

You turned to Jungwon, your excitement uncontainable. “This is our fight now, right? We take this thing down?”

He pulled you close, his cat-like smirk wild. “You and me, love. We’re rewriting this city’s future.”

Back at the base, the screens were alive with Jake’s analysis of Eclipse. The brothers gathered, their faces grim but resolute. You leaned against Jungwon, his arm around you, as they laid out Enhypen’s truth.

Heeseung spoke first, his voice steady. “We’re Enhypen—the city’s shadow rulers. We control its flow—deals, power, secrets. Eclipse threatens that. It’s not just AI; it’s a mind that could outthink us.”

Jay nodded, his gruff tone firm. “I move the city’s arteries—supplies, weapons. If Eclipse takes over, my routes are dead.”

Jake’s grin was tense. “I’m the tech. I hack, I watch. But this AI? It’s playing my game, and it’s good.”

Sunghoon’s knife glinted. “I erase problems. Eclipse is a problem we can’t just bury.”

Sunoo’s smile was sharp. “I talk, I deal. But this thing doesn’t negotiate—it commands.”

Ni-ki tossed a knife, catching it. “I’m the way out. But Eclipse could lock every exit.”

Jungwon’s grip on you tightened, his voice a low promise. “I’m the leader. Enhypen is my empire, and we protect what’s ours. Eclipse wants this city, but with you, Y/N, we’re unstoppable.”

You grinned, your heart racing with the thrill of it all. “I’m in—fights, plans, AI wars, all of it. Let’s make this city ours.”

The screens flickered, and a new message appeared, the orb’s voice echoing: “Eclipse is watching. Midnight tomorrow, or the city falls.”

A low hum shook the base, and outside, the city’s lights dimmed, then flared red. Jungwon pulled you closer, his smirk defiant. “They want a war? We’ll give them a show.”

You laughed, the city’s pulse yours to command, ready for a battle that would burn brighter than any Netflix saga—wild, insane, and all yours.

The Zenith’s penthouse loomed like a glass crown above the city, its crimson glow pulsing like a warning heartbeat. The underground office had been a hive of plans and tension, but now you stood with Enhypen—Jungwon at your side, his cat-like eyes sharp, his hand brushing yours with a possessive edge. Your black tactical outfit hugged your frame, a far cry from the wedding dress you’d shed, and the weight of Mira’s death—your shot, your wild laugh—sat like a dark jewel in your chest. The Syndicate’s AI, Eclipse, was awake, its midnight deadline ticking down, and the city’s grid was already flickering under its grip. You weren’t just ready—you were starving for the fight.

Jake’s voice crackled through the comms as Enhypen moved through the Zenith’s service tunnels, a labyrinth of steel and shadow. “Eclipse has the building locked down—cameras, doors, everything. I’ve got partial access, but it’s fighting me.”

“Then fight harder,” Heeseung snapped, his strategist’s calm edged with urgency. “We hit the penthouse, neutralize Eclipse, and get out before the Syndicate’s backup arrives.”

You glanced at Jungwon, your grin bold and electric. “Eight of us against an AI God? Sounds cool.”

His smirk was wicked, his voice low. “Stick with me, love. We’ll make it a massacre.”

The tunnel opened into the penthouse’s lower level, a sprawling server room humming with power. The air was cold, the floor vibrating with Eclipse’s pulse. Red lights blinked from racks of servers, and at the center stood a sleek, black obelisk—the AI’s core, glowing with crimson veins. Around it, a dozen Syndicate enforcers waited—armored, armed with tasers, rifles, and curved blades, their eyes hard with loyalty to their unseen master.

“Showtime,” you said, your voice bright, your pistol drawn from Jay’s stash.

Jungwon nodded, his own gun ready. “Enhypen, let’s move.”

The eight of you exploded into action, a coordinated storm. You and Jungwon took the center, moving like a single unit, your bodies in sync. An enforcer lunged at you with a blade, but you sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting until it snapped, then drove your knee into his stomach. He crumpled, and Jungwon was there, his pistol cracking against another’s skull, dropping him instantly.

Heeseung was a shadow on the left, his silenced pistol firing—pop, pop—taking out two riflemen before they could aim. Jay charged the right, his broad shoulders barreling through an enforcer, slamming him into a server rack with a crash. Sunghoon was a blur, his knife slicing through a taser-wielder’s armor, clean and precise, while Ni-ki darted through the chaos, tripping an enforcer and zip-tying him in seconds. Jake and Sunoo worked the edges, Jake tossing EMP grenades that fried tasers, Sunoo disarming a gunman with a swift chokehold, his bright smile never fading.

You and Jungwon held the center, a whirlwind of fists and bullets. An enforcer swung a rifle at you, but you ducked, sliding under his arm and firing your pistol—bam—into his thigh. He staggered, and Jungwon finished him with a brutal elbow to the jaw. Another came at you with a blade, but you and Jungwon moved together, you disarming him with a quick twist, Jungwon slamming his foot into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into a server.

You stood in the center, your black tactical outfit clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, your pistol still warm from the fight. Jungwon was at your side, his black suit torn at the shoulder, his cat-like eyes blazing with adrenaline and something darker—raw, unfiltered desire. The eight of you had moved like a single, lethal force, tearing through Syndicate enforcers with a precision that felt like art. Your heart pounded, not just from the fight but from the electric heat of Jungwon’s gaze, his hand grazing your lower back, sending fire through your veins.

The server room was quiet now, the air thick with the scent of burnt circuits. Heeseung scanned the perimeter, his strategist’s calm intact. Jay reloaded a rifle, Sunghoon sheathed a knife, Jake packed up his EMP gear, Sunoo checked a fallen enforcer’s pulse, and Ni-ki kicked a broken drone aside, grinning. You and Jungwon held the center, your bodies in sync, your breaths heavy but triumphant.

An enforcer had lunged at you with a taser, but you’d disarmed him, twisting his arm and slamming your boot into his chest. Jungwon had been there, his pistol cracking against another’s skull, his movements a mirror of your own. Together, you’d taken down a rifleman, you stealing his weapon—bam—and firing into his knee, Jungwon finishing with a brutal kick. The brothers had flanked, seamless and deadly: Heeseung’s silenced shots dropping two, Jay’s raw strength crushing another, Sunghoon’s blade slicing through armor, Ni-ki’s speed tripping a gunman, Jake’s EMPs frying tasers, Sunoo’s chokeholds silent but lethal.

Jake’s voice cut through the silence, his laptop open. “Eclipse is down. I’ve locked its core, but the Syndicate’s still out there.”

Heeseung nodded, his eyes sharp. “We’ve got a window. Move out.”

The brothers moved, but Jungwon’s gaze was locked on you, dark and hungry, his smirk wicked. His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in, his voice a low growl only you could hear. “You were fucking unreal out there,” he said, his breath hot against your ear. “Every move, every shot—I can’t stop thinking about you.” His touch was possessive, his eyes burning with need, and you felt it too—the fight’s fire twisting into something hotter, more dangerous.

You grinned, bold and breathless, leaning into him. “Then do something about it, husband.”

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening. “Oh, I will.” He glanced at his brothers, his voice sharp but trembling with restraint. “We’re out. Handle the rest.”

Jake smirked, tossing an EMP grenade in his hand. “Go get it, boss.”

Sunghoon snorted, sheathing his knife. “Don’t break the safehouse.”

You laughed, but Jungwon was already pulling you toward the exit, his hand firm on yours, his steps quick and predatory. The brothers’ knowing grins faded as you hit the service tunnel, the city’s neon pulse waiting outside.

Jungwon’s black sports car roared to life in the alley, its engine snarling as he slid into the driver’s seat, you beside him. He floored it, the car screaming out of the theater district, tires screeching as he weaved through traffic at reckless speed. The city blurred—neon signs, dark streets, a world alive with danger—but all you could feel was Jungwon’s hand on your thigh, his grip tight, possessive, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise through your tactical pants.

“You were a goddamn vision,” he growled, his voice rough, his eyes flicking to you, dark with want. “Fighting like that, so fucking fierce—I’m losing it, Y/N.” His hand slid higher, his fingers tugging at the zipper of your pants, deft and deliberate, his smirk wild as he glanced at the road.

Your breath hitched, heat flooding you. “Jungwon, the road—”

“Fuck the road,” he said, his fingers slipping inside, finding you hot and slick, drawing a sharp gasp from you. “I need you. Now.” His touch was relentless, his fingers moving with a slow, torturous rhythm, curling just right, pushing you toward the edge but holding you there, teasing, denying.

You gripped the seat, your hips bucking against his hand, your voice a desperate whine. “Jungwon, please—” Your body was on fire, every nerve screaming, but he kept you teetering, his control maddening, his fingers slowing just as you neared the peak.

“Not yet,” he growled, his voice thick with desire, his eyes glinting with cruel delight as he glanced at you. “You don’t get to come until I say.” His fingers pressed deeper, deliberate, making you squirm, your whines turning to broken gasps, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

“Jungwon, I can’t—” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your body shaking as you clawed at his arm, desperate for release. Tears pricked your eyes, your whines loud and needy, filling the car as he sped through the city, his hand never faltering, keeping you on the brink, torturing you with pleasure.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect like this,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, his fingers curling again, drawing another desperate whine from you. “Begging, whining for me. Keep going, love.”

You were a mess, your head thrown back, your body arching against his hand, tears welling as you fought to hold on, your whines turning to soft sobs of need. “Please, Jungwon, let me—”

“No,” he said, his smirk wicked, his fingers slowing to a torturous pace, keeping you dangling on the edge. “You’re mine, and I decide when.” His eyes flicked to you, dark and possessive, his control absolute as the car screamed around a corner.

The safehouse came into view, a sleek, hidden building tucked in the city’s shadows. Jungwon screeched to a stop, yanking his hand free, leaving you breathless, trembling, and aching, your body screaming for release he wouldn’t give. You whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks, your voice a broken whine as you grabbed his arm. “Jungwon, please, I need—”

He turned to you, his cat-like eyes burning with hunger, his smirk wild. “Inside,” he growled, pulling you out of the car, his hands rough and desperate as he pinned you against the door the moment it closed. “You’re mine, Y/N, and I’m not done with you yet.”

His lips crashed into yours, hungry and bruising, his hands tearing at your tactical gear as he dragged you into the safehouse, the city’s pulse fading behind you. The Syndicate, Eclipse, the war—they could wait. Right now, you were his.

The safehouse door slammed shut, sealing you and Jungwon in a cocoon of shadows and heat, the city’s chaos locked outside. His lips were on yours, bruising and desperate, his hands tearing at your black tactical outfit with a hunger that matched the fire in your veins. Your body still trembled from the car, Jungwon’s relentless fingers leaving you on the edge, aching and whining, tears still wet on your cheeks. His cat-like eyes burned with a wild, possessive need, his smirk dark as he pressed himself closer, pinning you against the wall, his breath hot against your neck.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growled, his voice rough, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, reigniting the torment he’d started in the car. “All I can think about is you—fighting, moving, mine.”

You gasped, your voice a needy whimper, your body arching into his touch. “Jungwon, please—” Your hands clutched his torn suit, your desperation raw, your whines echoing in the dim safehouse. “I need you, now.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk wicked, his control infuriatingly intact. “Not yet, love,” he murmured, his fingers teasing, tracing slow circles that kept you teetering, denying you release. “You beg so pretty, but I want you shaking for me.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, your whines turning to soft, broken sobs as you squirmed against him, your body screaming for more. “Jungwon, I can’t—please, let me—” Your voice cracked, your hands clawing at him, but he held you firm, his touch torturous, his eyes drinking in your desperation.

“God, you’re perfect like this,” he said, his voice a low growl, his lips brushing your ear, sending shivers through you. “Keep whining, Y/N. It’s making me lose my mind.”

Before you could plead again, a sharp buzz cut through the haze—a burner phone vibrating on the safehouse table. Jungwon’s eyes darkened, his hand stilling, but he didn’t move, his body pressed against yours, his breath heavy. “Ignore it,” he growled, his fingers resuming their torment, slower now, keeping you on the brink.

You whimpered, tears spilling, your voice a desperate sob. “Jungwon, I can’t take it—please—”

The phone buzzed again, insistent, and Jungwon cursed under his breath, his control fraying. He stepped back, leaving you trembling against the wall, your body aching, your whines turning to frustrated gasps. He grabbed the phone, his voice sharp as he answered. “What?”

Jake’s voice crackled through, urgent. “Jungwon, we’ve got a problem. Syndicate’s moving—fast. They’ve hacked the city’s power grid, targeting our safehouses. You and Y/N need to move, now.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to you, still shaking, your tear-streaked face flushed with need. “We’re on it,” he said, his voice clipped, but his gaze never left you, burning with a promise to finish what he started.

He hung up, tossing the phone aside, and was back on you in a second, his hands framing your face, his lips brushing yours, softer but no less hungry. “We’re not done,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “But we’ve gotta go, love.”

You nodded, your breath shaky, your body still humming with unfulfilled need. “Then let’s make them pay for interrupting us,” you said, your voice a mix of whiny desperation and bold defiance, your grin flickering through the tears.

His smirk returned, wild and dangerous. “That’s my girl.”

The city was a maze of flickering lights, the power grid glitching under the Syndicate’s hack, streetlights pulsing erratically as you and Jungwon sped through the streets in his black sports car. His hand was back on your thigh, possessive but restrained, his focus split between the road and you. Your body still ached, your whines softer now, a quiet plea for the release he’d denied you. Tears lingered in your eyes, but your resolve was iron—you’d channel this fire into the fight.

Jake’s voice came through the car’s comms. “They’re hitting our east safehouse. Heeseung’s got eyes on a Syndicate crew—ten, maybe twelve, with tech we haven’t seen. Meet us at the rendezvous, old factory district.”

Jungwon floored it, the car roaring, his hand tightening on your thigh. “You ready to fight, love?” he asked, his voice rough, his eyes glinting with that same hunger, now laced with the thrill of battle.

You leaned closer, your voice a low, needy murmur, still trembling from his touch. “Ready to make them regret everything.”

The factory district was a sprawl of rusted steel and broken windows, the air thick with oil and ash. Enhypen converged at the rendezvous, a shadowed lot behind a derelict warehouse. Heeseung was already there, his tablet glowing with drone feeds. Jay checked a rifle, Sunghoon twirled a knife, Jake patched into the grid, Sunoo scanned a burner phone, and Ni-ki paced, cracking his knuckles.

Heeseung’s voice was sharp. “Syndicate’s using Eclipse’s remnants—portable nodes, hacking our systems. They’re trying to flush us out.”

You stepped forward, your body still buzzing, your voice steady despite the ache. “Then let’s flush them first.”

Jungwon’s smirk was predatory, his hand brushing your back, his eyes dark with desire and pride. “Eight of us, one goal. Let’s end this.”

The warehouse was a trap waiting to spring, its interior a maze of crates and machinery. The Syndicate crew was inside—ten enforcers, armed with sleek, glowing batons and wrist-mounted pulse weapons, their tech pulsing with Eclipse’s signature crimson. You and Jungwon took the center, the brothers fanning out, a single, lethal unit.

The fight erupted, a storm of chaos and precision. You and Jungwon moved like a blade’s edge, your pistol firing—bam—into an enforcer’s shoulder as he raised his pulse weapon. Jungwon was at your side, his knife slashing through another’s baton, snapping it in half. Heeseung’s silenced shots dropped two from the catwalk, Jay’s brute force slammed an enforcer into a crate, Sunghoon’s blade cut through armor, Ni-ki’s speed disarmed a pulse weapon, Jake’s EMP grenade fried a node, and Sunoo’s chokehold silenced another.

You spun, dodging a baton swing, and fired—bam—into the enforcer’s knee, dropping him. Jungwon grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it until he screamed, then knocked him out with a brutal elbow. Your eyes met, the heat between you flaring even in the fight, his smirk promising more.

The last enforcer fell, the warehouse silent. Jake rushed to a Syndicate node, hacking it to trace their signal. “Got a location,” he said. “They’re staging at the Zenith’s sublevel.”

Heeseung nodded. “We hit them at dawn. For now, secure the area.”

Back at the base, the brothers debriefed, their voices a low hum of strategy. You stood by Jungwon, your body still trembling from his earlier torment, your whines replaced by a fierce resolve. Heeseung laid out the Syndicate’s plan—using Eclipse’s nodes to control the city’s grid. Jay mapped routes, Jake traced signals, Sunghoon prepped weapons, Sunoo analyzed comms, Ni-ki scouted exits.

Jungwon’s hand slid to your waist, his voice a low growl in your ear. “You’re killing me, love,” he murmured, his eyes burning with that same hunger, his fingers brushing your thigh, teasing, promising. “Fighting with you—it’s too much.”

You shivered, your voice a soft, desperate plea. “Then finish what you started.”

His smirk was pure sin, his grip bruising. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you senseless,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He glanced at his brothers, his tone sharp but trembling with want.

He pulled you toward the exit. “We’re out again." he called to the brothers, his voice rough. “Don’t call unless it’s war or the city's burning."

Jake laughed, Sunghoon smirked, Heeseung slapped a hand on his head, Jay snickered and Ni-ki and Sunoo waved you off. Jungwon’s car roared to life, speeding toward the safehouse, his hand on your thigh, his touch a promise of more torment, more fire, in a city that burned for you both.

The car screeched to a stop outside the safehouse, a sleek, hidden building in the city’s shadows.

He was out of the car in a flash, pulling you with him, slamming the door and pinning you against it, his lips crashing into yours, rough and filthy. “Inside, now,” he growled, his voice thick with lust, his hands already ripping at your tactical gear.

The safehouse door slammed shut, and Jungwon didn’t wait. He shoved you against the wall, tearing your shirt open, buttons flying, his lips biting your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice raw, yanking your pants down, your underwear ripped aside. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, his hard cock pressing against you through his pants, teasing, making you whine louder.

“Jungwon, fuck me, please—” you sobbed, your tears falling, your body shaking with need, your hands clawing at his suit.

He stripped his jacket, his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing his chiseled chest as he tossed you onto a low, black leather couch. “You want it so bad?” he growled, his pants hitting the floor, his cock hard and thick, making your mouth water. He climbed over you, his hand gripping your throat, squeezing lightly, his smirk pure sin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you scream.”

He thrust into you, hard and deep, stretching you, filling you completely, and you screamed, your back arching, your tears streaming as the pleasure hit like a fucking tidal wave. His hips slammed into you, relentless, his cock hitting every spot that made you see stars, his hand still on your throat, possessive and rough. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice raw, his thrusts hard and fast, driving you higher but holding you back, not letting you come.

“Jungwon, please—” you sobbed, your voice a broken mess, your body trembling, your pussy clenching around him, desperate for release. “I’m begging, fuck, let me come—”

“Beg harder,” he growled, his hand sliding between you, his fingers rubbing your clit, fast and rough, keeping you on the edge. “I love your fucking tears, baby.” His thrusts were merciless, his cock pounding into you, his lips biting your shoulder, leaving marks everywhere.

You were a wreck, sobbing, whining, your body shaking, tears streaming as you begged, your voice raw. “Please, Jungwon, I can’t—I need to come, fuck, please—”

Finally, he thrust deeper, his fingers circling your clit faster, his voice a low growl against your ear. “Come for me, baby. Fucking scream.”

You shattered, your scream echoing through the safehouse, your pussy clenching tight around his cock, pleasure crashing through you in waves, your tears falling freely. Jungwon groaned, his thrusts faltering as he came, his cock pulsing inside you, his grip bruising as he shuddered against you. He collapsed onto you, his breath ragged, his lips finding yours in a messy, possessive kiss.

“You’re fucking mine,” he murmured, his voice low, his cat-like smirk returning as he wiped a tear from your cheek. “Always.”

You nodded, breathless, your body still trembling, your voice a soft whimper. “Always.”

The Zenith’s rooftop was a jagged crown of glass and steel, the city sprawling below under a sky bruised red by the Syndicate’s tampering with the grid. You stood at the heart of it, your black tactical outfit scarred from battle, your pistol heavy in your hand, its barrel still warm from the last shot. Jungwon was beside you, his torn suit clinging to his lean frame, his cat-like eyes burning with a fierce, unyielding fire. The eight of you—Enhypen and you—had fought through hell to reach this moment, the final node of Eclipse, the Syndicate’s AI, pulsing in a massive obsidian tower at the roof’s center, its crimson veins throbbing like a dying heart. This was it—the endgame, the showdown to end the war.

The air crackled with tension, the wind whipping your hair as you scanned the battlefield. Twenty Syndicate enforcers stood between you and the tower, their armor sleek and black, armed with pulse rifles, electrified batons, and plasma blades that glowed with lethal intent. Above them, a holographic figure flickered—a Syndicate leader, their face hidden behind a digital mask, their voice cold and final. “Enhypen, you’ve chased a ghost too long. Eclipse is this city’s future. You’ll die with its past.”

You laughed, wild and defiant, your grip tightening on your pistol. “Your future’s about to get fucked up.”

Jungwon’s smirk was sharp as a blade, his knife glinting in the crimson light, his body pressed close to yours. “Eight of us, one last fight. Let’s end this, love.”

Heeseung’s voice cut through the comms, calm but lethal. “Formation Omega. Y/N, Jungwon, center. We flank, we finish. No one walks away.”

The brothers nodded, their eyes hard with resolve—Heeseung with his silenced pistol, Jay with a rifle, Sunghoon with his blade, Jake with his tech gear, Sunoo with a burner phone, Ni-ki with his restless energy. You and Jungwon stepped forward, your hands brushing, your hearts synced, ready to tear the Syndicate apart.

The fight exploded, a symphony of chaos and precision. You and Jungwon charged the center, a relentless storm, your movements fused from months of fighting side by side. An enforcer swung a plasma blade at you, its edge hissing, but you slid low, firing—bam, bam—into his chest, his armor shattering as he collapsed. Jungwon moved with you, his knife slashing through a baton-wielder’s wrist, blood spraying, his pistol firing a clean shot into another’s thigh. You spun together, your elbow cracking a third enforcer’s jaw, Jungwon’s kick sending him sprawling into a glass panel, shards raining down.

Heeseung flanked left, his silenced pistol dropping two snipers with surgical precision, their rifles clattering off the roof. Jay roared through the right, his broad shoulders slamming an enforcer into the tower, steel denting under the force. Sunghoon was a shadow, his blade carving through two enforcers’ armor, their screams cut short. Ni-ki darted through the chaos, his speed a blur, tripping a pulse-rifle wielder and snapping his wrist before zip-tying him. Jake lobbed an EMP grenade, frying three batons, their sparks dying, while Sunoo moved like a phantom, his chokehold silencing a gunman, his bright smile chillingly calm.

You and Jungwon held the center, a vortex of violence. A rifleman aimed at you, but you dove, stealing his weapon mid-fire, unloading a burst—bam, bam, bam—into his legs, dropping him. Jungwon grabbed another’s arm, twisting it until it cracked, then slammed his head into the ground. A baton-wielder charged, its electric hum deafening, but you disarmed him, wrenching the baton free and smashing it into his face, while Jungwon’s knife slashed through another’s armor, blood pooling as he fell.

“Fuck, you’re unstoppable,” Jungwon growled, his voice rough with pride, his eyes flashing as he caught your gaze mid-fight.

You grinned, your blood roaring. “You’re not bad yourself, love.”

The Syndicate’s ranks thinned, but the hologram’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking. “You fight flesh, but Eclipse is beyond you.” The tower pulsed faster, crimson light flooding the roof, and the ground shook as panels slid open, releasing a swarm of drones—sleek, insect-like, their blades whirring, their red eyes locking onto you. From the tower’s base, two massive, armored mechs emerged, their limbs fitted with plasma cannons, their steps shaking the roof.

“Jake!” Heeseung barked, dodging a drone’s blade. “Kill that fucking node!”

“Working on it!” Jake shouted, sprinting to the tower, his laptop out, cables plugging in. Ni-ki covered him, his knife slashing a drone’s core, sparks exploding. Sunghoon and Jay tackled a mech, Jay’s rifle blasting its joints, Sunghoon’s blade slicing its circuits. Heeseung and Sunoo fired at the drones, bullets sparking off metal, while Jake’s EMP pulse fried half the swarm.

You and Jungwon stood back-to-back, your pistol roaring—bam, bam—shattering a drone’s eyes, its blades stalling. Jungwon’s knife flashed, gutting another, his free hand brushing your hip, grounding you. A mech turned its cannon on you, its plasma charge humming, but you dove, rolling together with Jungwon, your bodies synced. You fired into its knee joint—bam—and Jungwon threw a knife, lodging it in the mech’s sensor array, blinding it. Jay and Sunghoon finished it, Jay’s brute force ripping its arm off, Sunghoon’s blade cutting its power core.

The second mech charged, but Ni-ki slid under it, planting an EMP charge that sparked and died its systems. Sunoo and Heeseung took down the last drones, their shots precise, while Jake’s fingers flew, his voice rising. “Five seconds!”

The hologram screamed, “Eclipse is eternal!” but the tower’s glow flickered, then died as Jake yanked a cable. The mechs froze, the drones crashed, and the hologram vanished, the city’s lights stabilizing below. The roof was a carnage of bodies, drones, and shattered mechs, Enhypen standing tall, bloodied but unbroken.

You panted, your pistol lowered, your body buzzing with adrenaline. Jungwon grabbed your hand, his cat-like eyes blazing with triumph, his touch possessive. “We fucking ended it,” he said, his voice rough, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead.

You grinned, fearless and alive. “No more Syndicate. No more Eclipse. Just us.”

Heeseung stepped forward, his calm restored. “The Syndicate’s broken. Their network’s dead, their leaders gone. We’ve got the city.”

Jay wiped blood from his rifle, nodding. “My routes are secure. No one’s challenging us now.”

Jake closed his laptop, grinning. “Their tech’s offline. I own the grid.”

Sunghoon sheathed his knife, his icy stare softening. “Nothing left to clean up. They’re done.”

Sunoo’s smile was bright but final. “No deals to make. They’ve got no one left to talk.”

Ni-ki tossed a broken drone, smirking. “No traps to escape. We won.”

Jungwon’s grip tightened, his voice a low promise. “Enhypen’s the city’s shadow, and you, Y/N—you’re its heart. We built this empire together.”

You leaned into him, your excitement blazing. “And it’s ours. All of it.”

The brothers gathered, their eyes reflecting respect, a family forged in blood and fire. The city stretched below, its lights steady, its pulse yours to command. The Syndicate was ash, Eclipse a memory, and Enhypen stood unchallenged, rulers of the shadows.

Jungwon turned to you, his smirk softening, his hand cupping your face. “We did it, love. The city’s ours, and so are you.”

You laughed, bold and free, your hand in his. “Always yours. Now let’s rule.”

The brothers nodded, weapons stowed, their faces lit with victory. The Zenith’s roof was silent, the war over, the city bowing to Enhypen’s reign. You stood with Jungwon, your empire secured, your bond unbreakable—a saga of blood, power, and love that burned brighter than any Netflix epic, its final chapter written in the ashes of your enemies.

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[liuhsng]

───〃⋆⭒˚.⋆ UNTOUCHABLE MASTERLIST

⤷ nsfw content ahead, minors do not interact

seven pureblooded alphas. bound by legacy and power. in a world where instincts rule and bonds can break you, each one has a story—of control, resistance, obsession.

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ taglist — closed ⤷ appreciation post ⤷ warnings — omegaverse au, this series contains mature themes, smut (some), toxic dynamics, and angst | to be read in order : jungwon, heeseung, sunoo, sunghoon, jake, jay, and ni-ki ⤷ a/n — i started this series all the way back in 2021, but disappeared for 4 years before finally continuing it around december 2024. i finished and edited all parts of the series this 2025—so this really feels like the end of a long journey. enjoy reading, my loves 🤍

✩ˎˊ˗ how to claim an omega ( yjw ! )

⤷ read here

⤷ pairing — jungwon x fem!reader

⤷ summary — yang jungwon has always been the definition of the word “perfect.” people around him practically praised him, kissed the ground he walked on, and bent to his every move. even when it came to girls, countless omegas threw themselves at the pureblooded alpha, but the oh-so perfect yang jungwon never paid them any mind because he already has his eyes set on a certain timid omega who’d been fumbling her way out of his reach at every tur—you. or where it only took him three years and three chances to finally get you.

✩ˎˊ˗ bottom of the chain ( lhs ! )

⤷ read here

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ summary — he was unapproachable, everyone knew that he was one of the people on top of the throne and a person to be looked up upon because of the various talents that he possessed, and it was practically a hidden rule that lee heeseung's omega shouldn't be messed with as much as him. but some others still forget their lowly positions and cross the line. his only instinct? remind those bastards of their lowly statuses in the food chain.

✩ˎˊ˗ breaking point ( ksn ! )

⤷ read here

⤷ pairing — sunoo x fem!reader

⤷ summary — being sunghoon’s younger sister by a year, it was clear to everyone that you were off-limits. sunghoon’s overprotectiveness made it impossible for anyone to forget that, especially sunoo, his best friend. the pink haired alpha, who always saw you as nothing more than his best friend’s little sister. he wasn’t looking for an omega or a mate, and that was that. but when things get heated between the both of you, he had no choice but to confront the feelings he always had for his best friend's younger sister that he couldn't deny anymore.

✩ˎˊ˗ when fate calls ( psh ! )

⤷ read here

⤷ pairing — sunghoon x fem!reader

⤷ summary — as the eldest son of a powerful family, park sunghoon has always followed tradition, dedicating himself to his responsibilities. relationships never crossed his mind, his focus was on the life carefully planned for him. but then there was you, someone he had seen countless times yet never truly noticed until now. when realization dawned on him that you were his mate, it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain. it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain. the unexpeced idea of love terrified him, so he rejected the traditional courting that came with claiming an omega. but as his avoidance hurts you, the high and mighty alpha is forced to confront the truth he’s been running from: some things aren’t meant to be planned.

✩ˎˊ˗ between the shelves ( sjy ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ pairing — jake x fem!reader

⤷ summary — as the only son of a prestigious family and the student council secretary, sim jaeyun—or as his friends like to call him: jake has always been at the top. admired, respected, and burdened by responsibility. he’s used to handling everything himself, ensuring perfection in all that he does. and then there was you, someone he had always seen but never had the chance to approach, until fate handed him the opportunity. hiding from relentless admirers, he found himself in the library, where, to his surprise, you weren’t just another passing face. jake has always adored the idea of having a mate, but he never rushed fate, until you. before he knows it, meetings no longer hold his full attention, tasks he once insisted on doing himself are left to others, all so he can be near you.

✩ˎˊ˗ no-fly zone ( pjs ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ pairing — jay x fem!reader

⤷ summary — park jongseong—better known as jay, had everything: wealth, power, and a name that carried undeniable influence. a pureblooded alpha and the only son of a family that dominated the aviation industry, he was sharp enough to take over the business and reckless enough to make the upper-ups lose patience. despite his position as student council treasurer, his reputation preceded him: missed deadlines, flawless grades, and a habit of picking the wrong fights. their solution? a tutor. a glorified babysitter. and, of course, it had to be you. an omega with a spotless record, a name as weighty as his own, and an infuriating presence that had always stood in his way. your families worked together, but you and jay never had. now, forced into each other’s space, the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous begins to blur.

✩ˎˊ˗ always been yours ( nk ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ summary — nishimura riki has never been good at sharing. not his things, not his time—and definitely not you. his childhood best friend, his first love, the one person he thought would always be by his side, and the one person who left without warning five years ago. now, out of nowhere, you’re back. still familiar, still his, and suddenly surrounded by alphas who don’t know where they stand. ni-ki isn’t the type to say how he feels. but he’s also not the type to sit back and watch someone else try to take what’s his. especially not when everyone already knows who you belong to.

series taglist — @hoonbrry @hime98 @chae-darling @moonchus @peatchiedii @creamkwan @nyfwyeonjun @whoe-dis @woonie-muffin @caelumsjy @90sni-ki @leiomorea @junjungsunwoo @in-somnias-world @notcamii @yizhoutv @lovesickth @elairah @graythecoffeebean @skyearby @ikeumina @blckorchidd @littlebambi-isdee @immelissaaa @jakesfurry @dreamy-carat @cristy-101 @m1kkso @h4niyahcar @firstclassjaylee @skyearby @hello0i @koizekomi @deluluscenarios @hooniehon @heelovesmeknot @petalsofink @sjyuns @jaerisdiction @baedreamverse @notcamii @nishiinightz @kissesfromdarling

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[jongst4r]

between sheets (p.jay)

in which you and your best friend end up sharing a bed on a weekend getaway and everything changes

pairing: best friend!jay x fem!reader || wc: 9.7k || cw: fluff, smut! best friends to lovers, kissing, making out, praise, fingering, oral (f. rec), breast + nipple play, p in v, protected sex (we cheered!!), dirty talk, use of petnames, light-hearted teasing, swearing, slight hair pulling, slight marking, multiple orgasms, cum eating, playful restrain (just once, nothing too serious), so much lovemaking and sweetness :c (they’re so in love it’s almost disgusting) || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: i was so excited to write this oh my god,,, istg i never knew i was so into this tropes before </3 tysm to the lovely (non)anon for the request ilysm

you are the kind of person who packs too many scarves “just in case.” you are loud when you laugh, bad at parallel parking, and you still have that mixtape (yes, the old one) shoved behind a stack of books. you keep small things from your past — ticket stubs, a friendship bracelet jay made you when you were twelve — because they feel like proof that some parts of you don’t have to change. you are the one who still drags your feet through childhood neighborhoods when you’re nostalgic, who knows every stupid joke jay ever makes by heart. you are the person who, when things go wrong, texts him four words and somehow feels like the world rights itself: "please, pick me up."

jay is the steady one, he carries himself like someone who’s always been slightly ahead of the rest of the world. jay is the person who remembers your weird food order and sends you memes at two a.m. when you’re stressed. jay is the friend who will shove half your suitcase into his bag because you insist on carrying everything. he’s been there since backyard forts and playground vows. he’s the one with a measured laugh that comes late and soft, with hands that are always busy — checking a schedule, fixing the strap on your backpack, reaching for the jar of coffee without thinking. he is both impossibly steady and wildly impulsive. best friends since childhood, he knows which part of your pizza you always give up and can read the exact tone in your voice that means you need him without you having to say a word. he knows you in a way most people never will.

you’ve been planning this weekend for weeks: two nights away from the city, a small coastal town with a hotel that promises sea views and soft linen. the trip is a way for you to “decompress,” though you both know it’s a selfish excuse to spend some time with the person you adore the most. you both need the quiet; you both crave the plainness of two people who can be entirely themselves without the rest of the world.

you meet at jay’s apartment early on saturday. he’s already waiting by the door in an old band tee and jeans, hair messed up like he’s been up later than normal. when you walk in, he grins. “ready for an escape?” he asks, voice half-joke, half-relief.

“always,” you say, dropping your bag and grabbing the travel mug he hands you. it’s still warm. you both stand in the doorway for a second, jay nudges your shoulder. “let’s go get some fresh air.”

the drive there is effortless because he makes it so. windows down, music up. jay is a playlist master: he builds the soundtrack like he’s building the mood. his selections are small treasures — an old ballad you loved in high school, a song that you used to hum after an exam, a track you two once danced to in the kitchen at two in the morning. he sings along with the music, fingers drumming the steering wheel, and you watch the way sunlight lines his jaw when he smiles at a lyric. conversation is a steady stream of anecdotes, inside jokes, and comfortable silences where no one feels the need to fill the space.

“remember when we tried to build that tree fort?” jay asks, voice soft with the kind of fondness that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“the one we almost set on fire?” you remind him, though the memory is fuzzy and ridiculous. you both laugh like it’s a secret you’ve shared too many times.

“i’ve got a vivid memory of my dad panicking and running when he saw you trying to light the lighter,” jay says, and you snort, pushing your hair back with a hand.

“you were the one who suggested setting the leaves on fire!” you point out.

“that’s because you were the one who suggested having a fireplace!” he retorts.

“nuh-uh, i was the architect. you were the disaster specialist.”

he grins, eyes warm. “okay, i’ll accept that title. disaster specialist. it fits.”

by the time the coastline unfurls, the town greets you with warm light and a salty breeze that makes your scalp tingle.

the plan is simple: wander, eat, and do nothing you would normally schedule. the first stop is a small café with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. you both order the same thing without planning it. “of course we did,” jay says when the server walks away. “we’re synced.”

you sit, and conversation moves between silly and comfortable. you talk about the dumb things you did in school, the band practices that always ended in pizza, the way jay once tried to convince you that he could beatbox. you both laugh until your stomachs ache. “you sounded like a dying walrus,” you say, wincing with the memory.

“i was talented,” jay protests, mock-hurt. “and you never appreciated artistry.”

“i did appreciate it,” you lie, smiling. the truth is, you appreciated everything about him — the way he told stories, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the soft way he checked if you were okay.

after coffee, you wander down the pier together. the sea stretches into a steady horizon, glittering under the afternoon sun; warmth settles on the back of your neck and the breeze smells like salt and summer. jay walks just half a step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, until something catches his eye: a seagull swoops down, triumphant, clutching someone’s sandwich in its beak.

“i wonder what that reminds me of…” he says, voice dripping with mischief.

you glare at him, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”

he smirks. “jay—”

“i’m just saying, it’s impressive. most people only get their sandwich stolen once.”

you elbow him sharply. “i was six, and you were the one supposedly taking care of my food, you moron!”

he laughs, the sound bright and familiar, and nudges a puddle with his shoe. a thin arc of water sprays your jeans

“jay!” you yelp.

he shrugs innocently. “oops.”

you flick water back at him with your fingers — which, somehow, only splashes your own shoes. he bursts out laughing.

“that was the saddest attempt i’ve ever—”

before he can finish, you launch a real attack: kicking at the puddle with enough force to send a wave toward him. he dodges, still laughing, and you chase him down the pier, both of you splashing like children who’ve never grown up. your laughter mixes with the cries of gulls and the hush of the sea. it feels stupid and perfect.

when you finally slow down, breathless and damp, you notice a couple of people walking by — older, maybe tourists — who glance at the two of you and smile. one of them nudges the other, and there’s a tiny, knowing look passed between them. the kind of look people give when they see two people who clearly adore each other, even if neither of them is saying it out loud yet. jay notices, too. he tilts his head towards them, then towards you.

“what was that about?” he asks, light but curious.

you shrug, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, his shoulder brushing yours.

“no idea,” you say — though your heart knows exactly.

after your clothes have been dried by the sun, you stop at a surf shack and decide to try the foam boards. “how hard can it be?” jay asks, grinning. he’s confident, and you know that sometimes his body can do the things his voice promises. the sea is cold but the sun makes up for it. you fall more than you stand, both of you laughing at each other’s ungraceful attempts. when you finally ride a small, sloppy wave, it feels like a victory. as the sun starts to lower, you both sit on a towel and watch the light go gold. jay tells a story about being lost when he was a kid — how he ended up in an ice cream truck because he followed the smell.

you tell him about a karaoke night with your friends which ended in a sore throat the next morning. jay watches your face as you talk like he’s memorizing it. when he tells his story, you see him soften in a way that surprises you: his voice drops, and his hands move in wide, careful circles as if tracing a figure on the sand.

dinner is small and warm. fairy lights hang low. you split a plate and an extra dessert because jay insists. “there’s always room for more dessert,” he says like it’s a moral code he follows strictly. you eat and joke and the conversation turns to the stuff that matters in tiny ways — your worries, the internships you both consider, the small fears.

the drive to the hotel is quiet in a comfortable way, you both feel tired in the best kind of way.

the hotel is a low building with whitewashed walls and a small, flourishing garden. it smells like lemon and seawater at the door, and for a beat you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. jay parks in a spot that has been gloriously unclaimed, and you step out together, shoulder to shoulder — the sort of unspoken choreography that makes you both laugh at how simple it feels.

the hotel lobby is cozy: wood floors, an old chandelier, and the receptionist offers a smile that’s almost too sincere. you move like one unit — jay on your left, his hand occasionally brushing the small of your back when the pavement dents or the door takes a gust of wind.

“welcome,” the receptionist says, handing you a key each. the keys are small metal things on old-fashioned loops. jay takes both and jokes about keeping them safe like they’re tiny treasures. the check-in goes smoothly. there’s a mild disappointment in the clerk’s face when he says over the computer, “we have you down for a double room… oh.” the clerk’s face changes. “i’m so sorry,” he says, scrolling. “there was a booking error. and— um—”

your stomach does a small, reflexive flip. “what kind of error?” you ask.

“the hotel is overbooked tonight. it looks like someone else booked your room — the double room with twin beds,” he explains, apologetic. “i’m so sorry. we can bump you up to a suite tomorrow, no costs, but tonight… we only have one room available. a standard double with one bed. it’s most likely a mistake on our end, but i can offer a complimentary breakfast, free minibar and a late checkout to make up for it.”

for a second, the news feels like a comic misstep. you both stand there blinking like two people on a sitcom. “one bed?” you repeat, because the idea is ridiculous and, somehow, makes your pulse skip.

you and jay exchange a glance so practiced it feels like a private joke handed down through years. jay’s brow arches, eyes searching your face as if to see how you’ll react. there’s a moment where you both silently consider demanding a refund and stomping out, but the tiredness in your limbs argues for a place to rest. you’ve come for quiet, and a little awkward intimacy in a single bed is still better than having to drive to the closest hotel possible.

jay rubs his forehead, then shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “we can share,” he says, the kind of simple solution he’s always offered when things go sideways.

“or i can sleep on the floor,” you offer, half-joke, half-serious. “i have a flexible spine.” he laughs.

“no way. we’re grown-ups. we’ll share.” his voice is steady. you feel easier because he always makes the small panic smaller.

“we’ll take it,” jay says finally, his voice steady. “one room. one bed. seems… cozy.”

the receptionist’s smile brightens like the problem is solved. you both pay the fee for the two nights and grab your keys. the elevator ride up is bright with awkward jokes. jay jokes about who will get which side of the bed, about knee territory.

“i get the window side,” you say, claiming it like a prize.

“fine, i get the remote,” he counters. “and the top sheet.”

the room is not big, but it is simple and kind, a wide window faces the ocean. the bed looks smaller than in the picture, white sheets tucked into a neat fold, but it still takes up most part of the room. there’s a vase with fresh flowers on the bedside table and a note from management, apologizing for the mix-up. there’s a soft hum in the air-conditioning, and the town’s urgency feels miles away.

you both make rituals out of mundane things: tossing your bags in a corner, ordering two glasses of iced water and a plate of fries to share. jay takes the window seat, tucking his feet under him and watching the waves. you sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and the two of you settle into the unpretentious ease that’s defined your friendship for years.

“should we go out after this?” you ask after a while. “walk the beach near here? grab some snacks for later?”

jay glances at you and then the bed, a tiny smirk threatening mischief. “or,” he says slowly, “we could stay here, watch that awful romcom on the hotel channel, and eat these fries until our stomachs hurt.”

you groan, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “eat fries until our stomachs hurt… what are we, twelve?”

you spend the late afternoon (after eating the whole plate of fries, that is) wandering the coastal streets: an old bookshop tucked between a fishmonger and a café, a little stall selling the most amazing scented candles, an ice cream place where jay insists you try a flavor called sea-salt caramel that you didn’t believe would be good but turns out to be divine. you throw yourself into the city’s rhythm — quiet markets, low-slung houses with wind-bent palms, the tang of salt on your lips. the sun slants golden and the ocean is a constant mood, a low storyboard of waves that outlines your day.

when evening comes, you head to a local bistro and order some plates to share. the conversation is easy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes teasing. you revisit old embarrassments as though they are moments you both cherish, and you discover new quick truths: jay’s soft spot for an old childhood teacher, how he still hums that ridiculous jingle he used to perform for neighborhood kids, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like he’s remembering something sweet. you find yourself leaning in more than usual, drawn to small gestures that have always been there but suddenly feel more luminous.

“do you ever think about how different things would be if we hadn’t been stuck living two houses apart?” you ask, swirling the rim of your glass.

jay pauses, lifting his fork like he’s considering the question as carefully as a strategic play. “no,” he says eventually. “maybe it would be different. but i like the way we’ve been pegged to each other — like a pair of constant variables. you know?”

you do. you know because jay has been constant in your calculus of life — the equation that solved itself with him in it. “i like it too,” you say, and mean it.

back at the hotel, the night unfurls with small rituals. you brush your teeth in the bathroom together because it feels like something you’ve always done, even though it’s oddly intimate, and you both laugh when a toothbrush falls and clatters. you change into pajamas in the same room, without looking at each other. it’s no big deal, because there’s years of trust there.

after closing the balcony’s door, you come back to the room while jay reads aloud the silly poem that was printed on the hotel pamphlet, turning it into a mock-serious performance.

“i have the perfect plan for tomorrow’s night,” he announces in a dramatic whisper, making you snort. “we conquer the buffet and then we empty the mini bar which, by the way, is free because of the hotel room thing.”

“incredible strategy, commander,” you mumble, tossing a pillow at him.

when you crawl into bed, the mattress feels even smaller than you thought. you both lie down on your backs, the covers tucked and your knees up. the hotel window shows the sliver moon and a smear of town lights. you don’t turn off the lamps because it feels like the night wants to be watched.

“i can feel it already… destiny. fate. the universe preparing to kick us with food poisoning from the buffet and—”

“what are you doing?” you ask, and he just grins.

“i’m narrating our lives. also, i never get to be dramatic out loud with anyone except you.”

the warmth in your chest is a gentle pressure.

you settle closer, legs tangling accidentally, and the bed feels too familiar and too intimate at once. there’s nothing sudden or electric in that moment — just the friendly gravity that has always existed between you two, the small ease that comes from a thousand shared food, errands and late-night confessions.

the distance closes so naturally you barely register it. one moment you’re side by side, and the next his foot nudges yours, a small accidental press that sends a quiet ripple through your chest. he doesn’t joke like he usually does. he just looks at you for a second — too long, too gentle — before glancing back at the ceiling. then, jay shifts, trying to get comfortable, and ends up knocking your knee.

“sorry,” he says softly — then adds, “but also… it’s your fault for having knees.” you snort, but you don’t move away. neither does he.

jay reaches for the remote, tapping your ankle with it. “okay,” he announces, “since your knees started this war, i get to pick the movie.”

“that’s not how this works,” you mutter, but you’re already smiling.

he scrolls until he finds a romcom with a 23% rating and a poster that looks like it was made in microsoft paint.

“perfect,” he declares.

“that looks terrible.”

“exactly, a cinematic masterpiece.”

he presses play, and the two of you settle closer, shoulders brushing as the opening credits flash like a warning.

later, long after the film fades and the television hums low, you find yourselves wide awake.

it’s the kind of quiet that makes every sound amplified; the ticking clock sounds like an orchestra. the ocean mutters in the background; a faint glow from the street below paints the curtains silver. you lie on opposite sides at first, an unconscious measure of space between your shoulders, but there’s something in the air that nudges at the perimeter.

you start with small talk — funny comments about the hotel’s art, the exact color of the blanket, how the protagonist of the last movie was an idiot — and then sink into quieter conversation. then you talk about work, about the small mistakes and the things that made you proud that day. the conversation is slow and easy. you nudge his knee with your foot and he squeezes your ankle in return, not even looking at you. the small touches are normal for you; they mean nothing more than warmth in the moment, but they make your heart skip a beat.

after a while the talk goes softer. jay says, “i’m glad we did this.” you answer, “me too.” he turns his head to look at you, face lit by the moonlight and softer than you remember in normal days.

“i don’t like being away from all of this,” he says, voice quiet. “i mean, from home, from my friends, from my family… from you.”

you feel a little jolt. “from me?” you ask, trying to make your voice casual.

“yeah. it’s weird,” he says, fingers tracing an absent path on the sheet. “i just… i like this. being with you like this. no pretending. no schedules. just us two.”

“i feel the same,” you say, and you mean it.

the room hums. you reach for his hand; your fingers fit his the way they always have. his grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s deciding how much to say. the closeness is comfortable and also suddenly sharper. you both stay awake, talking in half sentences, the kind of talk that means more than the words.

“do you ever think about how long it’s been?” jay asks suddenly, voice soft, not a joke this time.

“how long it’s been… since what?” you reply, turning your head to look at him.

“us,” he says. “you and me. the whole best friends thing. like… how long we’ve had each other.” there’s a hitch at the edge of his voice that makes you sit up a little.

he looks smaller now, exposed in the low glow of the lamp. your heart tugs at the rawness of the moment — the way time has folded you into adjacent lives.

“since kids,” you say, because the answer comes easily. “since we were both too young to know better. you were the one who taught me how to ride a bike after four tries and three scraped knees.”

he laughs then, because he remembers the bandages awkwardly wrapped on your knees.

“and you were the one who hid my vintage baseball cap because you thought it was stupid,” he reminds you, teasing but tender.

you roll your eyes. “it was stupid.”

“so was my hair, that’s why i wanted to hide it,” he says, and you both grin at the shared memory before a comfortable silence settles.

then, like an accidental gradual pull, his hand finds yours again. it’s easy and familiar: fingers slipping into those well-known places, a reflex that has always belonged only to you two. tonight, though, the touch feels charged, like it’s more meaningful than ever. for a second your fingers intertwine, and you turn to look at him fully, as if the light will reveal new shapes.

you tell him a small thing you’ve been holding for a while — how you worry about moving forward and losing pieces of your life that felt safe. he listens and then says, simply, “we’ll keep the important parts. we’ll keep the parts that matter. you’ll never lose me. ever.” his voice is calm but there’s an undercurrent of something else — care that feels weightier than usual.

the mood shifts in little ways. when you laugh, his look lingers. when you reach for the blanket and he helps you pull it, his hand covers yours a fraction longer than it needs to. you both notice but don’t comment. the night tightens from easy to intimate in a way that feels new. you lie facing each other now, closer than when you first got in bed. your shoulders almost touch. the two of you lie close enough that, if you wanted, you could trace the outline of his face with your thumb.

“remember when we used to stay up making forts?” you ask, voice small, half-trying to be playful.

“i remember you stealing my flashlight and refusing to share,” jay replies. he smiles, then grows quiet. his hand caresses yours under the cover, fingers warm around yours, his thumb drawing little circles that slow your breathing. “i like being near you,” he says again, but this time the words sound like a confession instead of a casual note. they hang between you, bright and risky.

you can feel your heart speed up. you look at him, really look — at the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheek, the little scar on his nose.

the hotel room is full of the sound of quiet breathing. the air between you is different now — thiner, charged. you squeeze his hand back and the touch feels like a dare. the shift is gentle but certain: you both feel it, like the tide turning under the shore. you don’t fall asleep, neither of you do. you stay awake with your hands intertwined. what you’ve said is not yet the confession you both are afraid and eager to say, but it’s close enough. so much that the space between your faces feels like a wall you’re both willing to break.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur.

“i’m thinking,” he replies, looking at the ceiling as if the words are hiding up there. “about how different everything would be if i didn’t approach you that day at your porch, if we treated each other like strangers.” he turns his head slightly to meet your eyes. “but we’re not strangers, are we?”

you shake your head. “no. we’re… us.”

“us,” he says, saying the word like it’s a small, sacred thing. jay props himself up on an elbow, the lamp throwing shadows that make his face more serious than you usually see it. “i think i used to think that best friends were supposed to be… a constant. like okay, safe, habitual. and that was enough. but lately—” he pauses, fingers trailing idle patterns on the bedsheet. “lately i can’t tell whether what i feel is just familiarity or something else. something that makes me… not okay with you being with anyone else.”

the sentence drops, and your chest tightens in a way that spins your stomach. you liked to guess that, in small private moments, maybe jay felt things he didn’t say — the same things you felt — but he’s never voiced it like this. the admission is raw and honeyed at the same time.

“do you want to say it?” he asks suddenly, voice so soft it could be mistaken for sleep talking. he’s facing you now, eyes open and honest, the moonlight in the window making his skin look paler and a little electric.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “say what?” you ask, though you already know.

“you know what it is... that,” he says, and his mouth quirks — nervous, silly, resigned. “that thing between us. that i’m tired of pretending doesn’t exist.” he swallows. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t think about you like that.”

your heart stutters. you feel it as a physical thing, as if someone has flicked a switch and warmth is flooding the room. you laugh, a small, incredulous sound that shakes with relief.

“you mean…” you begin, voice small.

“i mean,” he cuts in, not harshly but with a gravity that lands heavy, “i think i like you. more than a friend. and it’s been creeping up on me, and i don’t know when it started exactly, but i know when i notice it now. and it terrifies me because you’re my person. and the idea of losing you to… anything else makes my chest hurt in a way i don’t like.”

“you’re serious.”

“i’m extremely serious. i wouldn’t joke about this.” jay’s hand tightens around yours. “i—i’ve been stupid about it. scared, i guess. scared of what it would do to us. but i can’t keep pretending that i don’t care in a different way.” he breathes, “i like you. like-like you. more than best-friend-like.”

you stare at him for a second — at the honest way his lips tremble when he says the words — and your throat goes dry. the air between you tilts. your heart beats so fast you’re sure he can hear it; a dozen little memories — of his hand brushing yours, of the way he looked at you after your high school show, of how he'd walk you home after parties, of the way he always lent you his jacket — assemble into a shape that suddenly seems obvious. your fingers are limp in the space where his had been; you reach for them without thinking, and his hand closes around yours like a soft, heavy promise.

“i was so sure,” you say finally, and your voice is barely more than a rustle against the linens. “i was sure i was the one being an idiot. that it was only me who wanted more and—” you stop because the words begin to rearrange themselves into something urgent. you inhale, collecting courage. “jay i… i feel the same.”

jay’s shoulders deflate, a laugh escaping him that’s half disbelief and half joy. his face is a map of every possible emotion at once: relief that blooms into disbelief, then something tender and almost shy, like embarrassment and happiness braided together. he swallows audibly, then slides off the edge of the bed to sit beside you, thumb brushing your knuckles in a motion so slow it could be prayer.

“you do?” he asks, voice cracking. “you like me too?”

“i do,” you confirm, before you can overthink it. “i’ve wanted this — wanted you — for a while. and i’ve been trying to tell myself i was imagining things. i kept thinking if i said it out loud everything would change, and i was scared.” your voice thins and then steadies. “but i’m tired of being scared.” you let out a breath, laugh-crying a little. “i’m tired of pretending it hasn’t been you for ages.”

he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and the gesture is tender and sudden. “hey, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “i don’t want to lose us either. but i don’t want to ignore this.”

“so… what do we do?” you whisper, the question monumental in the small room.

your faces are inches apart; you can almost count the soft baby hairs at his temple.

“we start,” he says, and the word feels like a vow. “we try, slowly, brick by brick, step by step. we don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.” you nod, slow and certain.

after seconds of silence, you finally break it.

“i want to,” you echo.

jay opens his mouth, then closes it. “are you sure?” you nod. “you know if we cross this line it’s going to be very hard to—”

“jay,” you stop him, looking into his eyes. “just kiss me already”

and then, in a moment that feels both like a cliff and landing, jay leans in. his lips find yours with a tenderness you’d only imagined in stolen movie scenes. it’s tentative at first — warm, probing — as if he’s afraid to wake something delicate, and you know he’s trying to be gentle because the moment matters. but the kiss soon deepens, becomes a conversation in itself. your hands find the familiar places — the little dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck — and he responds by threading his fingers through your hair, steadying himself against the newness of the feeling.

the world outside the window hums as if nothing at all has changed, but everything has. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours and both of you are breathless, eyes bright and shaking. you both pull back with nervous smiles that turn into laughter because everything feels suddenly lighter and impossibly good.

“god, i can’t believe we’re actually doing this, can you?” jay laughs, looking into your eyes.

you answer by kissing him deeper. this time there’s less carefulness and more hunger — years of small touches and bedside talks turning into something braver. your mouth opens under his, and the world narrows to the taste of him. you feel his breath hitch, a small sound that is part shock, part sweetness.

his hands are not tentative anymore. they travel down your sides, find the curve of your waist, pull you flush against him. you can feel the line of his ribs under the shirt, the steady beat of his heart, a drum that matches yours. he mumbles against your mouth, “i like you. so much. it’s stupid. it’s everything.”

“i love you,” you say before you can stop yourself — your words tumbling out in the dark and landing between you. you don’t take them back. you mean them; the truth feels heavy and right.

jay freezes for the tiniest second, disbelief and joy warring on his face. then he smiles like he’s been given a map to something he’s been searching for without knowing. “god, i love you, i love you too,” he says, and his voice is near-breaking. he says it again, this time firmer, like anchoring himself. “i’ve loved you for ages.”

you both breathe, the confession settling like a warm blanket. then the awkward, perfect, dangerous part: you both laugh because you’re unbelievably relieved and because it feels ridiculous to be this dramatic about words you should have said way sooner.

“so,” jay says, cheek pressed to yours, “now what?”

“now,” you answer, “we stop pretending we don’t want each other?” you murmur, tracing small, teasing, nervous circles on his chest with your fingertip, savoring the steady heat under your skin.

jay chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.” the he licks his lips, leaning against your ear. “but i wouldn’t have you any other way.”

he kisses your temple, then drags his mouth down your neck in slow, tender strokes that make you shiver. “is it okay if i show you how much i’ve wanted this, then?” he asks, the question gentler than the rest. you nod. “let me make this easy for you,” he murmurs, voice huskier now.

he slides his hand down to the small of your back and pulls you flush against him. the contact is immediate, grounding. his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — hungry but still careful, wanting to memorize your reactions. you kiss him back with the same mix of desperation and care.

you can feel the change move through you like heat. jay’s hands are not shy; they explore your curves as if they’ve been waiting for permission. you hook your legs around him, instinctively, and the motion brings you both closer. the covers rustle; the room shrinks to the two of you. you laugh breathlessly against his lips. “we’re idiots,” you whisper.

“big idiots,” he replies, smiling into the kiss, then his voice drops. “i’ve wanted you for so long.” he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

the room condenses to the sound of your breaths and the soft rustle of the covers. the lamps throw a golden halo around you both, and the world outside the window recedes into a wash of distant traffic and the ocean’s hush. his hand slides up your side, careful, asking permission with the lightest pressure; you answer by angling your hip toward him. the motion is tiny, but it says everything you couldn’t say with words.

he keeps talking when he kisses you — low reassurances, little jokes that make you hiccup-laugh between soft, searching kisses. “i could do this forever,” he murmurs against your throat. “i will be very annoying and very attentive. is that okay?” you nod, because yes, yes, yes. your voice would betray you if you tried to say anything else.

suddenly, the room grows even hotter. he begins with soft worship — hands mapping your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the dip of your neck. his mouth follows, leaving kisses that turn into gentle suckles, slow and intimate. every little noise he makes — soft groans, the way his breath catches — makes your pulse quicken.

as his kisses travel further, his hands move with purpose. he peels your shirt up slowly, as if practiced, just as if he was a man who had been rehearsing this exact scene in his head a hundred times. you help as he pauses to kiss the skin he reveals, fingers fumbling at the hem because you want him close, you want nothing between you. the fabric slips away and leaves you bare to the cool air and his eyes.

jay drinks in the sight quietly like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, cheeks flushed and voice thick. it’s clumsy and perfect. “i mean it.”

you feel heat bloom in your chest. “you too,” you breathe. “you’re so, so beautiful.”

his hands find your waist again, pulling you until your bodies are flush. he kisses your throat, then your collarbone, lingering at points that make your back arch. his lips are everywhere, each kiss slow and worshipful. when his hand finds your breast, he cups it like it’s fragile, thumbs rolling your nipple with gentle, exploratory pressure. you gasp.

“you’re so perfect, baby,” he breathes, voice raw. when he finally takes a nipple into his mouth, it’s like a small electric shock — sharp and delicious. he sucks with a mix of need and adoration that makes your knees weak. you moan, which makes him hum against your breast, pleased and needy.

“do you want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin, suddenly cautious.

“no,” you say, breathless. “jay, please, don’t stop.”

encouraged, jay’s mouth moves lower, trailing to the curve of your ribs, the slope of your belly. his hands keep you steady, one at the small of your back, the other sliding between you to trace the line of your hip. he breathes around your navel and then looks up at you, eyes dark with want. “are you sure? i don’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for.” he asks again, though the question is almost theatrical now, given the way your both lusting for each other.

you respond with your own hands, sliding up the back of his pajama shirt, feeling the tension of his muscles. “i’m sure. i want you. i’ve imagined this so many times,” you confess. “i want you so much, jay. i need you so much it hurts.” the confession is private, painful, but liberating to say.

he smiles like someone who finally got permission for something he’s been dreaming of. he answers by settling between your legs, careful as if you might break, but his eyes are bright and fierce with want. you can’t help but moan at the sight of your best friend licking his lip, so eager for your body, for you. “then… should i go on? i’m dying to taste you,” he says, voice low and breathy. you answer by nodding. “words, pretty girl, i need words.” he chuckles, caressing your skin.

you swallow, your throat caught between letting out a laugh or a sob of desperation. “god, jay, yes, please,” you groan, certain. your fingers tighten in the sheet, not out of fear but because you need something to steady you — something that isn’t him for a second, until your breath evens out and you remember how safe his hands always feel.

his hands keep hold of your hips, thumbs pressed into the skin. then his mouth is right there, a kiss low on your belly, slow and adoring, and when his tongue finally slips out it’s like heat and velvet at once. he starts at the curve beneath your ribs, lapping a smooth line down towards your center. the first touch makes you jerk, breath hitching; he hums against you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you, pleased and hungry.

“fuck.” he groans, closing his eyes. and you feel yourself getting even wetter.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the first thing you notice, really notice, while your pulse is hammering against your ribs and the room feels too small for all the air you suddenly need. jay stays on his knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding slow up the backs of your thighs like he has all the time in the world. his eyes flick up to yours, soft and dark and a little wrecked, and he smiles, small, reverent.

“you’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb stroking the crease where your leg meets your hip. “i’ve got you, okay? we can slow down.”

you shake your head before the words even form. “don’t you dare.”

he laughs, quiet, the sound warm against your skin. “okay. okay, baby.”

then he lowers his mouth and kisses you there, once, gentle, right over the cotton of your underwear, like he’s saying hello to something sacred. the second kiss is open-mouthed, hotter, and you feel the heat of his breath soak through the fabric. your hips jerk without permission as a moan escapes your throat.

he hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the last scrap of clothing down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of air replacing it. when you’re bare, he just looks for a long second, eyes glassy, lips parted, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“baby,” he says, reverent. “look at you. you’re so fucking pretty i can’t think straight. god,” he breathes. “you’re so pretty. how are you this pretty everywhere?”

you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, open-mouthed and lazy, like he’s tasting dessert he’s waited years for. every press of his lips is paired with a new praise whispered against your skin.

“so soft… you taste so good already. i’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

the praise lands warm in your chest. he lowers himself between your thighs. his palms slide under you, lifting you gently toward his mouth like an offering.

the first touch of his tongue is soft, just a slow, flat lick from entrance to clit that makes your hips jerk, your back arch clean off the mattress. he groans like you’ve hurt him, arms banding under your thighs to hold you open.

“fuck, there it is,” he says, voice rough with wonder. “that’s my girl.”

he licks again, deeper this time, parting you with the tip of his tongue, tasting you like he’s starved. when he circles your clit, gentle, lazy circles, your breath catches so hard it sounds like a sob. he pulls back just enough to speak.

“you taste so good, sweetheart. i've been dreaming about this. been dying to know what you sound like when you let go for me.”

he settles in like it’s his life’s work. tongue flat and broad at first, just feeling you, learning every twitch and sigh. then he narrows it, circles your clit once, twice, light enough to make you crazy. you thread fingers into his hair and he hums approval, the vibration rolling straight through you.

“don’t be shy, pull harder,” he says against you. “i want to feel you.”

you do. he rewards you by sliding one finger inside, slow, eyes locked on your face to watch every flicker. when you clench around him he curses softly, adds a second, curls them just right.

“perfect,” he whispers. “so perfect for me. you always were.”

he seals his mouth over you and sucks, soft at first, then harder when your fingers fist in his hair. every time you tug, he groans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. his tongue dips inside you, slow thrusts that match the roll of his thumb over your clit, and the room fills with the wet sounds of him devouring you.

“jay,” you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“i know, baby,” he soothes, voice muffled. “i know. just let me take care of you.”

the way he curls his fingers, slow and perfect, stroking the exact spot, makes your back arch clean off the bed. his mouth never leaves your clit, licking, sucking, fluttering, sucking again until your legs try to close on instinct. he just gentles them open with his shoulders, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“stay open for me, love. wanna see all of you. wanna watch you fall apart on my tongue.”

he finds a rhythm that makes your thighs start to tremble, mouth relentless, fingers steady and deep. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering, kissing your clit like an apology before he starts again. you’re babbling his name, pleas, broken little sounds you didn’t know you could make.

“jay, please, i’m so close i can’t—”

“i know, baby, i know. let me take care of you. you deserve it, you deserve everything.”

he sucks your clit gently, crooking his fingers at the same time, and the orgasm rolls over you slow and huge, like a wave that starts at your toes and crashes behind your eyes. you cry out, hips grinding against his face, and he works you through it, soft licks and praises the whole time.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your thighs. “my beautiful girl, i love watching you fall apart.”

when you finally fall against the pillows, he crawls up your body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s hovering over you, mouth shiny, eyes dazed.

“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, voice cracked open.

you don’t waste another second: you pull him down into a kiss and taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and perfect. he groans into your mouth, hips rolling instinctively against yours.

“i need you,” he says against your lips. “i need to be inside you. can i?” he says it like a prayer, lips brushing yours.

you nod, frantic. “yes. yes, jay, please.”

he pulls back just far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer. his fingers close around the little foil square and you both freeze for half a heartbeat, staring at it like it’s evidence.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across your face even as your cheeks burn.

“wait,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, hair falling messily over one shoulder. “did you… pack condoms for our little platonic weekend getaway?”

jay’s ears go scarlet. he tries to look dignified and fails completely. “i—”

“be honest,” you tease, poking his chest. “did you stand in the drugstore aisle going “hmm, better grab a three-pack just in case my best friend finally lets me ruin our friendship”?”

he groans, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, but he’s laughing, muffled and embarrassed. “shut up.”

“no, no, i need details.” you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. “how many scenarios did you run in that pretty head? did you practice this moment in the mirror?”

“i hate you,” he mutters, but he’s grinning so wide the crinckles by their eyes are showing. “i threw them in at the last second, okay? i told myself it was… responsible. like life-jacket thinking. just in case we, i don’t know, got on a boat, got shipwrecked and needed to improvise a water pouch or something.”

you burst out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet room. “a water pouch. smooth, park.”

he hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “i was delusional and hopeful and terrified all at once. sue me.”

you soften, running your fingers through his hair. “so you’ve been carrying around the possibility of us for months?”

he lifts his head, eyes suddenly serious even while his cheeks are still pink. “years,” he corrects quietly. “i just finally grew a spine tonight.”

the laughter fades into something tender and huge. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “come here, you optimistic little boy scout.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s trying to say thank you and sorry and finally all at once.

you take the packet from his unsteady fingers, tear it open with your teeth because you can’t resist the way his breath catches, as much as you can’t stand not touching him another second. when you roll the condom down his length he’s trembling, biting his lip so hard you’re worried he’ll leave marks.

you guide him back to you with both hands on his hips, fingers pressing gentle crescents into his skin. he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his shoulders, his thighs his breath, like every nerve is lit up and waiting for permission. when the blunt head of him nudges against you, he stops. just stops. forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, sharing the same ragged air.

“tell me again,” he breathes, voice shredded. “please.”

you cup his face, thumb sweeping the sharp line of his cheekbone. “i love you, jay,” you say, clear and steady even though your heart is sprinting. “i want you. i want this. i only ever wanted this with you.”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like the words are almost too much. when they open again they’re glassy, stunned, impossibly soft.

and because you can’t help yourself, because you need to see him laugh one more time before everything changes forever, you lean up and whisper against his mouth, “for the record… best emergency preparedness ever.”

a broken laugh punches out of him, half sob, half joy. “you’re the worst,” he chokes, but he’s smiling so wide it almost dimples both cheeks.

then the smile fades into something raw, and he pushes in.

slow. god, so slow you feel every single inch like it’s being carved into you. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale shakily when he’s halfway. he pauses again, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump, you hear him swear under his breath.

“it’s okay, jay,” you whisper, stroking his back. “i’ve got you too.”

he nods against your forehead and sinks the rest of the way in one smooth, trembling glide until there’s no space left between you. the sound he makes is wrecked, animal, grateful. he bottoms out and just stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you, breathing like he’s run miles.

“fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “fuck, you feel,” he swallows hard, tries again. “you feel like home. like every place i’ve ever wanted to be.”

your throat closes. you wrap your legs higher around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the tiny shift in angle makes you both gasp.

“move,” you beg quietly. “please move.”

he does.

long, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot like he already knows your body by heart. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and awed, lips parted. every time he pulls almost all the way out and slides back in he whispers something new against your skin.

“i love you,” he mumbles. “you’re so warm, so perfect… fuck, i can’t believe i get to call you mine.”

you meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, nails raking lightly down his spine. the rhythm builds steady and deep, not fast, never fast, like you have years to make up for and all the time in the world to do it. the headboard taps softly against the wall in a lazy, hypnotic beat that matches the hush of the ocean outside.

he kisses you constantly, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every sound you make. when he angles his hips just right you see stars; your back arches and he groans like it hurts him how good you feel.

“right there, yeah? you want it there?” he asks, voice hoarse, doing it again, again, and again.

you can’t answer with words, just nod frantically and pull him down for a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue and pure need. sweat gathers where your bodies are pressed together, skin sliding slick and perfect. the room smells like salt and sex and the faint lemon of hotel soap and jay, always jay.

he buries his face in your neck, kissing the skin there, sucking gentle marks. the rhythm stays slow, deep, grinding on every thrust so his pelvis rubs your clit and you see stars. you can feel another orgasm building, softer this time, deeper.

“jay,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “i’m close again.”

“i know,” he breathes, lifting his head to watch you. “i want you to come around me this time. i want to feel you let go while i’m inside you.”

he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and circles once, twice, gentle but relentless. your thighs start to shake against his sides and the orgasm rolls through you like warm honey, endless and shattering. you clench hard around him, crying out his name into his mouth, and the feeling of you coming undone around him finally breaks his control.

he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips stuttering, face buried in the damp curve of your neck. you feel him pulse inside you, again and again, each throb matched by a broken whisper of your name like it’s the only word he remembers until he finally spills inside you.

“jay, i love you,” you’re able to whimper. “i love you so much.”

after, he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays inside you, kissing your face, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, until you’re both giggling breathlessly at how tender it all is. his arms are trembling as they hold his weight off your chest, breath sawing in and out against your throat. you stroke his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, anywhere you can reach, until the shaking stops.

when he finally pulls out it’s careful, almost reluctant. eventually he ties off the condom and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest. your legs tangle automatically. the room smells like sex and salt air and the two of you. he lifts his head. his eyes are a little red, wet at the corners, and he looks so young and stunned and happy it punches the air out of you.

“hi,” he whispers, voice completely shot.

you laugh, watery and wrecked. “hi.”

you end up half on top of him, cheek over his heart, one of his hands splayed possessively across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair. your legs are still intertwined, sticky and perfect.

the room is quiet except for breathing and the far-off shush of waves. moonlight has shifted; silver stripes paint his collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

after a minute he starts laughing, soft and disbelieving.

“what?” you mumble into his skin.

“i just had sex with my best friend,” he says, like he’s testing the sentence for flaws and finding none. “and it was,” his voice cracks again. “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you press a kiss over his heart. “same.”

he squeezes you tighter. “we’re gonna be so annoying now.”

“the most annoying,” you agree, smiling against his chest. “oh, and, for the record, i’m not letting you leave this bed until we have to check out.”

“deal.” he tips your chin up, eyes shining.

for a long time you just breathe together. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back.

“so,” he says finally, voice hoarse and soft, “what do we do now?”

you press your smile into his collarbone. “we date, i guess?”

he huffs a laugh. “yeah. we date. like, officially. you’re my girlfriend.”

the word makes something warm unfurl in your chest. “and you’re my boyfriend.”

“boyfriend,” he repeats, testing it, grinning. “i like that. a lot.”

you prop your chin on his chest to look at him. “people are gonna lose their minds.”

“let them.” he brushes your hair back. “my mom is gonna cry happy tears, and my own dad is gonna threaten to kill me if i hurt you.”

you snort. “he’ll have to get in line behind your grandma.”

jay’s quiet for a second, thumb stroking your cheek. “are you scared?”

you think about it, his thumb stroking your hip.

“a little,” you admit. “but mostly i’m… relieved.”

you turn in his arms so you’re face to face again.

“just so you know... i want mornings,” he says suddenly. “i want to wake up and make your coffee the way you like it, too much sugar, no matter how wrong it is. i want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes and then make out against the fridge anyway. i want boring tuesday nights on the couch and big stupid anniversary trips and,” his voice cracks a little, “and i want to come home to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”

tears prick your eyes without warning.

“yes,” you whisper. “yes to all of it.”

he kisses you again, slow and sweet, like sealing a vow.

“i’ve been scared for years that one day you’d bring someone home and i’d have to smile and be happy for you while my chest caved in.” jay confesses. “but this is better. this is so much better.”

you kiss the center of his palm. “no more pretending.”

“no more pretending,” he echoes. “i get to hold your hand in public. kiss you when i want. tell everyone you’re mine.”

“possessive you is unexpectedly hot,” you tease.

he rolls you gently so you’re under him again, wrists pinned lightly above your head. “you have no idea.”

you arch up to kiss him, slow and lazy. when you break apart he rests his forehead against yours.

“we’ll take it slow with everyone else,” he says seriously. “we’ll tell our families first. then the group chat can explode. but us... we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. we just keep being us, but now i get to love you out loud.”

your eyes sting a little. “i like the sound of that.”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “good. because i plan on being disgustingly in love with you for a very long time.”

you laugh, watery. “disgustingly in love?”

“oh yeah. i’m talking matching halloween costumes, instagram hard launch in like, a week, writing songs about you… the whole cringe package.”

“i can’t wait.” you smile.

he settles beside you again, pulling the sheet up over both of you. you curl into his side, ear over his heart.

“jay?”

“mhm?”

“i’m really glad the hotel messed up the booking.

he laughs, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “me too, baby. me too.”

you talk until the sky outside starts to pale. about stupid little things — who gets the left side of the bed at home, whether you’ll keep separate toothbrushes at each other’s places or just share, if you’ll tell your friends or let them figure it out when you don’t stop touching each other —, and big things — moving in together one day, maybe in a year, maybe sooner; how you’ll handle fights when they come, because they will; how you’ll protect this new, bright thing between you.

and every time one of you starts to worry, the other kisses it quiet.

at some point you must doze off, because you wake to jay pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, whispering, “morning, girlfriend.”

you smile into the pillow. “morning, boyfriend.

outside, the waves keep rolling in, steady and sure, just like the two of you now, finally on the same page.

© jongst4r, 2025

taglist: @miraeluv @redessertired @oregonalii @simbabyikeu @seyjy @areikii @jaysendgame @andieekosmos @himynameisraelynn @tulipyaaa @sumzysworld

[starry-eyed-bimbo]

I NEED TO RANT ABOUT THIS WEBSITE OMG!!!!!

It's so fucking good😫 and I think all fanfic author's should use it atp

I went down a rabbit hole in Japan's fanfic community and might I say that I like this website better than Tumblr and Wattpad and AO3!!!.

They have features that allow you to change the protagonists name aka the reader into your own name

And omfg it's so good😫😫😫

If you dk Japanese just use the website and use the translation feature on Chrome and your set!!!

If you're looking for enhypen x reader Fics just search (enhypen 夢小説 ) try it you won't regret it!!!!!

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — p.sh

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 32k words

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: park sunghoon unexpectedly forces his way into your life by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. he’s been your sworn enemy for as long as you can remember but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go and how much you’re willing to lose, for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: college au, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!sunghoon, power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, spitting, degradation, oral sex, overstimulation, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship, graphic descriptions, emotional manipulation, depictions of toxic relationships, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships, mentions of alcohol consumption,, sunghoon can be seen as very toxic, he’s very hot headed, irrational, people pleaser, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of enhypen '02 liners and the rest of the members, some nct members and jihyo! oh and areum and saeryeong are oc’s! 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

Heeseung doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid; he struggles because he moves too fast for the world to keep up. You noticed it the first day: his notebook looks like it’s been through a storm, corners dog-eared, formulas scattered in restless, barely-there handwriting, pages torn at the margins as if blame could be ripped out by force. He’s all twitching knees and bitten pencil ends, brain sprinting ahead, leaving his pen abandoned somewhere in the dust. You, on the other hand, are the opposite, calm, methodical, notebook open to pages that look like they could be sold as templates, everything ruled and precise.

The morning light streams in, pale and cold, painting washed-out stripes across the lacquered tables. There’s a chill in the library, the sort that makes everyone hunch closer to their books, bundled in knit scarves and the scent of old paper. Pens scratch and pages turn, but the only real noise is Heeseung’s sigh of frustration, breaking the silence like a ripple in still water.

“Don’t rush.” Your words are soft but clipped, each one chosen with deliberate care. “You’re skipping the variable here, Heeseung, because you want to be finished, not correct. That’s why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Heeseung leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table, to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look, the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels, sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels youc, it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Heeseung pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments, analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Heeseung glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks, you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved, players, coaches, even the crowd, respond to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress, like heart rate, if I can get it but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects, like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Jake?” Heeseung’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Jake. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Jake has always been a steady presence, not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Jake has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe. 

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Jake doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude, it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Jake will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Jake isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Jake doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Heeseung chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Heeseung. It’s efficient.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something, or rather, someone, has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Heeseung’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Park Sunghoon strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Heeseung, not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Heeseung, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Sunghoon’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question, it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Heeseung’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Sunghoon doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break, you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Sunghoon drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the best grades in our entire cohort, after me of course,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Jake, stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Sunghoon’s teeth grind. Jake isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Sunghoon doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Sunghoon’s jaw tighten. Jake doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Sunghoon has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Sunghoon fought for. Worse, Jake isn’t just a part of the team, he’s in Sunghoon’s way, shifting the balance Sunghoon worked so hard to control.

Jake’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Sunghoon’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan, a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Jake’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Sunghoon has no intention of losing.

Sunghoon sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental, it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him, it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you, part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Sunghoon doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter, it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Heeseung leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Sunghoon just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Heeseung’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Sunghoon, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach, on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion. 

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Sunghoon doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds, it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay, leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Heeseung take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight, its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Heeseung, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Heeseung says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Sunghoon’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver. 

Heeseung chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court, away from the noise, he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound, the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Heeseung doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before, not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion, it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle, it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline, a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Jake. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Saeryeon stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Sunghoon’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort, it’s precision. She reminds you of Jake, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Sunghoon, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Jake. Sunghoon belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction, it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Jake.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Jake has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room, they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Jake, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Saeryeon and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Saeryeon leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Jake, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself, steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Jake lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Jake, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open, this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Jake opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on, it’s my choice every time.”

Jake furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Jake just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Jake huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you—not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Saeryeon and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Saeryeon turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Saeryeon, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference. 

Saeryeon doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice, it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Saeryeon’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Jake.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you, you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way, to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains, a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Jake had been watching you this whole time, since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before, the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Saeryeon and Areum command attention, as always. Saeryeon’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Jake knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Saeryeon, laughing lightly as Saeryeon’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Saeryeon’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Saeryeon’s words or Areum’s laughter, it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Jake forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Saeryeon and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Saeryeon’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter, her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Jake’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Jake doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Saeryeon shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Jake says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Saeryeon falters, her eyes flick to Jake, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Jake,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting, her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Jake doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Jake and Saeryeon before settling on the floor.

Jake doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Saeryeon’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Jake,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Jake doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Jake doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Sunghoon commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice, not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Saeryeon had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Jake wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on, not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Jake’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before, another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you, not crushing, but constant, a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Jake watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares, more than you’ll ever realize, and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Jake, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you, not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Sunoo’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Sunoo strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Ni-ki’s already laughing, Jay has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Hyeju, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Sunoo, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Sunoo drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Sunoo’s jab, Ni-ki grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true, you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Jake, his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Ni-ki, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your seat as Jay plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jay says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Sunoo is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Sunoo’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm, it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh, even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Ni-ki pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Jay doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Jake’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Sunghoon’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Sunghoon’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Sunghoon, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Jake, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly, physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Jake for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Jake, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Sunoo’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Jake Sim, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Ni-ki pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Jay leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Jake as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Jake seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Sunoo narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles, Jake Sim with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Ni-ki shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Jay exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Jake every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves, calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Sunoo doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Jake Sim is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Jay leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Ni-ki nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Jake glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Jake play a hundred times before, on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Jake stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Jake moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Jake,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Jay shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Sunoo’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Sunghoon Park, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Sunghoon, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Sunghoon near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention, and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Jake, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Jake sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Sunghoon doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Minho Park, Jake’s and Sunghoon’s father, stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Sunghoon is striking, the sharp jaw, the controlled stance, but where Sunghoon’s tension simmers, Minho’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Sunghoon, Jake, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

The truth of it is, Sunghoon and Jake are estranged brothers, only linked by Minho’s blood and nothing more. They share a father but nothing of a childhood, and certainly nothing of a home. Jake is older by a handful of months, a technicality that never made him feel like a firstborn. Minho got Jake’s mother, Irene, pregnant while they were still in high school, then left her to fend for herself, moving on with Seulgi before Irene even had a chance to give birth. Only a few months after Jake’s arrival, Sunghoon was born, wrapped in the privilege of a family name, never ending wealth, a house with two parents, a father who showed up, at least in public, at least for appearances.

Jake grew up knowing what it meant to be abandoned before he could even speak. Minho never claimed him, never once attended a school play or a birthday, never sent a single letter. Jake’s legal name is Jake Park, but he never uses it; he goes by Jake Sim, taking his mother’s last name like armor, refusing to wear the name of a man who only brings pain. He’s spent his entire life refusing to share a name with demons, refusing to let Minho’s legacy stain what little peace he can carve out for himself.

If there was ever a connection between the two brothers, it was severed before it could form, Sunghoon never treated Jake as family, never saw him as blood. The space between them has always been wide, filled with resentment, misunderstanding, and the quiet, unspoken ache of what they’ve both lost. When they cross paths, it’s always with an edge: Jake’s bitterness barely hidden, Sunghoon’s coldness a shield, both of them circling around the truth that only one of them ever got to be a son. Minho’s presence in the gym now is a reminder of everything broken between them. He stands like a judge and a stranger, offering nothing, taking everything, and you wonder if either of his sons will ever stop flinching in the shadow of his name.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach, and his father, in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection, especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself, steady, deliberate, that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you, not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry, but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make, honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Sunghoon’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Jake, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Jake. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Sunoo’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number ten, Jake Sim? He’s not just a rookie, he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Jay shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Ni-ki and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride, it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Jake, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Jake soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Sunghoon breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Jake. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Sunghoon’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Jake turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Jake squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Sunghoon’s fist connects with Jake’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Jake stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Sunoo’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Jake doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Sunghoon. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Sunghoon struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Jake with a fury that feels unrelenting. Jake, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Sunghoon’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Sunghoon being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Jake stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory, the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Jake on the team, feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Jay mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Jake is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Jake’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying, the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Sunghoon’s an ass, Jake. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Jake shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Jake, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Sunoo throws an arm around Jake’s shoulders, ignoring the red Jake on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Sunoo says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Jake Sim, the pride of the Ravens, taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Jake a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Jay adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Hyeju asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Jake carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Jake insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him, it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Ni-ki’s right,” Sunoo says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Sunghoon. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Minho knows it,” Jay adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Sunghoon’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Minho’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Jake. Don’t forget that.”

Jake nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Heeseung, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Jake and Sunghoon.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Jake like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Sunghoon, about Minho, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Jake’s shoulders.

Ni-ki breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Jake. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Ni-ki rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Jake, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke, it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Jake when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Jake doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes, the promise isn’t just for Ni-ki. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Jake might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Jake’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind. 

He’s still the same Jake who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Jake who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Jake who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Sunoo tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer. 

Jay claps Jake on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Jake’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Jake through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Jake nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Sunoo, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Jake again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Jake’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Jake, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking, Sunoo’s humor, Jay’s blunt honesty, Hyeju’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Ni-ki’s sharp wit, all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Jake. Their unity feels like an illusion, strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Jake truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away, it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late, he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened. 

Sunghoon.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes, dark, endless, and cutting, are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections, they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Jake smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Sunghoon’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness, not the hollow ache of solitude, it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body, it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze, it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it, the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close, the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Jay’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Jay doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Sunoo’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat, unless Jake’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Jake groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Ni-ki nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Sunoo teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Sunghoon’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game, the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies, replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics— Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Jake and Sunghoon. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis, determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Jake— Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Sunghoon— Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Jake assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis, potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Sunghoon. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Jake, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning, it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Sunghoon’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface, the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Sunghoon, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper, find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Sunghoon tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribble another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Sunghoon. Fractured team hierarchy, monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court begins to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhale, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan is taking shape, but the weight of it settles in your chest. This isn’t going to be easy, not with players like Sunghoon in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glance toward the gym’s exit. The next step is clear, and your meeting is waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office is short, but the weight of anticipation stretches it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoes faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seems to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightens on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin, a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reach the door, your mask of composure has settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raise your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you step inside.

Coach Suh is both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours, a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles make him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness are undeniable, and you value the rigor he brings to your work. It is his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that makes this project possible.

His office reflects the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleams under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretch to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins line the walls, capturing moments frozen in time, his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, is a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture doesn’t exist yet; they haven’t won. The space where it could hang seems to glare as a reminder of the pressure that looms over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hang detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sits proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the mark of a career steeped in competition.

The room smells faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning adds a low, constant backdrop. It’s a space that feels deeply personal yet exudes structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you aren’t prepared for Sunghoon.

He’s slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seems deliberately enticing, like he’s daring the room to notice him. His posture feigns ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrays him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hints at a frustration that isn’t meant to stay contained. There’s something magnetic about him, a pull you can’t deny, even as his irritation crackles in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretches over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiate a careless confidence that feels far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Sunghoon. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain, you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Sunghoon’s nostrils flare slightly, his lips thinning as though he’s physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He doesn’t move, but the air around him shifts, charged with something volatile. His gaze burns like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it drags over you the moment you enter the room. He doesn’t look at you like you’re interrupting, he looks at you like you’re trespassing. And yet, his eyes linger, dragging over you with a heat that feels out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them, not even for a second. Whatever tension you walk into doesn’t belong to you, and you aren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Sunghoon’s sharp gaze might be meant to unnerve you, but it slides off like water against stone. This is your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room isn’t secondary to his reprimand. You step forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’ve mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’ve walked into, you don’t plan on getting caught in it.

However, you apologise out of common courtesy. “Sorry to interrupt,” you say evenly, your voice steady as you move further inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sound feels louder than it should in the tension-filled room. You turn toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softens slightly as his attention shifts to you. His demeanor is still authoritative but carries a familiarity that feels both reassuring and dangerous. He gestures to the empty chair beside Sunghoon. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You move toward the chair, acutely aware of Sunghoon’s eyes tracking your every step. Sunghoon doesn’t adjust his posture as you pass him, but you feel the weight of his gaze following you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settle into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumes speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turns back to Sunghoon. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Sunghoon. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Sunghoon’s jaw ticks, and his hands curl into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhales through his nose, a short, sharp sound that feels more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flick to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence adds another layer to whatever war is raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitches, but you keep your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You don’t need to look at Sunghoon to know his body language screams defiance. You can feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curl and straighten against the armrest like he’s trying to grip the air itself. It isn’t just the reprimand that has him on edge, it’s the fact that you’re here to witness it.

And yet, he says nothing. For all his irritation, his silence is its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally break the silence. “Should we get started?” you ask, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You aren’t about to let Sunghoon’s simmering irritation throw you off. This is your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gives a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explain the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you begin, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asks, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices, analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you reply, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nods slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Sunghoon’s presence, however, is impossible to ignore. He hasn’t moved much, his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh, but there’s an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tap against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grates against your nerves. His gaze burns into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slips past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you notice.

You ignore him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reach for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Sunghoon moves faster than you anticipate. His hand shoots out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leans back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Sunghoon’s scoff deepens as his eyes flick down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that feels almost mocking. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he says nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glances back at you, his lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he says, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t flinch. Instead, your hand darts forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it’s impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snap to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You mutter under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.”

Sunghoon’s head snaps toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straighten slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seems to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shoot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice is low, biting, but his words land with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turn toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you say evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Sunghoon’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shoot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it feels like the whole room is holding its breath. He lets the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curl into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawls, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Sunghoon,” you say coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Sunghoon leans forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You don’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you meet his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you reply, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Sunghoon’s mouth twitch, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leans back, his body settling into a posture that screams ease, though the charged air around him tells another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmurs, his voice a low drawl, laced with dark amusement. His gaze flicks over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess, you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that doesn’t waver, though your pulse thrums in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you reply, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You lean forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you’re closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Sunghoon’s expression hardens, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darken. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room feels too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refuse to break eye contact.

Then, he shifts, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoes in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stay seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He doesn’t say a word as he moves closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closes.

Stopping just in front of you, he leans down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent, an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and smoke, with the faintest trace of cologne, washes over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity is dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you can’t ignore. The way he looms over you isn’t just intimidating; it’s suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that slides down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flick down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightens, but you don’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Sunghoon lets out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze drops to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he says softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leans in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slides along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement is deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inches closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxes you in completely. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence feels like a challenge you aren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shoot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackles with tension. Your heart races, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrays the calm exterior you wear, but you don’t shrink away. Instead, you tilt your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You lean forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer.

Sunghoon’s reaction is immediate, though fleeting, a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze drops, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightens, his grip on the desk shifts subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there’s something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his gaze sweeps over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It isn’t intimidation he’s trying to hold onto now, it’s control.

You lean in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you speak, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmur, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matches the tension between you. Your hand shifts subtly,

resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers grip the desk. The movement isn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitches, the flicker in his eyes as they drop to the closeness, tells you he feels it too. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Sunghoon’s eyes drop to your lips, the movement subtle but unmistakable. He doesn’t hide it, doesn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sends a jolt through you. The air between you feels impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushes against your skin. Your hand shifts on the chair’s arm, the motion unthinking, but it brings your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath stutters, the sound quiet but undeniable.

His gaze snaps back to yours, darker now, pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asks, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. Your lips curve just slightly, and you answer with quiet defiance. “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it is, the faintest sound in his throat, one he can’t quite swallow back. His tongue drags across his lips in a motion that looks reflexive, not intentional, but his eyes stay locked on yours, or, maybe, on your mouth. The intensity of his stare burns through the space between you, thickening the air until it feels like the room itself is holding its breath.

The moment stretches, too long, too charged. His hand presses harder against the desk, veins tightening beneath his skin, while his shoulders shift, leaning closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint brush of his breath against your skin. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like he’s about to say, or do, something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?”

Coach Suh’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

You don’t move. Neither does Sunghoon. Your eyes stay locked, breaths shallow, the weight of the question hanging somewhere outside the bubble of tension surrounding you both. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite your best efforts to maintain composure, your gaze flicks there, just for a second, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

Still, you don’t pull back. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of his throat as he swallows hard, the way his tongue ghosts over his lower lip like he can’t help himself. Something unspoken crackles between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes lift again, they’re met with his, darker, hungrier, as if he’s caught you staring and refuses to let it go.

Neither of you moves. Your breaths come quick, close enough to mingle in the sliver of air that separates you. His hand, still braced on the desk, tightens briefly, his knuckles brushing the edge of your armrest. You lean in, not consciously, not entirely on purpose, but it happens, and the effect is devastating.

His pupils dilate further. The inhale he takes is sharp but barely audible, betrayed only by the way his shoulders tense. His gaze drags down again, tracing the shape of your mouth before snapping back up to your eyes, holding them with such intensity it sends a shiver down your spine. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world falls away.

Coach Suh clears his throat again, louder this time, pointed, and still, neither of you turns. The tension clings for one last, suspended breath before Sunghoon shifts, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence doesn’t retreat. His fingers remain braced against the desk, his gaze lingering on yours, daring you to break first. You don’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh says sharply, his tone cutting through the moment like steel. He leans forward, one hand flattening on the notes Sunghoon had tossed across the desk. “Y/N’s work isn’t about pointing out flaws, Sunghoon. It’s about understanding how this team functions. You’d do well to listen.” His voice hardens. “Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems we have. If you’re so determined to be involved, start proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick briefly toward Coach Suh, then slide back to you. The tension in his frame doesn’t ease, it coils tighter. Slowly, he exhales and leans back in his chair, lips curling into a smirk that isn’t amusement so much as provocation.

Coach Suh’s gaze moves between you both, his tone warning now. “If you’re finished,” he says, voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. Let’s get back to it before this turns into something it shouldn’t.”

You straighten in your seat, forcing your focus back to Coach Suh, though the air around you still hums with tension. Sunghoon doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even shift far, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his presence weighs heavy beside you. His hand stays draped on the desk, his gaze burning into you for a heartbeat too long before he finally looks away.

Even as you resume outlining the next phase of your project, explaining each observation with calm precision, you feel him watching you, dark, calculating, unyielding. The air refuses to settle. Whatever’s between you isn’t finished.

Coach Suh leans back, arms folding across his chest. “Alright, Y/N,” he says finally. “For this project, you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You sit straighter, the edge of professionalism back in your tone, even as you feel Sunghoon’s eyes on you. “Heeseung,” you answer evenly. “He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a balanced perspective.”

The creak of Sunghoon’s chair cuts through the quiet. He leans forward, his elbow on the desk, voice smooth and deceptively casual. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

You keep your gaze fixed on Coach Suh. “I’ve already made my choice,” you say smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Sunghoon’s reply is instant. His voice drops lower, threaded with challenge. “I wasn’t asking.” The words hit sharp, enough to make your shoulders stiffen. You turn toward him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes glint, dark, deliberate. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you counter, your tone cooling to steel, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh clears his throat again, the sound slicing through the air. “Sunghoon has a point,” he says finally. “As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You press your lips together, frustration tightening in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the coach. “I can get what I need without his… input.”

Sunghoon leans back again, smirk widening, infuriatingly smug. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he says, tone smooth, almost lazy, but with that same sharp undercurrent. “Because I’m joining.”

You don’t look at him right away. Your fingers tighten around the desk. When you do turn, his gaze collides with yours, unyielding, electric. “You don’t get to decide that,” you say, each word slow and deliberate. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.”

His smirk deepens, darkens. “And you think I care?” he says softly, leaning forward again, the distance between you charged. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you fire back, eyes locking with his, the tension spiking again. “It’s mine. And I don’t need your temper or your control issues making it harder.”

His expression hardens; the smirk falls. “Control issues?” he repeats, his voice low, dangerous. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You lean back, crossing your arms, your laugh sharp. “You have nothing to give me,” you say flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift in him is small but immediate. He straightens, his hand pressing into the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

A flicker of heat rushes through you, quick and unwanted. “I’m not afraid of you, Sunghoon,” you say coolly. “But I’m not playing whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough.”

Coach Suh’s voice cracks through the air, sharp and final. Both of you turn. His expression leaves no room for argument. “Sunghoon, you’re joining this project.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a raised hand. “This isn’t up for debate. Your behavior on the court is affecting the team, and this project is your chance to do something about it.” His gaze pins Sunghoon in place. “If you don’t take it seriously, I’ll bench you. Second half of the season included.”

Sunghoon exhales through a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

His eyes flick toward you, that smirk sharpening into something that feels like victory. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he says lightly. “Should be fun.”

You blink, disbelief flickering behind your composure. “This is ridiculous,” you say tightly, turning to the coach. “He’s going to ruin the study.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replies calmly. “And Sunghoon, don’t think this means you get to coast. You’ll contribute, or you’ll sit out. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Sunghoon says, his tone slick and mocking, gaze fixed squarely on you. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing down the urge to snap. Your fingers skim the edge of your notes, the motion sharp and restrained.

“Guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. There’s amusement threaded through it, taunting, deliberate. It crawls under your skin like heat.

You keep your eyes locked on the coach, refusing to react, though you can feel Sunghoon’s gaze still burning beside you. His satisfaction hums through the air like static, self-assured and quiet.

He leans back in his chair, the picture of lazy confidence, but behind the smirk, his thoughts are spinning. You don’t see the shift, the quiet calculation settling in.

To him, it’s just another game. And Sunghoon’s always been good at games.

But this time, you’re already winning. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office is eerily quiet as you step out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air feels heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still races, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you try to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickers at the edges, but it’s overpowered by frustration, the way Coach Suh’s finality leaves no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation leaves you feeling unsteady. You rub at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you move down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gives way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you make your way toward the parking lot. Your steps feel heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest, irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting is over, and a quiet unease at what lies ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spot them, Jake and Jay, waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Jay scrolls idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Jake stands with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he catches sight of you. The sight of them catches you off guard, and you hesitate, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Jay says, grinning as he slips his phone into his pocket. Jake gives you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone comes out softer than you intend, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Jay replies with a shrug, as if the decision is obvious.

“Ouch,” you mutter, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Jay chuckles, the sound light and teasing, and even Jake’s lips curve slightly at your reaction.

Jake pushes off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approaches you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asks, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You pause, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you start, but the words feel insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Jake’s eyes narrow slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitate, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you say again, but your voice lacks conviction. The truth is, you’re not sure how you feel, relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Jake’s gaze lingers, you know he’s not convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Jake says after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Jay’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growls loudly, cutting through the moment and making Jay snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admit, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Jake smiles back, and Jay gives a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

Then you feel it, that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air has thickened around you. Your steps falter for a fraction of a second, the sound of Jay’s teasing fading into the background as your senses hone in on something, or someone.

And there he is.

Sunghoon stands beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Jake’s couldn’t be starker, Jake’s car, parked just a few feet away, is practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Sunghoon’s looks every bit the luxury statement it’s meant to be. His stance matches his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rests on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hangs loosely by his side. The shadows play tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He isn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes follow you as you step closer, flicking to Jake just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space feels charged, and as the three of you approach, the unspoken weight of Sunghoon’s presence draws a tension so palpable it makes Jay glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Jake to hear.

Jake’s posture stiffens beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locks on Sunghoon. The tension between them is immediate, the air thickening as Sunghoon shifts just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reaches his eyes but still manages to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Jake finally asks, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He takes a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what’s coming.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he says smoothly, his gaze sliding from Jake to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone is light, but the tension behind it is anything but.

The contrast between them is striking, Jake’s controlled resolve against Sunghoon’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. The difference in their cars feels like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Sunghoon’s lips curve slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression is undeniable. Smug. That’s the word. Smug, because he’s forced his way into your project. Smug, because you have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knows what you don’t want to admit, that proximity can be dangerous. And yet, there’s something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Jake. For Sunghoon, this isn’t just about the project. It isn’t even about you, not entirely. It’s about Jake.

Jake has taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Sunghoon’s. As far as Sunghoon’s concerned, Jake hasn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry is born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history looms like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives only become more entangled as time drags them into each other’s orbit. Sunghoon resents every inch of it, every loss he blames on Jake’s presence. This project? It’s leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Jake doesn’t belong.

Jake has a hard time holding back, always has, but especially when it comes to Sunghoon. The tension between them is palpable the moment you step outside. You catch it in the subtle way Jake’s body stiffens, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Jay, who’s been leaning casually against Jake’s car, notices the change immediately. “Here we go…” he mutters under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightens, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Jake’s voice is calm but edged with steel as he steps closer, subtly angling himself between you and Sunghoon. Protective, as always.

Sunghoon pushes off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he says, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Jake shoots back, his jaw tightening as his patience thins.

Sunghoon’s eyes flick toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turns back to Jake. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he says, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurts. His voice carries something darker, possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Jake steps forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpens into something cruel as he meets Jake’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he says, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Jay shifts uncomfortably, his hand brushing Jake’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is, ”

“Stay out of it,” Jake snaps, shrugging Jay off without breaking eye contact with Sunghoon. His voice is taut, sharp-edged, and his body moves instinctively closer to Sunghoon’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Sunghoon’s head tilts, his smirk darkening as he meets Jake’s glare. “Don’t I?” he says, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Jake. You’re just holding a spot, taking up space that’s not yours.”

Jake’s jaw tightens as Sunghoon takes another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Sunghoon? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words are sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tries to maintain.

Sunghoon tilts his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeats mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifts, his gaze boring into Jake’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice drops lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit Jake. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Sunghoon leans in just enough to make Jake stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Jake. And you never will.”

Jake’s fists clench at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbs Sunghoon’s words. The tension in his jaw is visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what’s just been said. His breath hitches, just for a second, before his eyes snap back to Sunghoon’s, blazing with something that burns hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Jake says, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word comes out like it’s pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifts forward, stepping into Sunghoon’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Sunghoon. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackles, heavy and suffocating, as Jay hovers nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just, ”

“Meet me at the river court,” Jake cuts in, his voice slicing through Jay’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone is unmistakable, as is the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Sunghoon blinks, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. He takes another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bears into Jake’s. “You sure about that?” he asks, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Jake shoots back, not flinching under the weight of Sunghoon’s stare.

Jay groans audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he mutters, but neither of them pays him any attention.

You don’t step in. You should, you know you should, your better judgment whispers it, but something deeper, something darker, keeps you rooted. They are two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you can’t fully articulate, you let it happen. You let them tear into each other. You let the tension explode. It isn’t indecision; it’s deliberate. Their words are knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stay silent. Perhaps it’s frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling, an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who will break first. Whatever it is, you don’t stop them. You simply watch, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Sunghoon’s smile lingers as he finally steps back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he says, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walks away, the weight of his presence clings to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you can’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine breaks the silence, low and menacing as his car pulls out of the lot. His taillights disappear into the dark, but the tension he leaves behind doesn’t fade.

Jake is still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slacken slightly, but his silence speaks louder than any words could. You watch him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he doesn’t, not at first.

Finally, he turns to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you haven’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You meet his gaze, the answer forming before you even have to think about it. “Destroy him,” you say simply, your voice unwavering.

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He nods once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidify something in him.

Jay groans, dragging a hand down his face as he steps back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that follows. He mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he falls in line behind you and Jake, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you make your way to the car.

The river court buzzes with energy as you arrive, the kind of energy that prickles against your skin and makes the air heavier, like it is bracing for what is to come. The sky hangs low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court is worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that are more than games, rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flows steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moves forward, even when everything here feels suspended. The streetlights flicker reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court isn’t just a place. For you, it holds a kind of familiarity that is hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’ve been here before, countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who has seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dips low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games run long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court is slick from rain but still draws in the faithful who don’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remember the laughter that echoes here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hangs in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It isn’t just a court; it is its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It is raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving, a place where there are no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it is also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stand on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmers in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that feel small then but monumental now.

It is where you learn to read people, the way their body language shifts, how tension seeps into a game before the first shot is even made. Watching those games, you start piecing together what makes people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmer beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You don’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shape how you move through the world now, calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court isn’t just familiar ground; it is where your instincts sharpened, where you learn that every move, every glance, carries weight. And tonight, as you stand on that same cracked pavement, it feels like the court is daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it doesn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air is almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It isn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion, it feels like the river court itself has absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carries the weight of what is about to unfold. This isn’t just about basketball; it is about something deeper, darker, more personal. You can feel it in the way the crowd shifts, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seems to hum, as if it, too, is waiting for the storm to break.

Jake pulls up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He steps out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He doesn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone speaks volumes. Your friends have left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Jake. They don’t agree with this conflict, most of them think he should’ve walked away, but their loyalty is steadfast. That is the thing about Jake’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth is palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Sunghoon.

And then comes Sunghoon.

He pulls up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashes against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moves with an aggression that mirrors the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends, Heeseung, San, Wooyoung, spill out behind him. They carry themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who think the world is their playground. But it isn’t them who catch your eye. It is Sunghoon’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum follows behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that can’t be disguised under the polished image she and Sunghoon project. This is what they are. Sunghoon and Areum aren’t just well-known, they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it, the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It is intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum doesn’t cling to Sunghoon, doesn’t move with the ease of someone who feels at home in his orbit. Their relationship is strange, polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it matters. They don’t touch, don’t exchange glances, and the space between them speaks volumes. You’ve noticed it before, the way Areum often feels more like an accessory to Sunghoon than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade feel deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night can’t pull them closer.

You glance around. Saeryeon is here too, along with a mix of people who don’t belong, girls batting their lashes at Sunghoon, boys who barely know the river court but want to bask in the chaos. And then there are the eyes. You feel them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Jake, Sunghoon, and Areum. They want to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides are impossible to miss. Sunghoon’s supporters are bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them aren’t even familiar faces, people who have never stepped foot on the river court before. They’re just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens are here, guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court isn’t theirs. It isn’t shaped by them, and they aren’t shaped by it.

Jake’s side is smaller, quieter, but there is a warmth to it, a solidarity that makes you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Sunghoon thrives in moments like these, you know. He lives for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t need it. He isn’t here for the spectacle; he is here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court is electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stand by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Sunoo steps forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flick to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrays him, but when he speaks, his voice is smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Sunoo’s voice carries a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darts between Jake and Sunghoon betrays his unease. “Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers, Jake Sim, the underdog with everything to gain, and Park Sunghoon, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzes with anticipation as Jake grabs the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turns it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passes the ball to Sunghoon, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Sunghoon catches it and slams it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance is coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Jake’s focus is inward, controlled, Sunghoon’s energy spills over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They are night and day, one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Sunoo continues, his voice steadying as he finds his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Sunghoon, fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other hand, Jake, focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glance at your friends. Their support for Jake is unshakable, but the nervous energy is palpable. Jay shifts on his feet, biting his lip, while Nahyun whispers something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Ni-ki, standing just behind them, crosses his arms and lets out a low whistle, a habit he has when trying to steady himself. You, however, feel none of it. Doubt has no place here, not when it comes to Jake. The quiet determination in his eyes doesn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’ve seen it before, how he moves in this space like it is built for him, how his focus cuts through everything else. This isn’t just a game, it’s Jake in his purest form, and there is no scenario in your mind where he doesn’t own it.

Jake dribbles the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Sunghoon shadows him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seems ready to snap. The whistle cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, and Sunoo’s voice follows, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go, Jake Sim, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Park Sunghoon, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match is unrelenting, a clash of tension that seems to ripple through the court itself. Sunghoon is all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble is sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk is a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’s never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Jake. This isn’t your world.” His voice cuts through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Jake doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. His silence isn’t passive; it is deliberate, like he is saving his energy for something that actually matters. But when Sunghoon closes in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Jake finally answers. “If it’s not my world,” he says, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words aren’t meant for the crowd; they are for Sunghoon, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It isn’t a question. It is an indictment.

You don’t just watch the game, you study it. Jake moves with a precision that isn’t flashy, but it makes you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’ve always believed in him. His shots don’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its Jake. Sunghoon, on the other hand, burns too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verges on desperation. But Jake’s game isn’t reactionary. He isn’t here to prove Sunghoon wrong; he is here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you can’t help but feel the weight of what this moment means, not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court has come to represent.

Sunoo’s voice carries over the court. “Jake with the shot, nothing but net!” His tone is lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Sunghoon’s side, Sunoo doesn’t sound shocked, why would he be? This is Jake, and anyone who truly knows him understands this isn’t luck. It is skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Sunoo has seen countless times before.

Sunghoon’s frustration is impossible to miss. His movements grow sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, begin to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Jake doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t look at Sunghoon, doesn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This isn’t about outplaying Sunghoon, it’s about playing his own game, proving to himself that he can stand tall here, on his court.

You see it all happen in what feels like slow motion, the perfect arc of Sunghoon’s shot, the way the ball seems destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there is Jake, moving with a speed and precision that makes it seem as though he has read Sunghoon’s mind. He leaps, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberates through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flies out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupts.

Sunoo’s voice cuts through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Sunghoon shoots… and misses!” He pauses, his disbelief almost theatrical as he adds, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This isn’t like any game you’ve ever watched before. It isn’t just basketball, it is something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that go beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echo and your chest tightens with pride, you can’t help but feel like this moment belongs to Jake. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure, it isn’t just impressive, it is something more. You don’t just feel proud, you feel certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, is his.

“Jake with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Sunoo’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and clear, as Jake’s movements are steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drives toward the hoop. Sunghoon is on him, aggressive and desperate, but Jake doesn’t falter. Each dribble is purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that leaves no room for doubt. The court seems to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Jake reaches the edge of the key, he pauses just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball leaves his hands in a clean arc that feels inevitable, as though the basket has already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net is sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupts a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Jake Sim wins!” Sunoo’s voice rings out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that follows is instant and chaotic. Jake’s friends surge onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Jay nearly tackles him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheer wildly from the sidelines. Ni-ki is the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumps up and down, grinning like he’s won the game himself. You stay back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpens on Jake, not the noise, not the others, but him.

His posture shifts, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement is deliberate, as though the victory isn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze sweeps over the crowd, it lingers briefly, grounding him, Jakeing the moment as his own, not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This isn’t just a win over Sunghoon; it is a quiet, resolute statement that he belongs here. You see it in the way he carries himself, a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you do.

You linger at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replay the details in your mind. The celebration fades into irrelevance, noise and emotion hold no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolds before you. From a distance, you watch Jake, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders ease, not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth isn’t a smile; it is a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze sweeps the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You make mental notes, knowing they will translate later into the project you’ve dedicated yourself to, the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he takes, controlled and methodical, fits into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You aren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there is something else, something you hadn’t expected. Jake is the center now. The shift is sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself has realigned its axis around him. Those on Sunghoon’s side, the people who moments ago were silent in defeat, find themselves glancing at Jake, as though he has somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He is the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that feels impossible to resist. You catch Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she is seeing him in a new light. Saeryeon and the other cheerleaders stand off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Jake in a way that is hard to ignore. It is subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realize the court isn’t just his stage anymore; it is his world.

Your friends’ voices call out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you don’t turn. You stay where you are, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolls on, cheers, laughter, movement, but it doesn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingers on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court feels different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carries the weight of what has just happened. It isn’t that you don’t care, it is that you care differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise has passed.

But then, something shifts. At first, you barely notice it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness, a break in the background noise you’ve trained yourself to filter out. You stay rooted, clinging to the stillness you’ve worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carries. Yet, an unfamiliar tension creeps in, threading its way into your calm. It isn’t immediate, isn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you don’t want to give.

Your senses betray you first. A pulse of awareness tugs at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depend on. You resist, try to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it is there, persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavers, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Sunghoon. He is still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that ripples outward like an unseen force. He stands apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you can feel the strain even from here.

You tell yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form, details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you try to frame it that way, your thoughts begin to fracture. Your gaze lingers too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it is gone, replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You try to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that has always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you cling to unravels further. Your eyes betray you completely now, tracking the way he stands as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It isn’t anger, not entirely. It is something heavier, something that holds you in place just as much as it holds him.

No one, not your friends, not anyone, has ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always keeps you grounded and apart. But Sunghoon does. His presence reaches into that protected space and shatters it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiral in ways you can’t control. He hasn’t even looked at you directly, but he doesn’t need to. The weight of him is enough, suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should stayed rooted in Jake’s win, let Sunghoon’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stands, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure is unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hasn’t finished with him. He doesn’t turn to his friends, doesn’t shrug it off, doesn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stands there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that makes it impossible for you to look away. He isn’t just in the moment, he is the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passes.

You don’t understand why you can’t look away, why the weight of Sunghoon’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought feels foreign, almost laughable, you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity, it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest.

Around him, the court begins to empty, the crowd thinning as people drift toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few linger at the edges, stealing glances at Sunghoon but saying nothing, and even his teammates hang back, hesitant, like they don’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he is alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettles you, the way the moment seems to cling to him, and no matter how hard you try to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you care, you come up empty.

The diner hums with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flicker in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycles through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air is thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slide into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settle in, Jay pressed against your side with a closeness that feels familiar. Across from you, Jake claims his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Sunoo elbows Ni-ki for room, while Shotaro balances precariously on the edge, and Nahyun drapes an arm along the backrest as if she owns it. Laughter bubbles up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasts sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy is contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Jake’s phone buzzes again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seems to mind. The win has done its job, lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that feels earned. The river court might be left behind, but its electricity lingers, settling into the diner like it belongs.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Sunoo asks, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly has it memorized. He taps the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Ni-ki shoots back, his grin wide as he leans over and snatches the menu from Sunoo’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Jay chimes in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’s been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glances at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leans back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slides it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she says lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Jake’s win.”

Jake glances up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he says, his voice soft. Her eyes linger on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turns away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teases, resting his chin on his hand as he looks at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grins, rolling her eyes as though she’s not the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

You and Jake catch each other’s eyes, one of those quick, silent exchanges that says everything. You both know the deal: Nahyun’s father, Mr. Kim, and Jake ’s own dad, Taeyong Park, are two sides of the same corporate coin. Both of them are cutthroat capitalists, obsessed with status, profit margins, and keeping their empires untouchable. Growing up watching those power games left you with a sour taste, and you never really bothered to hide it.

You’ve never liked Nahyun, she comes off all sweet and soft-voiced, but beneath it, there’s something unsettling, a kind of practiced entitlement that grates every time she acts oblivious to it. She’s never humble, never grounded, and you know she only gets away with it because she’s managed to date Shotaro, the actual nicest man alive. You adore Shotaro, genuinely, and you want to be happy for him, but faking it for Nahyun’s sake is just not in you, even if you do plaster on a polite smile when she’s around. You can admit it: you’re fake to her face, but you just can’t bring yourself to like someone who’s so far from real.

“Jake deserves it,” Nahyun adds, her voice gentler now as she leans forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention, you’ve worked hard for this.”

Jake’s smile softens, though his focus seems to drift as his phone buzzes again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmurs, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.

“Jake’s big now,” Sunoo teases, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Jake laughs, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he says, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrays him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Jay quips, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifts, not in Jake, but in you. His response is easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he says, and his voice carries the same calm steadiness it always has. But you know him too well, know the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifts even when he tries to stay present. It isn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you feel it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively makes you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table feel distant, like you’re watching it play out from a step behind. You’ve known Jake for so long, understand his rhythms in a way no one else does, and this is different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carries himself, how he lets the group orbit around him, how his attention flickers in and out. He isn’t pulling away deliberately, it’s more like a current you can’t see but can feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer feels the same. It isn’t loud or dramatic, but it’s there, a quiet pull you can’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzes on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Ni-ki, predictably, has stolen Jay’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Jay swats at him. “You’re insufferable,” Jay grumbles, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupts into laughter.

Sunoo, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shakes his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughs, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Ni-ki. “Just share the burger, man. Jay’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Ni-ki shoots back, grinning as he finally hands the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glances up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Sunoo quips, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Jake chuckles quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leans back in his seat. Finally, he sets his phone down and clears his throat. “I keep getting messages about Sunghoon’s party,” he says casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.”

The table falls quiet, all eyes turning to him. Sunoo raises an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Sunghoon after what just happened?”

Jake shrugs again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that doesn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Sunoo snorts. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowns slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Jake leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Jay hesitates but finally nods, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Jake says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group begins to come around, one by one, as Jake’s quiet confidence settles over the table. Even Nahyun, who initially looks skeptical, sighs and leans back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Jake laughs softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frown slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tap lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Jake says simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You don’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Sunghoon’s world feels wrong, like crossing a line you aren’t ready for. But Jake’s gaze holds steady, and you know the answer before you speak. “Fine,” you mutter finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifts again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans are tossed around for what to wear and who will show up. But the unease lingers at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Jake’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Sunghoon’s orbit, feels like the start of something you can’t quite name yet, and you aren’t sure if you want to.

The upscale apartment towers over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exudes wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it draws stares from passersby, the kind of building that makes you stop and wonder who can possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approach the entrance, the conversation falters, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby is sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretch out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hang like modern sculptures. Every detail is curated, the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lines the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You haven’t been here before, but the weight of it presses against your chest. This isn’t just an apartment; it’s a symbol, a statement of status that feels like it has nothing to do with the lives most people live.

Jay lets out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Sunoo snorts, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Sunghoon. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Ni-ki raises a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home, it’s a fortress.”

You steal a glance at Jake, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he takes it all in. His posture is steady, but his jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow slightly as he surveys the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looks like on the surface, but you know him too well to miss the weight behind it. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the dissonance in him. This world, Sunghoon’s world, is so far removed from his own, a world where appearances and wealth dictate everything.

The elevator ride is silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dare to name. Each passing floor only heightens the unease, and though Jake keeps his head high, his hands curl into loose fists at his sides. You wonder if he’s thinking about the river court, the place he’s claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications are stark, Sunghoon’s life is one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Jake has never known.

And yet, Jake doesn’t falter. When the elevator doors slide open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he steps out first, his movements steady. You see it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squares them just slightly, like he’s ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingers for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hits you before you even step through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swings open, the scent hits you, a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It’s overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation is heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself is striking, luxurious in a way that feels almost clinical. From the outside, it’s a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unravels its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors are sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions are tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, have been overtaken, strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they own the space. A glass-top coffee table bears the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn mark from ash that hasn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeks faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you look, the apartment bears Sunghoon’s mark, modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls are lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Sunghoon in his prime hang near the mounted TV that dominates the living room, but their significance is buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displays a mix of Heeseung’s art books and a few carefully placed plants, small signs of someone quieter, someone who doesn’t thrive in this chaos. Heeseung’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, is the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space is designed for gatherings, couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter but the party has warped it. Furniture has been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Sunghoon’s life is slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Sunghoon’s biggest wins lies shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self, the ambitious athlete, the rising star, is being buried beneath the excess he hosts.

“Sunghoon’s parties are insane, he has a reputation,” Sunoo mutters, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze sweeps the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Ni-ki, already nursing his second drink, lets out a sharp laugh. “That was Sunghoon’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Sunghoon,” Shotaro says, swaying slightly as he leans against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Heeseung. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Jay leans casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffs. “Heeseung? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Sunghoon. You’ve seen him, he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Sunoo snorts, grabbing a shot and passing it to Ni-ki. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Sunghoon’s bathroom?” Ni-ki says, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Jay leans back, biting back a grin. “Not before Sunghoon walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Sunoo barks out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in, he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Ni-ki doubles over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Sunghoon could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Sunoo adds, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappears seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stare at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Sunghoon is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Jake, who has been quiet up until now, looks up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrows, and you glance back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Sunghoon,” Sunoo says again, raising his glass like he’s toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Sunghoon’s scented candle,” Ni-ki adds, grinning as he tips his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchanges stories back and forth. You don’t belong here. Not really. But your friends are with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Sunoo has already taken a shot and is loudly challenging Ni-ki to do the same, while Shotaro sways to the music with a looseness that makes him look like he’s been born to dance. Jay is at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seem to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asks, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lie, forcing a tight smile. The truth is, the air feels too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stay. For Jake. For the group.

Jake is at the center of it all. People you don’t know, some you recognize from the river court, others from campus, seem to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzes constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledges it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stands with Sunghoon on the other side of the room, flanked by Saeryeon and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they command attention.

Heeseung stands near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flicker over the mess that sprawls across the apartment. He sighs, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only know Heeseung from tutoring him, but it’s clear early on that he’s someone who values his peace and personal space. He has a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seems at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Sunghoon is known for throwing. He isn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise, he prefers stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It’s almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprises you that he’s on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Sunghoon. The bond between them is evident in the way Heeseung moves through the space with a familiarity that speaks of years spent by Sunghoon’s side. They aren’t just teammates; they’re something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There’s a loyalty between them that runs deep, even when their personalities diverge so sharply. Sunghoon is loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he creates, while Heeseung is his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stays even when it doesn’t seem like he fits.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominate a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung don’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma is magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They’re effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they can’t outshine Sunghoon. No one ever does.

Sunghoon is everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he works the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that clings to him like a second skin. He isn’t sulking, isn’t brooding, but the anger from earlier hasn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hate how easily he draws your gaze, the way his shirt clings to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tips his drink to his lips. He’s beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side is an afterthought. They barely speak, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wanders. It feels… off. Detached.

Jay nudges you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You don’t argue. The party is too much, too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hate parties for this exact reason: the way they seem to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you want is a quiet corner and a little distance. Jay leads you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slip through a side door and into the cool night.

This place is a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that feels both overwhelming and impersonal, but Jay moves through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he leads you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline catches the dim light as he glances back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumble onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretches wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools are arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seems untouched tonight. The space is eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You lean against the bar, Jay passing you a drink as you glance around. Small plants line one side of the balcony, succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They’re a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carries the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turn to Jay, the question bubbling up before you can stop yourself. “Jay,” you say softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Sunghoon live with anyone?”

Jay nods, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Heeseung’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever, like brothers, practically.”

You exhale, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast makes sense now, the scattered pieces of personality you’ve noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Sunghoon’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You can see both of them in the space: Sunghoon’s need to impress and Heeseung’s quiet search for peace.

Jay walks toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approach, the view below catches your breath in your throat. The city lights stretch endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawls, a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights drape between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reaches you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you feel like you can truly breathe.

Jay hands you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim is cool against your lips as he encourages you to drink. “Better?” he asks, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingers on you.

“Much,” you admit, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’ve been holding. These quiet moments are everything, the antidote to the overwhelming night you’ve been navigating.

He smiles, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you know all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace doesn’t last. A shout cuts through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snap toward the noise, your breath catching as Jay instinctively straightens beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifts, tightening, and you miss the way his jaw ticks when you say the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believe.

You and Jay stand above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gaze below. The soft glow of the string lights casts flickering patterns over the greenery, but it isn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Sunghoon and Areum stand locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drift out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself has been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seems to pause, as though everyone is quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rises, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carries across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stand, the rawness in her tone makes your chest tighten.

Sunghoon’s response comes in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you can’t make out every detail. His stance is unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there’s no triumph in his posture, only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bites out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turns on his heel. His movements are rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitates, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightens around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seems like she might stay rooted there, but then she follows him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the space, silencing the murmurs that have begun to ripple through the room.

Jay nudges your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You follow him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’ve just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surges again, but it isn’t the same. The buzz is different nowc hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?”

Sunoo exclaims as soon as you rejoin the group. He’s already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Ni-ki leans in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Sunghoon had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, sways his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaims, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hasn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast is almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Sunghoon’s a mess, that’s what,” Sunoo says with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze sweeps the room, catching sight of Jake lingering near the bar. His expression is hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he’s deep in thought. Something about his stillness strikes you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you walk over to him.

You make your way toward Jake, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’ve overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replay in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Sunghoon had a deal with Jake, one that involves her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettles you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Sunghoon betting on Areum?” you ask, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Jake blinks, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Jake sighs, his shoulders dropping as he glances away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Sunghoon and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team, and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you can stop yourself, you jab him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Jake? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winces, rubbing his arm as his gaze meets yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defends, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is, arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it through or not. You’re one of the good guys, Jake.”

Jake’s jaw tightens, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you can respond, the sound of murmurs pulls your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers grow louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glance around and realize people nearby are eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Jake, and the aftermath of Sunghoon and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stand near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carry just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren mutters, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha adds, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia lets out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hangs in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They don’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Saeryeon and Winter, Areum’s closest friends, stand by the bar. Neither of them looks concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It’s almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you can tell there’s more to it. Maybe they’re used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blame Areum for getting involved with Sunghoon in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you catch glimpses of Sunoo and Ni-ki at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They’re clearly hammered, Ni-ki’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Sunoo shouts something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yell for you or Jake to join in, but the weight of the night keeps you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, dances among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that grips the room. Jay, ever the anchor, hovers nearby, his eyes darting between you and Jake. He tries to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demands your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stands further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickers between Jake and the chaos. Her expression is unreadable, but she keeps glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should. Shotaro, meanwhile, remains blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Sunoo appears, stumbling slightly as he reaches you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Sunghoon just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs.clear, this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasp, the shock twisting your stomach. You turn to Heeseung instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he’s already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slips into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Heeseung and Sunghoon crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction is brief, a few words exchanged that you can’t hear, but the energy between them is unmistakable. It isn’t tense, not outright, but it isn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seem ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Heeseung disappears, his steps purposeful as he ascends the staircase leading upstairs. The room feels smaller, heavier, as if everything hinges on what could happen next. This moment, you realized, is a pivot point. 

It would be the one to change his life forever. 

The party feels like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stands out: Sunghoon. His presence looming, even when he isn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court is still fresh, his loss to Heeseung an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, Sunghoon is more than just a name on people’s lips, he’s always been the source of the drama everyone comes to revel in. You catch snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentions seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughs about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Sunghoon isn’t sulking, isn’t brooding, he doesn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy is volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seem almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It feels as though everyone is waiting for something, an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snaps and spills over.

You can’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it’s all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announce, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoid the surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Jay immediately straightens, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Sunoo adds, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Jay hesitates, his eyes scanning your face, but you stand firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Sunoo exchanges a glance with Jay, then shruggs. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turn toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grows quieter, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Leaving isn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressing together; it feels like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that has settled deeply in your chest.

The hallway stretches before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleaming under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that leaves no room for warmth. You move through it with purpose, but as each turn leads to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination begins to unravel. The apartment is a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you’re caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

A door catches your eye. Slightly ajar, it stands apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle is cool under your palm as you push it open slowly, breath catching in your throat as the room beyond reveals itself. It is a monument to Sunghoon’s achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demands attention.

Trophies glint under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hang in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys line the walls, their bold numbers standing out like layers of past victories. Photographs are scattered throughout, Sunghoon mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Sunghoon drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Sunghoon smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it isn’t just basketball. Academic certificates are framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons fill the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you know well, MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Sunghoon was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber feels almost surreal. Every piece is deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze sweeps across the room, it catches on something that disrupts the flawless symmetry, a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric is frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stand in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commands attention. It is the only piece that reveals struggle, rawness, a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carry you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches tell a story, of effort, of failure, of resilience. It doesn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only makes it feel more real, more intimate.

You lean into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moves without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page, the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions are practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital.

Your notes shift, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hums beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you press on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This is for your project, at least, that’s what you tell yourself, even as the stillness of the room wraps tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touches your lips as you jot down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you tell yourself. Then you’ll leave. But you don’t stop. The pull is stronger than you expect. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reach for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seems too loud, echoing in the silence. This is for your project, you remind yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispers otherwise.

But the calm shatters when the door behind you snaps open.

Your entire body goes rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ache. Sunghoon stands in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betray the storm beneath. His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, lock onto yours with a heat that makes your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it’s a weapon aimed directly at him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scrapes against your composure. The door clicks shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat goes dry, but you force yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He doesn’t move, but his presence expands, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes linger, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it, of you. The muscle in his jaw ticks, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger isn’t loud; it doesn’t need to be. It presses into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you can’t ignore. You shift instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shoots out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wraps around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact is immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulls you and turns, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp leaves your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body follows, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazes yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiates from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You try to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wraps around you first, something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you can’t escape. The weight of his hand remains on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braces against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice is a low snarl, and he nods toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words are barely out before you plant your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes follow the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he doesn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingers, palpable even with the small distance you’ve forced between you. Your breath hitches as you steady yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Park Sunghoon,” you begin, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moves with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You don’t just write the words; you say them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifts briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It isn’t an accident. It’s a provocation.

The weight of his presence presses against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could say. You don’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continue, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension is suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refuse to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shatters in an instant. With a speed that leaves you breathless, Sunghoon moves, tearing the notebook from your grip before you can even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it makes you gasp, the sound sharp and startled as your back hits the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closes in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity.

“Your project,” he hisses, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tighten briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifts the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he’s ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continues, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He holds it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body is so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stays raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance is physical, palpable, his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, boxing you in as his scent, heady and sharp, fills every shallow inhale you manage. His eyes drag over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloguing every reaction you can’t suppress.

He flips the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbs. The corners of his mouth twist into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he catches glimpses of your observations. He doesn’t care that he’s invading your space, your secrecy, it isn’t even about the notebook anymore. It’s about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you dare to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you see him as if it holds the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightens as he lingers on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrays his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you think of him, burns in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unyielding pull between you.

Above you, the notebook becomes both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knows exactly how to wield it. He snaps it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you aren’t sure you want to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake, you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me.” His voice drops lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leans in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Sunghoon,” you snap, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reach for it, but he holds it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone is mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He steps closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You can feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Sunghoon, stop,” you try again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bites out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhale sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spit, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickers, pain, pride, fury, all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returns, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaves against his, the sensation maddening as you struggle to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrays you, frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you can barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snap, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you’re desperately trying to maintain.

Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepens the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that scrapes against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasp, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settles over you. It’s only then that your brain catches up to your body, realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you’ve been doing all along. Your hands, which meant to push him away, fist into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spills from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, feels like a confession, one he notices immediately. His eyes flicker with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock grinds into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it makes your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turns into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tips back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips roll, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that feels calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matches the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demand, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrays something darker, desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bites out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moves with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curl into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might offer you reprieve. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focuses his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hisses, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to deny it, but you can’t find your voice. “So tell me, ” he grinds his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “, is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips is deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He doesn’t move cautiously, doesn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours is unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp breaks the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands move without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Sunghoon’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you even closer. His hips surge forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your skirt, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escapes his throat, half a groan, half a growl, as if he, too, is unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slides from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that makes you arch into him.

You feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moves. Each thrust is hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clench against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths come faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceases to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words slice through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’s somehow dragged to the surface.

You don’t answer, can’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours has robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that makes your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scrape against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips tells you he has no intention of letting you find it.

Sunghoon’s hands slide lower, gripping your hips so tightly you can feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushes you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock grinds into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tears from your throat is involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan is a low, guttural sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growls, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted, so take it.”

His hips surge forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that isn’t him. But Sunghoon isn’t offering you an escape, he’s pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’s been holding back until now.

The tension snaps taut, and Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growls, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braces against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him presses into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demands, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that makes defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours, own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it, the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all feel like a calculated act of dominance. Yet something in the air shifts. Your breath hitches involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you try to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightens, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable, like you’re better than all of this, but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slips from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands move on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips roll against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenge, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words doesn’t settle; they ignite. The moment hangs heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gives him the victory he wants, the illusion that he’s in control. But even he can’t fully ignore the way your breath wavers, the unspoken tension that pulses between every defiant inhale.

Sunghoon leans in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sends heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shift slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you can’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bite out, your tone sharp but breathless, fighting to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just, ”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupts, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightens, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that leaves no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

The sound of someone calling his name from beyond the door is jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicks into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flare with the threat of being caught. But Sunghoon doesn’t flinch; his gaze remains locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name comes again, louder, more insistent, but he doesn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that steals your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouts, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matches the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitate outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretches between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snaps you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commands, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slides from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he steps back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that has engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bend to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow looms over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closes around the spiral binding, his presence surges closer. You stiffen when his hand moves, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure is firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it meets denim. It’s a touch that makes your breath hitch, not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locks onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seems to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Sunghoon,” you spit, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that binds you both. Yet, even as you stand your ground, the phantom of his touch lingers, burning hotter than it should.

You hate how he acts like he holds all the cards, as though every move you make is under his control. The way he presses his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand, it makes your blood boil. But what you hate most is the way your body responds, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you want to snatch from him.

So you don’t leave. Not yet. The moment is cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more, demanding control. You step closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spin the two of you around with a force that startles him. His back hits the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body presses into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that makes him inhale sharply.

You want him to feel it, the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fuels you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips grind against his in a rhythm that feels raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushes against you in a way that makes your breath catch, but you refuse to give it a name, refuse to admit what it ignites in you. All you focus on is the way his chest rises sharply against yours, the way his hands twitch as if they don’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers grip his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk has faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you feel it, the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You want him undone, caught in the very chaos he tries to pin on you. And if he thinks he can still hold control, the press of your body against his makes it clear, he’s wrong.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen briefly, shock flickering across his face before it is overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands find your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulls you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burns hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grow bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmur, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he can tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands move with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers find the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you begin to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button reveals more of his taut, heated flesh, and you catch the sharp inhale he fails to suppress as your touch ignites a tension that goes beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally breaks through the heavy silence. “You think you can, ” he starts, but the words falter, lost in the sharp exhale he releases as your hands flatten against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms sears through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifts, quieter now, reverent, like he can’t quite believe the situation he’s found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curve into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you lean in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounds beneath your proximity, and you can feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmur, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slither through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Sunghoon knows better than anyone how deceiving appearances can be, how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hide the darkest edges. But even then, he doesn’t expect this. You’re the kind of girl he’s automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who keeps her head down and does what needs to be done without stepping out of line. You aren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you own him. The disconnect is maddening, and the sheer audacity of it makes his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fights to regain some semblance of control. But control slips fast, burned away by the way you look at him, eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You are confident in a way that isn’t just hot, it’s intoxicating. With every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realizes how thoroughly he’s underestimated you. You aren’t just rewriting the image he had of you, you’re setting it on fire.

His hands move instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flex, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demands more, and the tension in his hands betrays his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you command. His lips part, his breath hitching, but no words come, just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrays the unraveling control he clings to. The weight of your dominance bears down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He isn’t used to this, he isn’t used to you, but the way you move, the way you dismantle him with every sharp, calculated motion, leaves him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmur, your tone so low and enticing that it sends a shiver down his spine. You tilt your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitches, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggers, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasps, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

Still, he doesn’t move. His control, his power, everything he’s used to define himself, crumbles in your hands, and for the first time, he doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate that you’re the one taking the lead, that you’re the one pressing into him with an intensity that makes him dizzy. He doesn’t know what to do with you but it’s clear you know exactly what to do with him.

The air between you doesn’t shatter, it stretches, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Sunghoon leans closer. His breath skims your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment is agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it feels like gravity itself has shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burns into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you feel the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it’s already happened in another life.

But just before his lips can meet yours, you move, decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattens against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spills from you isn’t gentle; it’s a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you don’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilt your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmur, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words are slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you’re savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shift closer, not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finish, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you have no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration is a tangible thing, a heat that radiates off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips tremble with words that never come. You lean in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slides lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch is slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that makes his breath stutter.

When your palm presses firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerks, the faintest sound, a mix between a groan and a gasp, escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whisper, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flex slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilt your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Sunghoon?” you murmur, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbles beneath you.

A broken moan escapes his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips press into your touch instinctively. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he doesn’t move. You relish his submission, the way his control shatters under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouch slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you is unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You linger there, savoring the way his body reacts, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself takes every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you lean in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue follows, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he makes, a guttural, raw groan, sends a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you can provide.

“Please,” he rasps, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that makes the air between you crackle. Your name falls from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moves to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrays the control he’s struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growls, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he can’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wants.

You’ve heard the stories about Sunghoon, late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who doesn’t just fuck but ruins people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he can deliver. He’s calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He takes his time, they say, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begs for release. His prowess clings to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wears without effort, without arrogance. You see it, you feel it even now, the way his presence wraps around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself can’t ignore him. He makes you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze are true, or to push him away just to prove you don’t need him.

But tonight, those promises don’t matter. You know why he wants this, and it has nothing to do with you. His bruised pride isn’t subtle; it burns off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This isn’t about desire, it’s about power. About proving to himself that he can still have anything, anyone, if he just reaches for it. And if he thinks you’ll give him that satisfaction? That you’ll unravel for him because he leans in close, whispers your name like a secret, and lets his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You linger, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act is intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air feels unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you control this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmur, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cuts deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wipe your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’ve ignited in him, and turn to leave. Each step is unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he won’t, can’t, look away. Just as your hand touches the doorframe, an instinct makes you pause. You glance back over your shoulder, and the sight that greets you is nothing short of devastating.

Sunghoon is undone. His head is tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips are parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braces against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other is buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’ve left him teetering on.

The sight is primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you never expect, and for a brief moment, you hesitate, letting it sear into your memory. But you don’t stay. You don’t need to. The image of him, wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy, will linger with you long after you leave, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappear into the shadows of the hallway.

You step out of the haze when your phone pings. 

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glares back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You don’t respond, don’t even let yourself process it, just lock the screen and slip your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you tell yourself. Tonight isn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You don’t need to turn back to know exactly where Sunghoon is, still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’ve denied him. By the time the night is over, you have no doubt he’ll bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’ll give in without hesitation. That’s Sunghoon’s way, fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you’re not going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You can feel it in the charged air you’ve left behind, in the weight of his need you refuse to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you’re not going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you keep your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightens as you move, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It feels like you’ll never find the exit, like the building itself is conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appears, half-hidden by shadows, and you slip through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you step into the quiet. The contrast is stark, inside is a war zone, outside is stillness. The distant hum of city life feels surreal, as if it belongs to a different world entirely.

You glance around, scanning for any sign of Sunghoon. His car is still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief floods through you; he hasn’t followed. He’s still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you’re already gone.

But then your eyes catch something, someone, further down the street. A gasp escapes you before you can stop it, your body freezing as you recognize the figure leaning against a car. Jake. His familiar frame is impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitches, and instinctively, you step back into the shadows, your heart racing. He doesn’t see you, his entire focus is on Areum, who stands close beside him. Too close.

They look… intimate. His hand brushes hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he’s trying to comfort her. She looks upset, her expression barely visible from where you stand, but the way Jake leans in, the way their bodies angle toward each other, it tells a story you’re not sure you want to know.

Jake and Areum? The thought twists in your chest as you watch them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier float back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

Did you see Jake leave with Areum?

Sunghoon’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter but now the evidence is staring you in the face.

The night feels heavier than before as you call for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you type in the address. You’re drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this has happened. But as you climb into the car, your phone buzzes again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You’re not scheduled tonight. You don’t have to go. College looms in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’ve orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure is your safety net, plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight has already upended all of that.

Sunghoon’s touch still lingers like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’ve built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you try to hold steady. And yet, staying means sitting in the wreckage of a night you can’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhale sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money matters, sure, but that’s not what makes your pulse quicken. Those nights have their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpens, where the lines blur between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape.

It’s not just the thrill of stepping into that world; it’s the power it gives you, the way it strips everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you don’t allow, it isn’t just a distraction. It’s a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Sunghoon has tried to steal. It leaves you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glances back as you change the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignore it. No rest for you, not tonight. You’re already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merges onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you brace yourself for what comes next.

The door clicks shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace, a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coils through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that cling to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulses overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine, dark, intoxicating, and staining everything they touch. Shadows play along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleam like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stand scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who come here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrors the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glint like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blend into the room’s soundtrack, an undercurrent of murmured conversation and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretches across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tip back to swallow.

The air is heavy, oppressive, but not stifling, a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeks of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clings to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingles with something sharper, darker, primal, a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you look, the bar feels alive, alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hang in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room don’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers drip with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that dance like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths reads like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This is nothing like the chaos of a college party; there’s no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This is curated, intentional, a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who come searching for something darker. This isn’t just a bar; it’s a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispers permission, permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself feels alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you don’t even know you have. The faint vibration from the bassline crawls up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you are and what this place demands. It isn’t just a space, it’s a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo catches your gaze the moment you approach. She’s a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair falls in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carries no softness. She leans against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she hands off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank reveals toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflect the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she mutters, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You don’t respond. There’s no need. You know your role here, the unspoken contract that hangs between the two of you like smoke in the air. You move with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties lean into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They don’t see you now. You’re invisible until you choose not to be. You recognize some of them, regulars whose eyes will burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they’re just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room is narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you step inside. The dressing room is small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hangs to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You move quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that comes from practice.

Your outfit is more skin than fabric, a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clings to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps loop over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms are scandalous, a high-cut thong that leaves the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hug your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels complete the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slip a sheer cover over the outfit as you step out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lies beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who exists outside these walls is stark, but here, you own it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage, it isn’t a mask. It’s power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickens as you move back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promises indulgence. Every detail of the bar seems alive, the low murmur of conversation, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You step into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This is your world, a place where you thrive, where the night is yours to command.

Jihyo lounges against the bar like she owns not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sit low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fall just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself has shaped her. She doesn’t need to posture; her presence is enough, a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes lock on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knows the stakes. “About time,” she says, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offer her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reach out, voices murmur things you don’t bother to decipher. They’re just noise. You’re above it. You’re untouchable, at least until the lights hit you, and then you’ll become something else entirely.

The room shifts as you step onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wraps around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men fill the space, leaning against the bar, lounging in leather booths, standing near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistle, some cheer, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversation. You don’t flinch. You don’t need to. This is your territory, a place where their attention doesn’t intimidate but fuels you.

Your outfit isn’t just something you wear, it’s part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps don’t merely adorn you; they claim their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you do. Over it, the sheer slip clings to your frame, translucent in a way that reveals just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It isn’t meant to conceal, just the opposite. It’s a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you keep it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they can earn the right to see what lies beneath.

The plunging neckline frames you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bends to your command. The guitar rests against your hips like it belongs there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence, bold, unapologetic, impossible to ignore.

Each strike of your boots against the floor resonates through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burn hotter here, casting shadows that dance across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup: smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This isn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This is raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar isn’t for the faint of heart, this is a world that thrives on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this is the ultimate test, no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room.

You’ve spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight is no different.

The stage is intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You drape the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carries through the room. Fingers linger over the microphone as you adjust it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings catches the light, a quiet accent to your movements that adds an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirs, their energy thickening as you strike a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stills, eyes lock on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin.

You feel it, the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demands it, and you give in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it’s yours to command.

The first chords come slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slips into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics drip from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingers just long enough to make them wonder. This isn’t just a performance, it’s control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you keep to the plan, a carefully orchestrated set that teeters on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hums with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stay long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It isn’t the sort of place anyone stumbles into; it’s hidden, unnamed, known only to those who need its refuge. That’s why you come, because the world outside can’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flit across the room as you move, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars are in their usual places, men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you know how to wield. They don’t intimidate you; they give you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you lean into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaks open.

Your brow furrows, your fingers falter over the strings for a split second before you recover. No one ever walks in this late. The bar isn’t the kind of place that welcomes wanderers or draws in curious strangers. This is a den for the initiated, a haven for those who know its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he is.

The moment your eyes catch his, it’s like the room contracts, pulling all its weight into that single point. Sunghoon. His name isn’t a thought, it’s a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You don’t look away, though every nerve in your body begs you to. His gaze is steady, unrelenting, a tether you haven’t agreed to but can’t break.

Your stomach coils, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that’s both sharp and undeniable: he isn’t supposed to be here. He can’t be. This isn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hasn’t followed you, you’ve left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar isn’t the kind of place anyone stumbles into without intention. It isn’t just hidden; it’s deliberately unnamed, an enclave you’ve chosen for its anonymity. Here, you exist beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractures that carefully built illusion, the one you’ve relied on to ensure this life stays separate from the other.

He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seems designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickers unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It’s a seat of contradictions, a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth, its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it has been waiting for him.

Smoke coils lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing can dull the weight of his presence. He fits too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bends around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaks faintly under him as he leans back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He doesn’t slouch; his posture is a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shift, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior.

He moves like he belongs here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze is something he’s mastered, but you know better. This isn’t his world; he hasn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers trace the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, makes it feel like he’s already claimed it as his own. It’s unnerving how natural he looks in a place that thrives on artifice.

His hair is the first thing you notice, even in the dim lighting, black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it’s been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast is intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black serves as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmer like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair are deliberate, falling in a way that suggests he’s just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demands attention. The brown leather jacket clings to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It’s open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugs his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rests in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifts, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sit low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him feels polished but raw, as if he carries chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exudes a magnetism that doesn’t beg for attention, it commands it. The sharp line of his jaw flexes subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he keeps firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moves through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that feels unnervingly purposeful.

The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuates the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrays the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leans just slightly forward, feels charged, deliberate, as though the space bends to accommodate him. It isn’t restlessness, it’s calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looks, the room will eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze catches him from the corner of your eye, but you know he doesn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting plays tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You’re cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wear like armor. This isn’t the girl he argued with at the party or in Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You’re someone else here, a performer, a presence, a force he can’t yet name.

His gaze skims past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you’re just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He isn’t really seeing you, not yet. His focus drifts the way it does with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seems adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you feel an unfamiliar sense of relief. He doesn’t know it’s you, not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wear like armor. It grants you a power you hadn’t anticipated, the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes linger a second too long. There’s a rhythm in the way you move, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers dance over the strings, it pulls at something buried in him. Recognition breaks over him in pieces, then all at once. His body goes still, the glass arrested mid-motion, his chest rising with a single, sharp breath. His eyes lock onto yours, and your pulse skips.

Your lips curve into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to reconcile what he’s seeing. His gaze burns now, lust sharpened by disbelief, hunger edged with something almost territorial. He leans forward, the whiskey forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as if the air itself has become charged. His breath turns uneven, like he’s trying to steady himself and failing.

The bar’s noise blurs into static. For you, there’s only his stare and the way it pins you in place, not as prey but as the axis he orbits. For the first time tonight, you feel seen, not just looked at but understood, as if he’s reading a language written under your skin.

A regular hollers, breaking the taut wire between you: “Woo! Take it off!”

You tip your mouth to the mic, a teasing smile ghosting your lips. “Maybe…” you purr, letting your voice curl through the haze, “if you tip enough.” Laughter and cheers crest and crash, but his silence is louder. He doesn’t cheer. He tightens his jaw and watches.

The stage has always been your liberation, control as invitation, not a cage. You aren’t here to please; you’re here to own. You ease the sheer slip off one shoulder, then the other, deliberate and unhurried, the fabric whispering down your arms. It isn’t about the crowd. It’s about him and the way he unravels under the lights, how every inch you reveal rewrites what he thought he knew.

You’ve never stripped on this stage before. You’ve never needed to.

Tonight, it’s your stage, your rules, your power.

And you like the way Sunghoon is looking at you.

That’s all the reason you need, the spark ignites something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath catches for a fleeting second, but you don’t falter. You lean into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition feeds your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you didn’t realize you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hook under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement calculated to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slides from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pools at your feet. The crowd erupts, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolves into nothingness. None of it matters, not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment is yours, and you own it completely.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His gaze locks onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you has grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others, whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle, he is silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It isn’t the kind of hunger that screams for attention or demands more; it’s quiet, devastating, consuming.

His eyes trail the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that makes your skin feel bare in ways the crowd could never reach. And when you strip down to nothing but the lingerie you’re wearing, his gaze doesn’t shift, doesn’t darken into something base like the others. It stays steady, unwavering, as though he’s seeing not less of you but more, something deeper, something only he can touch. It’s intimate, maddening, as if he’s reached through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else can.

You tilt your head, strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air conspires to highlight your every movement. Each shift of your body becomes deliberate, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips stops being part of the rhythm, it becomes intentional, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes follow every curve, every tilt, mapping out the exact places where his restraint falters. And falter it does. His posture betrays him, leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze drags over your bare shoulders, lingering on the delicate way your fingers toy with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slides down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaim it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glints in the light, a fleeting tease that dares him to imagine what it conceals, and what it doesn’t. Your fingers dance along the guitar strings, the low, sultry hum coaxing the room to quiet, but it isn’t the music that holds him. It’s you, commanding the stage, pulling him into a space where he isn’t just a man with a drink, he’s your audience, your captive. Every breath he takes feels heavier, charged, his hand gripping the bar in white-knuckled desperation for stability. But his hunger for you is anything but stable.

Then you part your lips, a soft, teasing exhale that hovers in the air like an unspoken promise. It isn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirs is palpable. His chest rises and falls with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, his jaw tightens as though bracing against something inevitable. The heat between you burns brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving under the weight of his stare. Whatever barrier existed before shatters, undone by the moment. His expression shifts, raw hunger replaced by something even more consuming, a blend of want and need that leaves you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power is yours, and you aren’t done with him yet.

For a heartbeat, the world stills, and it’s just the two of you, no stage, no crowd, just the raw connection burning between you like a live wire. His silence speaks louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He’s unraveling. For the first time, it feels like the entire performance is for one man, and you lean into that, letting your body speak what words can’t, knowing he’s the only one who truly understands.

It’s in the way he looks at you, like he’s the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with unbearable intent. He isn’t just watching; he’s devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that feels dangerous. Every shift of your body makes his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him fades until all that remains is you, bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers. Your gaze stays fixed on him, tethered by something neither of you can name. Sunghoon stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving sharp lines across his face. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound fades, you slip the thin, translucent fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Sunghoon doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’s stripping it away again with his eyes, punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles like silk against your skin, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer. Your pulse quickens, not because of the applause or the tips scattered across the stage, but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing what the fuck are you doing? You see her, hear her, but your body moves before thought can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan, only the pull that drags you deeper into something you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the heat in his gaze makes your skin burn more than the lights ever could.

He isn’t just temptation; he’s ruin dressed in a leather jacket, dangerous, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him. He’s arrogant, volatile, chaos disguised as charm, but the ache inside you wants more.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if gravity has chosen sides. He moves too, cutting through the throng toward you, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, a hand sliding to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint. His fingers graze lower, and the tension in the air sharpens. You glance at Sunghoon, he’s stopped, his jaw set, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes are molten.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the man leans closer, breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Sunghoon, pulled as if by instinct, a look that feels like confession. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason can intervene, the words slip out soft and breathless.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts. Sunghoon moves with slow, deliberate ease, each step closing the distance, tension coiled in every line of his body. His focus is razor-sharp, it isn’t the crowd he sees, it’s you. The way his body moves, the quiet confidence of his stride, the flicker of heat in his eyes, it all drags you closer.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, unhurried, like the word was made for him. His hand finds your waist as though it belongs there, fingers curling just enough to anchor you. “You were incredible tonight,” he says, his tone low, intimate, meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words shiver through you, but it’s the way he moves, the way he angles himself to shield you, the way his jacket slips from his shoulders and settles over yours, that undoes you. The gesture is instinctive, protective, too soft for the chaos around you.

He leans closer, his breath grazing your ear. “Boyfriend, huh?” he murmurs, teasing, though something darker hums beneath it. “I like the sound of that.”

The drunk man scoffs. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

You arch a brow. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He takes a step forward, and Sunghoon moves faster. His hand cradles your face, and then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss hits like heat and thunder, fierce and unrelenting. His mouth claims yours with purpose, his hand tangling in your hair, tugging until you gasp. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue hot and rough against yours. Your hands find him instinctively, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting hard enough to make you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. A low moan vibrates from his chest, the sound spilling into your mouth. His hand slides down your spine, gripping the curve of your ass through the lace, squeezing until you tremble. The kiss grows messier, hungrier, the noise of the bar fading to nothing but breath and want.

Your body presses into his, your nails grazing his neck as his hands move with command, one holding your face, the other claiming your waist, your hips, every inch he can reach. He bites your lip again, harder, and you moan against him, helpless under the heat.

When you break apart, it’s only because you need air. His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes blown wide. The world could burn around you, and you wouldn’t notice.

The drunk man mutters something before retreating, but neither of you look away. The moment belongs to you.

You inhale, shaky. “What are you doing tonight?”

His mouth curves into a smirk, his thumb brushing your skin. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice molten. “What are you doing tonight?”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. “You,” you whisper.

His grip tightens, the heat between you electric. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd blurs as he takes your hand, guiding you toward the door. But then you stop, heels digging in. He turns, eyes dark and confused, a question on his lips. “Let me take you to my place, I can drive us there.” He murmurs. His hand finds your waist again, coaxing you forward.

“That’s way too fucking far,” you hiss, your hand wrapping around his cock so suddenly and tight he can barely breathe. You jerk him rough, once, twice, watching the shock ripple over his face, his eyes wide, lips parting in a helpless moan.

“You’re fucking mine. I want your cock in me right now. Are you going to let me use you, or are you too busy pretending you’re in control?” Your grip never wavers as you lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Look at you, already whining for me. Does it make you nervous knowing I could make you cum just from my hand? I want you to beg—right here, right now—tell me how much you need me to fuck you stupid.” Your tone is savage, hungry, and you don’t let up, grinding your palm against his tip until he’s gasping, completely undone, desperate and so, so ready to let you take whatever you want.

The corridor gulps you down like a throat of flickering neon, and he pads after the echo of your footsteps, dazed, slack-jawed, a puppy chasing the snap of an unseen leash, his world reduced to the curve of your spine and the promise that where you go, he must follow.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that, his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter, his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you, against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move, hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch, it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask, he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Sunghoon’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft, they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful, marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him, the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Sunghoon stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you, wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy, only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Sunghoon’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Sunghoon has ever known, his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying, and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying, and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight, can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Park Sunghoon, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory, Sunghoon, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart, and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t, ” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.” 

And that’s when you realize, it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Sunghoon,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still, frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him, not demanding, but grounding, and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know, need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Sunghoon?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show, not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him, flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated, bigger than what you’re used to, but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck, sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck, God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck, anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention, a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it, stay just like that.”

“Fuck, fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need, I’m so close, please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t, fuck, I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Sunghoon.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock, hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach, sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I, I need you. Please, just, fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t, fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything, fuck, anything, just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything, whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him, not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you, begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I, fuck, I’m sorry, fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck, oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like, shit, I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re, fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t, ” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t, fuck, I’m gonna, ”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t, ” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still, his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him, wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No, no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect, so soft, so, fuck, I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I, I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Sunghoon. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this, wrecked and trembling, only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking. 

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention, the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone, blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly, utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Park Sunghoon was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this, it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Sunghoon. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying, I swear— ”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Sunghoon, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck, do whatever you want, just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Sunghoon? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck, please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Sunghoon. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so, fuck, you’re perfect. I need more, I need, ”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

Your words leave him trembling, his jaw slack as he stares at you with blown pupils, but just as you lean back to reclaim the rhythm, his hand shoots out, gripping your hip. You hesitate, a split second of shock, and he seizes the opportunity. His palm presses firmly against your lower back, keeping you still as his other hand moves with deliberate intent.

The warm wetness hits your skin first, his spit landing on your chest before trailing lower as he spits again, the sound obscene and lewd. His hand follows, smearing it over your skin, down the curve of your spine, spreading it over the swell of your ass. His gaze is dark, heavy-lidded, and dripping with defiance as he growls, “You’re so fucking filthy like this. Look at you, pathetic, desperate, letting me do whatever I want.”

Your moan betrays you, the sound slipping free before you can catch it, and his cock twitches deep inside you, filling you to the brim. You glance down, and the sight sends a shockwave through you, his length buried to the hilt, your slick coating his shaft, your body stretched tight around him. The sheer depth of it leaves you reeling, your dominant facade threatening to crumble as your walls flutter involuntarily.

But you won’t let him have the upper hand. Not yet.

“You think that was enough to break me?” you taunt, your voice sharp as you drag your nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines in your wake. His body jolts, his breath hitching as he writhes beneath you. “You’re fucking pathetic, Sunghoon. You can’t even keep your control for a single second.”

His hips buck, his need undeniable as he moans, “Please, I need—”

“You need?” you mock, leaning down to grip his jaw, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “The only thing you need is to shut up and take what I give you.” You slam your hips down hard, grinding against him as he chokes out a wrecked cry, his body trembling violently under the force of your movements.

Your hand slides back to his throat, your grip firm but teasing as you lean closer. “You’re so weak for me,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear as your nails dig into his skin. “So desperate and needy. Look at you, moaning like a fucking mess, begging for my cum when you know you don’t deserve it.”

His voice cracks, his cries muffled as you tighten your hold, forcing him to hold his breath while you grind against him mercilessly. His cock pulses inside you, stretching you impossibly deep, and the heat pooling low in your belly builds with every broken sound he makes.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your tone cutting and unforgiving as your pace quickens, your hips slamming down onto him with brutal precision. “And you’re going to stay like this until I decide you’ve earned it.”

He’s shaking now, his body a trembling mess beneath you as his submission reaches its breaking point. But you’re not done. Not yet.

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue, hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it, you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs, the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal, makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so, shit, how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Sunghoon.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you, shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control. 

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m, Sunghoon, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Sunghoon follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw, shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips, he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact, a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him, Jake’s brother, the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate, the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you move, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

read part two here !!!!!!

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie (comment to be added to the taglist, this fic is a series, there will be more parts!)

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‘back to you’ is actually a completed series i’ve already published here, it’s originally a lee jeno (nct dream) series, and i’m now adapting it into a new universe for enhypen, with sunghoon as the lead. i wanted to open the door for new readers, especially all the sunghoon and enhypen lovers who might not be as deep in the nct world. to experience a story that means the world to me. this version will bring its own chemistry, dynamics, and deliciously fresh tension; you can expect new twists, emotional beats, and character moments tailored to this group, while still keeping all the ache, obsession, and heat that made bty iconic.

you don’t need to have read the jeno version to jump right in with sunghoon, this is a stand-alone journey built just for you. but if you’re interested in it then it’s tagged twice. keep in mind it will contain heavily spoilers for how the rest of this series will pan out. the earlier chapters will be closely identical (the jeno and sunghoon ver) but the later chapters is when i’ll be introducing some distinct changes from the jeno ver. 🫶🏻.

[sundives]

The art of tension ✶ nrk.

Summary: Your divorce has been the talk of the town. The cold and meticulous CEO who wasn’t able to give affection to her ex-husband, eventually was replaced with someone younger and prettier in less than five months after the divorce. You tried to keep your reputation stable despite all the names thrown to you, but when an art gallery exhibit trailed you to Nishimura Riki — handsome, fine, reputable-looking yet younger male who seems to be drawn to you, tension arises and gossip articles start to brew.

Riki seems to love playing with the fire he started, meanwhile it’s clear that you’re not playing along with his games — especially when you swore to yourself that you're not going to stoop to your ex-husband’s level.

First installment of Big reputations series.

✰ Song inspiration: Don’t blame me by Taylor Swift, Kill bill by SZA, Love again by Dua Lipa.

✰ Word count: 22.4k

✰ Tags: CEO au, age gap (5 years), aged-up characters (ni-ki’s 24, reader’s 29), sexual tension, slow-burn, power imbalance, denial of feelings, confessions, smut, fluff with angst ofc, painter! ni-ki, ceo! reader, heeseung as reader’s ex-husband, they’re civil? with a lot of banter and snarky comments, huge flirt & pathetic yearner nishimura riki, he calls reader noona sometimes, nude painting slayyyy, kpop idols as other characters. Not proofread.

✰ CW: plot with porn, smut, kissing, makeout, power imbalance, sub! ni-ki, dom! reader, cowgirl, unprotected sex (pls. don’t), edging, dirty talk, overstimulation, cream pies, hand jobs, oral (f receiving), cum eating, noona kink? I don’t know lol. Shitty smut but sub!ni-ki is so sexy hahaha.

✰ Asul’s note: oh hey, starting my new series with Ni-ki’s story. I hope you enjoy this one and the upcoming stories of the other members. I still couldn’t believe that this reached 20k words, I was hoping for it to be less than 20k words, but I guessed I enjoyed writing it too much lmao, and I hope you guys enjoy this fic!

✰ Series taglist: @kyutiepeachy @rosepetals09 @toastmenace @k1ttyjwon @kikidoul @brokenengene @tatikeu @ddeondalandan @ellyre @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @heeseungsgf26 @axfyl @dollvtte

-

Your ex-husband is getting married.

A model. The new face of beauty brands and high-end clothing lines. Her face was on every mall establishment and billboard in your country. Thin, pale, a bit shorter than Heeseung, but she was tall nevertheless, but most of all — younger.

Younger than you. Six years younger than you. A fresh face that seems to be at the peak of her career — something guys would love to have. A rising star that would vanish all of the sudden and become a housewife for their hardworking, business-minded husband. A beautiful, younger wife who eventually, will end up as a trophy wife for husbands to brag during company dinners and important events.

Something your ex-husband couldn’t do to you, because in the spotlight of your relationship with Heeseung, the public has always seen you two as equal to each other.

Having the same age as your ex-husband used to have a lot of pros. Both of you relate and understand each other. Given that you two run a company, you assumed that you and Heeseung will always be on the same page.

The public called you the power couple, your relationship was always on the public’s display. Marriage, future, and company collaborations were always on the line. There was peer pressure for you, but you love him. You were sure that he’d be the one you want to spend your forever with. That’s why it was easy for you to marry Heeseung

It was a small and intimate wedding. No press or reporters, just you, him, and people who had witnessed your relationship grew. It was filled with happiness and love, and you found yourself secured. Everything in your life was perfect — you have a loving husband, a famous company, and your reputation’s in good hands.

But that didn’t even last a year. 

You noticed it immediately. The way Heeseung wanted more than just marriage — a family. A happy one that’s picture perfect from the public’s perspective.

Heeseung didn’t ask you to step down from your position, but he wanted you more to be his wife. He wanted domesticity and the simplicity of marriage. Not a penthouse that’s big, cold, and lacked any colors, and perhaps, your cold and quiet personality was too suffocating for him. Both of you were busy, but in his mind, you were busier. You couldn’t spare time for him and feelings started to fade. You didn’t notice that little by little, your marriage was crumbling.

Maybe Heeseung couldn’t handle the fact that he couldn’t control you. You didn’t want to be controlled by him either. Serious arguments came a few months after the marriage. It wasn’t the type that you two were shouting at each other and throwing things out of rage, the arguments came cold and rational, logical like a debate wherein no one wanted to lower their pride. Heeseung always ended up defeated, because all he could see was how cold you were when you looked at him — like you don’t love him at all and he wasn’t your husband. 

It probably hurt him. You’re a tough cookie to break, and believe me because Lee Heeseung, who’s always oozing with charisma and had learned the art of persuasion, wasn’t able to manipulate his own wife. That probably hurt his ego.

Divorce papers were sent not even ten months after your marriage. Signed immediately. The divorce was settled and you two decided that maybe, you two aren’t just compatible. Your four-years relationship with Lee Heeseung vanished all of the sudden.

Of course, the news spread out like wildfire. Comments about your marriage and divorce came left and right — mostly about you, unfortunate to your side.

How Lee Heeseung couldn’t even get you to settle down. How heartless you were and Heeseung probably didn’t love you completely. You were a workaholic, you’re married to your company instead. Every name they could think of was thrown to you and despite everything, they still quiver when you're in their presence. Your reputation never faded and your company stood strong despite the criticisms on you. After all, you didn’t care about what they said, since they didn’t even care that the divorce was just a matter of fallout.

Now, it’s not even less than five months since your divorce, and your ex-husband’s getting married. It surprised you at first, but when you saw his fiance, it didn’t surprise you anymore. She looks like something straight out of a men’s magazine — every guy’s fantasy, and all you could think of was that Heeseung probably found a girl who he can control. Good for him though.

It was Heeseung who’s getting married, and yet, in some ways, the press had managed to find a way to drag your name in his articles. 

Comparisons between you and the fiance were the topic. The public wasn’t surprised that Heeseung replaced you with someone younger and prettier. Someone who’s kind at heart and bubbly. The fiance was on the trend now, the nation’s sweet darling, as what everyone calls her. She’s smart and media-trained. Her answers and words were articulated and well-spoken, as if she was in a beauty pageant.

She was the complete opposite of you. She’s what Heeseung deserves, they say. Praises were given to the new couple while you were thrown into the pit of shame, because you may be the CEO of the biggest magazine publishing company in your country, you’re the one who’s ex-husband divorced due to your cold personality.

If only. They say. If only you weren’t cold or evil or too much, then maybe, Heeseung wouldn’t have divorced you. If only you weren’t self-centered who only thinks about herself, then maybe, you could’ve had the happy marriage that was supposed to last forever. 

Still, you didn’t care nonetheless about it. You thought that maybe, marriage and love wasn’t just for you. You could read all the hateful comments and opinions from the public all day, but not a single sting could be felt on your heart. 

That’s when you decided to close your phone, realizing that maybe, you’re just a heartless monster just like what everybody says. You placed your phone on your table and focused once again at your monthly due dates for the month when you heard the door open.

“Hey chief, I hope a bun of cinnamon roll would cheer you up,” you looked up and saw Sunoo standing in front of you. Holding a paper bag wherein a faint smell of freshly baked pastry filled the air. 

Talking about right timing, Sunoo came in with your favorite pastry. He placed down the paperbag and you only grabbed the box out of it. Your best friend sat on the chair in front of you as he took a sip on his strawberry latte.

“You’re done with the article I sent you?” You asked as you took a bite on the bread.

“I did, I guess you haven’t opened my email yet because you’re too busy reading Heeseung’s article.” Sunoo teased.

You only chuckled in disbelief, “people are funny you know? My ex-husband’s getting married but somehow, I’m still the one getting all the negative comments.”

That made your best friend groan. Rolling his eyes as he spoke, “Right? Not even a what if Heeseung and that girl were having an affair while you two were married — I mean come on now! Five months? Not even a dating article or rumors? It’s been five months since you two divorced and he’s getting married already? What’s the rush?”

Now that you think about it, five months was indeed too fast, as if you and Heeseung didn’t have a long-term relationship before getting married. It never crossed your mind whether he had an affair while you two married — you didn’t care about that thought. Perhaps, Heeseung really just wanted to settle down and have a family. If he couldn’t do it with you, he’d find someone else for sure.

“He has certain goals that he wanted to hit before turning thirty, so it’s not a surprise he’s a rush.” you commented.

“I bet my next bonus that the girl’s pregnant,” Sunoo joked.

“Already? That’s a shame for the girl,” you mumbled before taking a bite on the bun. “Imagine, you’re at the peak of your career and you had to throw it all away just to become a wife and a mother.”

“Something you don’t want to do.” your best friend teased.

You smiled at him, “Yeah, that’s why he divorced me.”

“I don’t know if I should feel bad for you or not.”

Before you could even speak, a knock on the door interrupted you two. Both looked towards the direction wherein the door opened revealing one of the company’s interns.

“Good morning Ma’am — and Sir Kim, Sir Kang asked me if I could get your comments regarding the articles of your ex-husband’s marriage.” she asked, voice almost timid and unhearable for you.

You crossed your arms as you looked at the intern. “Why?”

She flinched at your tone. Looking up to see your icy gaze that sent chills to her spine. “He — Sir Kang just instructed me to, it’s for the press release Ma’am, everyone’s reaching out to him for your statement regarding Mr. Lee’s marriage.” 

Of course. Your statement will just add fuel to the fire. Everyone loves drama, and what’s a good mess if there’s a statement from the ex-wife?

“Tell him I don’t have any comments about it,” you stated loud and clear. “And next time, if he wanted my statement, he’d come up to my office instead of sending you. Tell them that to him.”

The intern nodded frantically. “Of course, thank you Ma’am. Thank you so much —” 

“You may go.”

She bowed one last time before leaving the office. You took another bite on your pastry while Sunoo only gave you a side eye.

“You’re scaring all of our interns,” he remarked.

“I have to,” you let out a sigh. “If I’m all bubbly and happy-go-lucky, no one will take me seriously.” 

“Maybe a smile wouldn’t kill you y/n.” Sunoo suggested

“There’s nothing to smile about.” you mumbled.

“Gosh, and here I am wondering how I was able to put up with you.” Sunoo rolled his eyes while you only smirked teasingly at his snarky remark.

“You’re the only one who could put up with me.”

“Heeseung used to, but now he’s not here anymore.”

“Maybe love isn’t for me Sunoo,” you stated. “I don’t care nonetheless, what good will it give me, right?”

Sunoo didn’t agree to your statement. He only took a sip on his latte, watching you take a bite on your pastry as he deeply pondered about whether you’re greatly affected by your ex-husband’s marriage or not.

And as he looked at your dead eyes, filled with nothing but ice-cold stares and blank expressions, he wondered if there would come a time that there would be someone who’d be able to melt your heart — someone who’s completely the opposite of your ex-husband.

-

Your company’s PR officer advised you to stay out of the public’s eyes for a moment. 

Unknowingly, you followed their advice. It’s not like you’re the type to follow someone’s instructions, it just happens that you didn’t have any schedule that required you to go out. Next month’s issue is coming by and you spent most of your days inside your office, evaluating articles, photoshoots, and contents for the magazine like a good CEO would do.

Your “no comment” on your ex-husband’s marriage was still a statement that the public bought. It caused some drama, people love to stir the pot after all. They thought you were bitter about it but didn’t want to show it to the public, while others think that you’re just a heartless and workaholic CEO who doesn’t care about her ex-husband. The comments never stopped just like how you never stopped working.

It’s been two weeks since the announcement was released. You spent your days hiding in the shadows of your office and in the comfort of your house. Your family couldn’t reach out to you and the only person who you talked to was Sunoo. You’ve done this when your divorce was publicized, it’ll eventually pass — hopefully, because you’re tired of dealing with the press and drama.

The elevator bell rang, and everyone stopped when you got out of the elevator. Greetings were given left and right while you strutted your way towards your office, not even bothering giving a glance to your employees. Everyone could feel the cold aura you emit — powerful and overbearing. Not a single word was spoken by you and as soon as you’re inside your office, everyone sighed in relief. 

You haven’t even sat in your chair when the door opened once again, revealing Sunoo who’s holding two cups of coffee. 

“Thank fucking god it’s a Friday,” you stated as you received the coffee from Sunoo.

“You know how Taehyun advised you to not go out in public for a while,” Sunoo started and you only stared at him.

“What about it?”

“Well, there’s an art gallery in the Aphrodite Hall today. The painter’s making a name in the art industry, and he had held exhibits around the world and wanted to finish the last exhibit here,” Sunoo explained. “What if you look into it?”

“Why me? Are our writers incompetent now that I have to do it?” you asked with an irritated tone.

But your best friend only laughed. “Well, you’re our biggest critic.”

“Art’s not even on my forte.”

“Well, I just want some good drama, the cold and heartless CEO l/n at the exhibition of Nishimura? It’ll draw attention.” he suggested.

“You’re just convincing me for your entertainment’s sake?” you raised an eyebrow.

Sunoo lets out a sigh of defeat. “You know, sometimes, you just have to be petty and play with the fire Heeseung started.”

That’s when you laughed. “There’s no fucking way that I am going to stoop on my ex-husband’s level.”

“Oh come on now, I heard Mr. Nishimura’s fine as hell.” he convinced.

That’s when you gave him a judging expression, “are you trying to set me up with someone? You know that I’m done with love and dating.”

“I am not trying to set you up, I’m just trying to convince you to go out and touch some grass rather than lock yourself here in the office.” Sunoo elaborated.

You stared at Sunoo for a good minute. Friday’s are usually your lazy days, tasks aren’t that heavy at the moment, so perhaps, you do need some time outside your office.

That’s what made you grab your bag and coffee. “Fine, I’d do it for your entertainment, if I found the gallery ugly and boring, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll thank me.” Your best friend winked at you and you didn’t say anything. Knowing Sunoo, he’s not just going to suggest anything if it wasn’t to your standard.

You left the building and drove your way towards Aphrodite Hall. Arriving there after twenty minutes, you parked at the underground parking and rode the elevator upwards the hall.

The outside layout of the exhibit’s entrance was already touched with the artist’s brand. It didn’t look cheap at all which tells you that he isn’t just a novice artist. Every detail and layouts felt like a welcoming notion to know the artist before entering the exhibit itself. Impressive. You thought. 

There were a few people around, given that it was ten in the morning and a Friday. No reporters or photographers around, you found the right time to visit the place.

“Ms. l/n!” you looked to your left and saw a woman approaching you. She gave you a smile while you only stared at her.

“We’re surprised to see you here! Please, allow us to guide you through the exhibit —” 

“You don’t need to. It’ll just distract me from my work,” you halted her words. “I’d prefer to be alone and see the gallery for myself. Thank you.”

She was left stunned. It took her a minute to recover before she nodded. “I understand Ma’am — I hope you enjoy the gallery.”

Still much enthusiasm left on her even though she was stuttering through her words. You eyed her one last time before entering the exhibit. 

A display of portraits and paintings welcomed you. It was a mixture of avant-garde and contemporary art. Bright and vivid portraits against dull and muted backgrounds. The artist had a vision in every painting. More or less, every painting spoke, and you couldn’t help but to be in awe at how he perfectly used the vivid colors to tell a story. 

You pass by every painting, stopping one by one to observe every description of the paintings. Every painting was given two sentence descriptions. You noticed that it was intentional — perhaps it meant that it’s up to the audience to interpret what it means.

“Ms. l/n, a pleasure to see you here,” a deep voice startled you. Turning to your left, you saw a tall man standing in front of you. 

Sharp, refined visuals, he looks boyish nevertheless, alongside his youthful grace with sophistication. He wore something custom-made. A suit that perfectly captured his body proportions. Nice skin, with moles scattered on his face, he looked foreign yet familiar for you.

He looked at you like he’s happy to see you, with milder enthusiasm compared to the woman earlier — just something that will show you that he’s used to known public figures in his exhibit.

“You must be Mr. Nishimura,” you said as you stretched out your hands. “You seem to know me.”

“It’ll be a shame not to know you Ms. l/n,” he chuckled before accepting your hand. But the next thing you knew, he pulled it towards his lips, landing a perfect kiss on your knuckles which immediately startled you — retrieving your hands from him.

“You’re too bold,” you commented, shaking off your right hand.

“That’s what everybody says to me,” he said without batting an eye. “That’s what brought me here.”

“Would a little humbling keep you grounded?”

“If it’s from you, I don’t mind.”

He’s flirting. You’re not dumb to notice it immediately. He didn’t also hide it from the way he looked at you. The sparks on his eyes, it faintly ignited something fiery from him — and that made you curious yet wary about him.

“I’m not someone who humble strangers Mr. Nishimura.” you pointed.

“You can call me Riki, Mr. Nishimura is too formal.” he chuckled.

“I prefer formality,” you crossed your arms. “I’m just here to look into your gallery.”

“Well, I do hope you’re enjoying the gallery.”

“I do, until you decide to show up.”

Riki laughed, a bit loud enough to draw attention from the people around. Your gaze at him remained, brow raised with your arms crossed. You weren’t supposed to draw attention but it’s the total opposite for him. He seems to be feeding off the attention because all eyes were on you two and you knew what it meant for your image. You’re already dreading the articles that’ll be released today or tomorrow.

“It seems like you did, I noticed you loved ‘At the right time’ the most,” Riki explained.

“I didn’t certainly love it, but it caught my attention the most,” you clarified. “Care to explain it further?”

“Just like what the title says, at the right time,” he casually explained. “Everything has its own right time. Maybe for you, now’s not the right time, but somewhere in the future, there will be. I used the bold colors of orange and yellow because it shows hope and warmth. It gives hope against the blues and gray. Dull days happen but you don’t have to make it everyday either.”

His words were shallow. Not depth nor critical. It was simple, yet it left you impressed. He’s not those snobbish painters that paint the most sub-standard paintings and slaps a deep meaning behind it. Riki paints to tell stories and encourages it. A fresh face in the industry, you understood why he’s a rising name too.

That’s why you look around. Seeing the public enjoy his paintings, the smiles and nods, everything about the exhibit makes sense that Riki’s gallery perfectly captured the public rather than a specific group of people. 

It amazed you, and yet, you kept a blank expression throughout. “You seem satisfied with the outcome of your gallery.”

“It’s my first,” Riki shared, tone filled with pride. “I did have a lot of doubts about it, but seeing how the public was able to interpret every painting in their own perspective, it leaves a lasting impression on me. If they were able to understand it, then it satisfies me as an artist.”

“What about your perspective then,” you asked. “You’re a painter. I’m pretty sure you made some paintings with a clear message. What would happen if they understood it in a different message?”

“There’s no clear intentions for me, we have different perspectives, and it enlightens me — that my paintings can be interpreted that way aside from mine.”

“You really are a rookie,” you commented. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“But did it impress you?”

“I have a fair share of rookies like you. Some are too goal-oriented, some are hungry for success, while others like you — are people pleasers.”

“I don’t please people. But for you, I would be very glad to do so.” he jabbed and one more flirty remark, you’re going to turn around and walk away.

“Flattery won’t give you a good article, Mr. Nishimura.” you stated.

“Who says I’m doing it for a good article?” he taunted

“What is it for then?”

“Oh come on, am I not that obvious?” he chuckled, and that was your answer. He was definitely flirting with you.

“You are,” you started. “But I am simply ignoring it Mr. Nishimura.”

Yet, the smirk on his face only widened. Riki chuckled softly before shifting his gaze at the painting in front of him.

“Do you know the meaning of this painting?” 

You gazed at the painting in front of you. Red streaks, bold and seem rushed. Streaks of gold and orange hues can be seen. The title of the painting, ‘per chance’ meant that everything just didn’t simply happen because of fate or destiny, some just took the chance and got away with it.

It meant that the moment Riki saw you, he took the chance to approach you and talk — flirt with you. If he had noticed that you stopped at one of his paintings for too long compared to the others, it meant that he had been inside the gallery the whole time.

With that said, he approached you perfectly when you were at this painting in front of you, which meant that he perfectly took that right time to approach you.

What a brave heart, you think. Bold and courageous just like any man who assumed they found the one for them.

You already know these patterns. Approach them, start with small talks with subtle hints of flirting until you two could go on a date. Fall in love, think that this will be a happy ending, and then expectations will fall — part ways.

“I do, and chances are, there are no chances for you Mr. Nishimura,” you immediately stated, before looking at your watch. “It seems that I have spent too long in this exhibit. I will be going now.”

“I’d be happy to walk you out Miss —”

“There’s no need, I don’t need tabloids dragging my name along with yours, I’ve already had enough with it for the past few weeks.”

“I don’t care about them.”

You simply chuckled in disbelief. “I do, and for a rookie like you, ignorance may seem like a bliss, but it’ll eventually eat you out as you stay longer in this industry.”

But the smirk on Riki’s lips never faded. He simply gave you a bow, his eyes still dark and desireful remained on you. No matter how many jabs or cold statements were given to him, he never faltered.

“Have a safe drive back to your office, Ms. l/n.” he bid, eyes still gazing on you.

You didn’t say a word but instead, turned your heel and walked out of the hall — you didn’t even bother turning around one last time to glance at the young painter, afraid that it might give him the wrong intention.

The moment you reached your car, you turned on the engine and reached out for your phone first. Looking at the notifications, there weren’t any important or urgent messages for today. You only let out a sigh before you decided that instead of going back to the office, you opted to go home instead.

On your drive home, all you could think about was Riki. The tall height, deep voice, and never faltering confidence. He was a newbie, yet he wasn’t afraid of you — he even had the guts to flirt with you, which bugged you. Why?

You’re used to being feared, knowing how powerful your words were. You can twist his image in just a snap, but he didn’t care about that, and instead, continued to throw those chill-sending words that if you were a normal teenager, you would’ve been flustered.

But you weren’t. You’re a divorcee who’s sick of love and happiness, and yet, the younger remained in your mind when he should’ve been out of it the moment you left the hall.

Maybe because, and as much as you wanted to deny it, Riki reminds you oddly of your ex-husband. The way he acted around you, his words and actions —  it was like Heeseung when you two started dating.

Perhaps that’s the reason why you couldn’t get him out of your mind — and that thought scared the hell out of you.

-

As expected, the cheap tabloids took the opportunity to link you with Riki.

“I hope you enjoy it,” you teased Sunoo who’s reading the article. The same cheap tabloids who were calling you names are now insisting that you were meeting someone new, which was unfortunate to you, was Riki.

Coincidentally, someone managed to capture Riki kissing your hand, and of course, they started to speculate things with it. But you know the truth — you were there for work purposes.

“He’s good-looking,” Sunoo commented, scrolling through his phone as he took a closer look at the pictures. 

“And young,” you pointed out, eyes locked on your screen. After finishing your draft for the review article, you decided to look up Nishimura Riki.

Twenty-four years old. Born December 9. Sagittarius. He studied in a famous art school in Tokyo, Japan, moved to South Korea at the age of seventeen and was an apprentice to one of their famed painters for seven years before debuting his own exhibit.

Aside from that, he seems to be secretive about his private life. His family lives in Okayama and no details about them were disclosed either. No scandals nor issues but maybe because he’s just a rising name in the industry. Most of his articles were about his current exhibit, and just like Sunoo mentioned, he debuted it in different countries. 

There were also some short articles about his fashion style and choices, aside from his artistry, it seems like the public is swooning over his looks and enigmatic aura.

“You’re making it sound like it’s a problem,” Sunoo laughed.

“It is,” you stated. “Younger guys are immature, older ones are manipulative.”

“And same-age guys?”

“Are a mix of both.” you joked, making your best friend laugh.

“So, you’re just going to stay single forever?” Sunoo asked.

“I think that’s fated to me,” you shrugged. “I couldn’t care nonetheless.”

“Hey, you’re still young you know? Who knows, maybe you’d meet him at Mr. Young’s dinner party this Saturday”

That’s when a groan escaped your lips. “Do I really have to go there?” “You’re invited by Mr. Young  himself, you had no choice.”

“Could you at least accompany me?”

“As much as I want to, I have plans that night, so good luck chief — oh, and don’t get caught in another gossip okay?”

“Sounds hard, they’re the one following me after all.” you joked, earning a hearty laugh from your best friend.

-

Dinner parties and charity events under the disguise of money-bragging are the things you hated the most.

But there are things called decency, and some business people still think that it’s decency to invite you to their expensive yet cheap-looking dinner parties just for the sake of impressing you. 

An hour had passed and all you could do was plaster fake smiles and kisses, indulging in their egoist comments as you chugged down the tasteless wine they served.

Seriously, you could’ve just spent your Saturday night watching the latest series in your watchlist, but here you are trying to understand their next projects and vision which you utterly don’t give a fuck about.

Bored of the conversations, you looked at your watch and thought that it was too early to leave, so you excused yourself from a circle and wandered around the venue. Looking for something interesting when someone caught your attention. 

Coincidentally, he caught yours too. With a soft smile from the people he was talking to, he excused himself and approached you who only stood there frozen.

“It’s a surprise seeing you here,” your ex-husband started.

“A surprise?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Still a pleasure,” he smiled, the same boyish smile you fell in love with years ago. “It’s been a while.”

“You must be busy, with the wedding preparations and everything,” you commented. “Congratulations by the way, sorry it took me weeks to tell you that.”

“I don’t know if you’re being sarcastic,” Heeseung jabbed.

“Of course not,” you smiled at him. A genuine one. Not a fake one that’ll show him that you’re fine and not a bitter ex-wife. “You deserve it, you deserve someone who’d put up with all you want.”

Heeseung didn’t say a word. He knew what you meant. An apologetic expression shifted in him. “You know that that’s not the reason why we separated.”

“I know,” you agreed and yet, it didn’t hide the bitterness in your tone. “But let’s not dwell in the past. I’m tired of hearing about us Heeseung, the public wasn’t very nice to me for the past few weeks.”

“Yes, the public wasn’t really nice,” Heeseung commented. “Although, I’ve heard some interesting things lately from the tabloids.”

“I didn’t know you read cheap tabloids Mr. Lee.”

“The headline caught my attention — a rising painter trying to swoon Ms. l/n? He seems a charmer to me.” he teased.

“He’s bold,” you pointed out. “But young. Tabloids love to speculate things, I was just doing my job there.”

“Of course you are, when were you not doing your job?” Heeseung joked.

“Tonight supposedly, binge-watching some series,” you replied with a shrug. “But here I am.”

“Here you are,” he raised his glass and you only toast to his wishes. Your eyes were on your husband’s hands as you took a sip on your wine. The gleaming gold band of his engagement ring stood out. It was a sudden reminder for you, he’s going to marry someone else while you’re here single, and oddly, having a conversation with him.

“You’re happy with her?” you couldn’t help but to ask.

“I am,” he admitted and you only smiled at him.

“Good.” you said with diction.

“One day, you’d experience this kind of love too,” Heeseung told you and that made you laugh in disbelief.

“I did experience it once, four years ago,” you stared at him for a second. “It’s a frightening feeling now that I get to experience it. I think once is enough for me.”

“Really? Not even a change of heart?” he mocked.

“You know me Heeseung, I never changed,” you answered.

“Then it’s a shame.” he bitterly smiled.

“For you it is, but I’m fine with it.” With that, you looked at your surroundings. Of course, all eyes were on the two of you. Whispers began to be loud and all you could think about were the gossip articles that were to be released tomorrow morning. So you took a small sip on your wine again and glanced at Heeseung one last time.

“I think it’s time for me to go, don’t want to cause any chaos in your soon-to-be married life,” you bid.

“It was nice talking to you,” Heeseung softly spoke. “Genuinely, I miss you.”

“Goodbye Heeseung,” you answered instead. “And to answer your invitation, I’m not going to your wedding, I don’t want to ruin your soon-to-be wife’s wedding day.”

You gave him one last smile before you left him standing there. The stare became more and more obvious, but you ignored it as you walked with confidence towards the champagne table wherein you got yourself another glass. 

You decided that socializing more will drain the energy out of you, that’s why you opted to go to the veranda for some breather. The cold air welcomed you as you pushed the door open. Placing down the champagne glass on the corner table, you leaned against the railings as the silence swallowed you whole.

You let out a deep sigh as the loneliness felt comforting. This is what you needed. You’re on your own, yet you’re in your own peace. It deeply moved you found yourself more relaxed and having fun staring at the stars rather than conversing with the people inside.

“Thought I’d find you here,” but your fun faded when you heard the glassdoor open. At first, you ignored it, but you turned around when you heard a familiar voice. Raising an eyebrow as you look at Riki who’s smiling ear to ear.

“Wine?” he offered and you only glanced at the glass on the corner table.

Riki seemed to understand what you meant, he placed both glasses he was holding on the table and stood beside you.

“What are you even doing here?” you asked, still staring at the view in front of you.

“Mr. Young bought two of my paintings, and he invited me as a form of gratitude too.” Riki answered, tone filled with pride which made you roll your eyes.

“Not that,” you clarified. “Here, what are you —”

“Thought you need some company.” the younger male grinned.

“I don’t need company Mr. Nishimura, I am fine with my own solitude.” you told him.

“I told you, Riki would be fine,” he insisted.

“Would it offend you that I call you kid instead?”

“You’re acting like I’m way too young,” he sounded offended with your words.

“Five years, I’m older than you by five years,” you heave out a sigh.

“That doesn’t stop me though,” he smirked and you could only scoff in disbelief.

You didn’t answer him, but you glanced at him. Riki was wearing the usual boring suit and tie just like any other gentlemen out there. He had his hair pushed back and cleaned, probably drowning in hair gel meanwhile the small rectangular glasses enhanced his visual. — a charmer overall, you noticed how despite wearing boring clothes, he makes it up to his accessories and jewellery.

Truly, this kid is a casanova. That's one thing you should be careful of. People are now watching you two since he’s romantically linked to you, it didn’t help that your ex-husband’s marriage is still being the talk of the town.

It’s an avoidable scandal. Just tell him to back off, you’re not interested and move on. It should’ve been easy but Riki seems to be the type to persuade you more the more you reject him — a casual act from your ex-husband during his younger years.

“Mr. Nishimura, I am going to repeat myself. I am not interested in any bullshit you have in your sleeves,” you told him. “I had enough of scandals and cheap gossips on my end due to my ex-husband’s marriage, I am not going to let my name be dragged down by a mere rookie like you who couldn’t take a fucking hint.”

“That wound me,” he teased, acting like you shot him in his heart. “Your ex-husband was an asshole for letting you go.”

“Don’t disrespect my ex-husband like that, people divorce for a reason, we weren’t just compatible.”

“Maybe, just like him, you need someone younger, you know?” he suggested.

There was silence for a minute. You only stare at Riki whose eyes never left you. You could feel your cheeks red, ears warm as the blood rushed on your body like you were a teenager.

Yet, there’s a hint of annoyance in your face. A sigh of disappointment before grabbing your wine glass. “I’ll let you know this one last time Mr. Nishimura, if there’s one thing about me that you should know, I am not going to lower myself to any man, especially my ex-husband. So give up now, and find someone your age to charm.”

“It’s a shame, when I have my eyes on someone, I am very determined to have it.” he stated with a disappointed tone.

“You’re playing with fire Mr. Nishimura.”

“If it’s you who I am playing with, I don’t mind.” Riki casually shrugged, taking a step forward wherein he’s just an inch close to you. 

It deeply frightened you and yet, you didn’t move. You’re not one who’d backed out of fear, especially in front of a guy? You’d rather die.

“I’m not going to play with your childish games,” you whispered to him, eyes cold at his burning ones. “I’m too old for that bullshit.”

“But not too old for me.”

“Goodbye Mr. Nishimura,” it was the only thing you could say. “I hope this is the last time we see each other.”

“I’m afraid this is just the beginning of our many wonderful encounters, Ms. l/n.” he smiled, a charming one which stunned you for a split second.

Riki watched as you went back towards the hall, closing the door of the veranda, you stared at him through the glass door. He stood there, with wine on his glass, a toast for you and a smirk forming on his lips.

You could feel your heart beating fast. Scared and unable to process anything that you two had exchanged, you left the place with a wondering heart and mind about the younger who seems to have his goal set to have you.

-

Another article. Another speculation about you and Riki. Of course, it was news worthy that you and Riki were talking alone on the veranda.

Your PR officer is now lecturing you for not being careful which annoyed the fuck out of you. It was Monday morning and he’s already waiting in your office, sitting on the chair in front of your desk while Sunoo was on the couch, scrolling through his phone and reading all the comments the public had left for you.

“I told you to be careful,” Taehyun said with an annoyed look.

“I am being careful,” you rolled your eyes. “It’s not my fault that he’s insistent about me —”

“Insistent?” he breathed. “You two are having a private moment at the veranda of Mr. Young’s hotel, and dare you say, insistent?”

“You think I am doing this on purpose?” you asked with a cold tone, standing up from your seat as you stared at Taehyun, your gaze dark and powering that your employee flinched. 

“You think I want to be linked to an immature painter who doesn’t know how to accept a rejection? You think lowly of me Taehyun.” you smiled at him, a taunting smile that kept the male shut. “You think, after all the names that were thrown to me because of my ex-husband’s marriage, I wanted the public and media to be their money-maker with this baseless rumor? I am busy running an empire here, I don’t have time to deal with all of this bullshit.”

The whole room fell into utter silence. Taehyun looked away, embarrassed, meanwhile Sunoo’s stare at you never faltered. A proud expression written on his face despite the tense atmosphere.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to accuse you of such things,” Taehyun said. “As your PR officer, I am doing my best to clean —”

“I only want you to take care of my company’s image, not mine. Let the public speculate, no matter what statements we release, they don’t even listen,” you rolled your eyes heavenwards. That’s when Taehyun stood up from his seat, brushing off the dust from his suit as he looked at you, pissed yet defeated.

“Right, just doing my best. Have a nice day Ms. l/n.” Taehyun excused himself and you stood there, watching him leave your office with the door closing in a soft thud. You couldn’t help but to take a sip on your coffee before heaving a deep sigh.

“How do I even get rid of the kid?” you asked, glancing at Sunoo who only smiled at you.

“Asking the same question four years ago,” he observed. “Feels like deva ju right?”

“A nightmare you could say,” you sat on your chair before opening your desktop computer.

“Does Mr. Nishimura scare you?” Sunoo asked and you only quipped a smile.

“Not really, he’s like a pest that no matter I step on, he’s still alive and beating.” 

“Well, maybe that’s your sign to just play along with his games.”

“I don’t have time to deal with his bullshit Sunoo.” you complained.

“You’d say that right now, but knowing you, you’d end up doing it too.” Sunoo pointed out.

“Please kill me if that happens.”

“I’d have my hitman ready then.”

Sunoo stands up from his seat, you didn’t bother raising your head to bid goodbye to your best friend, eyes already focused on your work when you hear the door closed.

It didn’t take a minute for it to open once again.

“You left something Sunoo?” you asked, eyes still on your computer.

“Chief, you have a visitor,” Sunoo said, voice filled with excitement and teasing which made you glance at him — immediately halting you.

“So, this is what the office of Ms. l/n looks like,” Riki’s eyes wandered around your office before glancing at you. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I don’t entertain unwanted visitors,” you coldly said. “I am busy if you couldn’t see it.”

“I can see and I apologize for disturbing your working hours but I have a concern, deeply regarding the article you wrote about me,” Riki flashes a smile and you scoff.

“You have the nerve to say that Mr. Nishimura, you should be thankful that I spare time to write an article about you and your gallery.” you stated.

“I am honored Ms. l/n, but you missed a small piece of information about me.” he insisted.

You smiled at him. That smile that tells people who you are and they shouldn’t have opened their mouth. 

You’ve seen hundreds of reactions to your smile. Wide smiles fading, the fear in the eyes, and avoidance of contact — some even shook in fear.

But Riki? He only stood there, hands on his back with his head held high. Smiling and waiting for your answer, and that’s when you felt deja vu. 

Not again. You thought as you stared at the younger man. You swore to yourself. No more, not anymore. Especially when this young man in front of you scarily reminds you of your first love.

“What piece of information could I possibly have missed about you?” you asked, trying to shake off that feeling of yours about the young painter. 

“That I am single, and very ready to mingle.” he proudly said.

You wanted to laugh out loud. You couldn’t believe it. You’d think that he’s joking but he remained his cool expression as you stared at him, lips thinning as you let out a sigh. 

“That piece of information is irrelevant.”

“The public loves to dive into every personality’s lovelife, you probably know that right?”

“Right,” you smiled, knowing what he meant. “But I am not your PR officer, I am just a writer who writes articles about trending topics, and while you may be a rising painter, I think you haven’t made any noise in this world, don’t you think?”

He tilted his head amusingly, “I don’t know Ms. l/n, lately my name’s popping out in every article and media page, along with a pretty familiar name, don’t you think?”

“You know your way of words kid.”

“Just want to swoon a woman, is that bad?”

You blink for a minute and then smile. “Just fucking tell me your intentions before I call security, there are enough articles about us and I am not going to double it up especially when you just fucking walked into my office without any notice.”

“Too bad, I was planning on tripling it.”

You didn’t say a word but instead, you picked up the telephone on your table, glancing at Riki who only chuckled.

“I’m just kidding Ms. l/n, you’re too tense.” Riki teased. “But I am actually here regarding the article you wrote — how do I say this without offending you? It’s too shallow.”

You raised an eyebrow, “shallow?”

“Well, we might’ve started on the wrong foot but your article isn’t good.”

“And you can do a better article than what I wrote?” you raised an eyebrow.

“No, but there are some ways that you can get to know the painter and his art aside from scouring through the internet for his information and visiting his gallery.”

Riki has a point and that infuriates you. As much as you want to scrape off the article that you wrote about Riki and his art because it’s too shallow compared to your other articles, you must push through it to avoid the rumors of you two. It was your stunt to prove that you were just at the gallery because you were doing your job. 

Deep inside, you were unsatisfied with what you have published and found the article cringe. Riki was right with his point but of course, you’re not going to say that to him. Showing your weakness to a man only inflates his ego.

“Then what do you suggest Mr. Nishimura?” you asked, crossing your arms especially when you knew what he’s going to say. 

“An interview, a more in-depth conversation with the painter for more than an hour or maybe two.”

“Is this your way of asking me out?”

“No, of course not,” he sarcastically smiled. “But if you insist I wouldn’t mind.”

You only rolled your eyes before leaning back against your chair, since it's in your lapses, you must comply with it. It’s just a mere interview, a conversation with Nishimura Riki. Surely, you could handle an hour or two with this eager kid who wanted to score a date with you.

“Fine,” you said in defeat. “I’ll send you the details of the interview along with the venue and time and date. Don’t be late Mr. Nishimura.”

“Can I pick you up?”

“It’s an interview Mr. Nishimura, not a date,” you clarified. “If you don’t have any questions, you may leave now, I still have things to do.”

“Can I bring you flowers?”

“Leave.” 

-

A hotel cafe was your choice for the interview venue.

Late lunch. Wednesday. A fifteen minute drive from your company. Located in the business district, the cafe was filled with influential people who, just like you, have set a meeting with their clients or business partners.

You took a sip on the chamomile tea that you ordered before glancing at the glass wall wherein the hotel’s garden could be seen. Spring has arrived, and you could only stare at the bright and pastel-colored flowers blooming against its green bushes and plants.

Indeed, it was beautiful weather to go outside. You could’ve spent the hours inside your office, helping with the gala ball preparations but unfortunately, you’re mentally preparing yourself for your interview with Riki.

Speaking of the kid, he immediately caught your attention when he was walking towards you. Your eyes went wide at the huge flower bouquet he’s casually holding. 

“Hi.” he greeted with a smile which made you stand up from your seat.

“What is this?” you asked, eyeing on the flower.

“Uhm…flowers?” Riki stated the obvious, raising the bouquet to give you a clearer look.

“Mr. Nishimura, this is a formal interview, strictly professional,” you lectured.

“I know, take it, as a token of appreciation.”

“That is not necessary.” you told him, and despite your words, you still accepted the bouquet as an act of decency.

“Anything you want Mr. Nishimura?” you asked the moment he sat on the chair in front of you.

“A glass of water would be fine, I ate lunch before going here, how about you?” he said casually, leaning against the chair.

“Skipped one,” you nonchalantly replied, opening your small notebook which you use whenever you do an interview with someone.

“What? You should’ve — wait, let me order you some food —”

“I am fine with my tea Mr. Nishimura,” you stated, clicking your pen open. “Let’s formally start this interview.”

“You know, you need to loosen up a little bit,” Riki commented and it made you glare at him. 

“There’s no need to loosen up in a formal interview — look, do you even want an article or not, I could throw away my article if you keep acting like a kid.” you threatened and your words only had him forming a teasing smile.

“Do you have any drag on me other than calling me a kid?”

“That’s all I could think of,” you answered sternly. “After all, I barely know you.”

“Would you like to get to know me more?” he asked, his tone hinted with flirtiness that you lightly scoff.

“Sure,” you gave him a fake smile. “Let’s start from the very start, I’d like to know when you first discovered your love for painting.”

Riki chuckled in disbelief as he leaned against the chair, legs crossed as he looked at you. “Fine, if that’s what you want, Ms. l/n, I’d happily oblige.”

For the duration of your talk with your Riki, you have learned so much about him. 

Riki’s well-spoken and his answers were articulate and formal. If he didn’t open his mouth to flirt with you, you would’ve taken him seriously.

You observed that he’s also a sentimental person, most of his answers about his art and passion were influenced by his mentor and family, which you found quite impressive.

You were half-glad that Riki didn’t drop some flirty remarks and jabs throughout the interview — if he had done it, you would’ve walked out of the cafe without any hesitation. 

“When will we expect your new exhibit Mr. Nishimura?” you asked as you continued jotting down some notable answers from him.

“That’s hard to identify Ms. l/n,” Riki laughed, there’s a hint of bitterness in his words, which made you glance at him.

“Artist block?” you asked. 

He only nodded to your question.

“Would it be hard for you? You’re at your momentum at the moment, disappearing in the spotlight all of the sudden will ruin it.”

“I know, but for me, I shouldn’t rush art, and my last exhibition was mentally and physically exhausting for me, that I couldn’t think of another collection at the moment,” he lets out a deep sigh as he looks at you. “I am lacking a muse, you see.”

“A muse huh?”

“Yes, a muse — my last exhibition's muse was my journey and my hometown, but right now, I wanted to paint something — someone perhaps.”

“You’re looking for a muse,” you mumbled mindlessly as you wrote it down in your notebook.

“I am actually looking at her, right now.” That's when you stopped writing. Looking up, you noticed how Riki’s staring — no, gazing at you like a predator that had found his own prey. His eyes darkening, lips stretching into a smirk as his arms rested casually on the armrest of the chair. 

You felt your heart skip a beat. Eyes never faltered as you two held an intense staring contest. 

It snapped in you within a few seconds, eyes shifting to a bored one.

“I think you should keep on searching for your muse, Mr. Nishimura,” you coldly said.

“Not going to help me out?” he taunted.

“You’re a grown man, you can do it.”

“Funny, because you just called me a kid earlier.”

“And here I thought, you’d take this seriously.” you whispered.

“I take things seriously Ms. l/n, maybe try and change your perspectives on the people you meet — seems like you’re the one who doesn’t take me seriously.” 

You stopped. His tone was serious. A bit defensive on your end but when you looked at him, he gazed at you with a small smile, teasing like he’s right about what he said.

You’d admit to him that he’s right. Why on earth would you take a twenty-four year old rookie seriously when he had done nothing but to fuck around whenever you’re around him and act like a kid chasing after his favorite toy? Unless he shows a deeper motive about his intentions to you, that’s all you could see of him.

You find him impressive as an artist, you’re not going to deny it, but it’s hard to avoid that he’s clearly a love-struck fool to you. He seems to be enjoying every bit of it, and it had you wondering — was the game you two had talked about during Mr. Young’s event had already started?

No wonder why. Riki seems to be enjoying playing games with you who haven’t made a move yet. 

“I think we’re done with this interview Mr. Nishimura, do you have some last words to say before we part ways?” but you’re not one who loves to play games. That’s why you chose to ignore his words, closing your notebook as you looked at Riki who clicks his tongue before glancing at you once again.

“Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are beautiful?” he asked with a genuine tone.

“Yes, my ex-husband said that same thing four years ago and I am not falling for that same bullshit again,” you explained to him before standing up from your seat. Riki followed shortly, and before you could speak another word, he snatched your notebook and jotted something on a page.

“Well, your ex-husband is no painter,” he stated before returning you your notebook. “What I meant is, your eyes speak more than what your mouth wants to say. It’s the type of eyes that painters wanted to paint.”

“You artists have such a way with words,” you commented. “I’d be flattered, but only my eyes?”

Riki chuckled. “Of course not, and if you’d let me, I’d prove you the truth.”

You raised an eyebrow, “what? Have me convinced to be painted by you.”

“Seems like you’ve read my intentions.”

“I told you, I had memorized every guy’s moves to swoon a woman.” you stated. “And for your information Mr. Nishimura, a woman like me, could never be a good muse.”

“The artist says otherwise though,” he chuckled. “My offer still stands, if you’re interested, you know where to find me.”

He gave you a quiet bow before he started walking away. You stood there appalled, heart beating at a rapid pace as your eyes locked on him, while your clasped on your notebook tightened. 

So, the game really has begun, and now, you’re wary about what his next move will be.

-

It’s been a week since your interview with Riki and he’s been radio silent ever since.

You had published Riki’s article three days after your interview with him, and best believe that you’re satisfied with the outcome. You’re half-glad that Riki took it seriously and his answers were sentimental enough to give colors not only to his personality, but also to his paintings. 

Four days had passed and Riki hadn't bothered you, and that thought bothered you — you expected his presence afterwards. An unwanted visit with flirty jabs or glamorous gifts he brought to love bomb you. Riki was persistent after all. The type of guy who doesn’t accept rejections. That is why it surprised you that Riki hasn’t made any contact after a week.

The silence was torture — it sinked into you that his silence was much bothering than his loud presence. For you, it wasn’t because you got used to him following you around, but because you felt that there’s something brewing inside — like Riki was up to nothing good again.

You sat on your office chair. The office building has fallen under a dimmed silence. It’s past midnight and usually, around midnight you’d be in your penthouse, relaxing, but you’re stuck in your office, thinking about something — someone perhaps.

The article of your ex-husband’s grandiose wedding filled the screen of your computer. A click on your tongue was all you could do. He looks so happy — even happier than he was during your wedding. Perhaps it was because his new wife really looks like the epitome of sunshine. She looks youthful and stunning — they really are suited for each other.

Yet, it left a distasteful feeling on your heart. It’s not because your ex-husband immediately replaced you, but because he went for someone younger. It made you wonder if age really matters. You wondered if Heeseung had married someone your age or maybe someone older, would there be any difference?

You thought about that rookie painter who has been in your mind for the past few days and the thought of him irritated you — was it necessary for you to fall under the fate as your husband? 

That is, if you cave into your own emotional crave. But Nishimura Riki was too young and reckless for your taste. You curse him for being too young and the thought of you going the same route as what your husband did, bruises your ego and pride. 

You swore yourself you’ll never love again. Not when all you know was that all men are the same and the damage your ex-husband had scarred in your heart could never be mend by the amountful of love Riki could give.

What’s funnier was that Riki reminds you of Heeseung, and if he ever do the same thing Heeseung did — fuck, that would’ve been the death of you.

That’s when you glanced at your notebook, a phone number and address was scribbled along with your notes. His messy handwriting leaves a torturous yearning for you and you knew that this was his move — wait for you to make the next move. 

You hummed quietly, fingernails scraping against the rough texture of the paper. You should’ve been convinced that there’s no need for you to make a move, knowing that you never had any intentions of playing with his games, even though, deep inside you’re curious of what outcome would it be to play along with his game. 

Your thoughts were battling, but your rational side couldn’t bear to be the subject of baseless rumors and gossip once again. You’re reminded once again, why Heeseung divorced you. That’s why you ripped off the page and threw it in your trash bin — that was your move in his silly game.

-

You’ve soon learned that the game’s not over when you bump into Riki at the hotel cafe the next day.

“Ms. l/n, what a surprise,” he seemed happy to see you, bright expression and wide smile while you raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here?” you asked instead, your heart beating fast and mind being burned into panic especially when you threw away the very last piece of his presence in your life.

“Just sent a painting to a client,” he answered. “You? Another interview.”

“I thought you had an artist block.” you asked

“It’s a commissioned painting, I still need money,” Riki laughed. “There’s no way I’m going to be a starving artist Ms. l/n.”

You blinked at his words before nodding. “That’s good to hear, at least you managed to pick up your brush.”

But Riki shakes his head as a form of disagreement. “You didn’t witness how many times I crashed out and suffered before finishing the piece.”

“Is that how you process when it comes to painting?” you asked.

“Depends, if I’m inspired or not — for that? Well, money’s big, I just have to suck it up and paint,” Riki explained. “But with a muse? It’s easy to pick up a brush and paint.”

“Still lacking a muse I see.”

“I wasn’t able to see her for week, it was torture to be honest.” 

“There you go again.”

“You know Ms. l/n, my offer still stands.” he said instead, which completely caught you off-guard. You never expect that those were the things that he’ll say next. 

You glanced at him, his words filled with temptation that made you stare at him longer than usual. 

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, they say. Riki seems to love playing with the fire he started, and you wondered, what more if he found you playing along but — he’s currently on the losing streak.

It was tempting. Something inside you was burning, an odd feeling that you’ve been ignoring for days ever since you walked into his museum. Should you just throw every rational thought you had and play along?

“What’s in for me then?” you asked and you noticed the way Riki’s eyes widened.

Yet, you remained calm and cold. Icy gaze staring at his hopeful one.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice deeper than usual.

It felt luring, like an angel asking for your prayers. His words plead with temptation and desperation. It felt as if you had asked him to be on his knees and beg, he’d be happy to do so.

The thought made you dizzy. You wondered about it —would he be no different than your ex-husband? Was there a reason why Heeseung chose a younger wife? You knew that your answer would only be answered by no one other than you. 

“Take me to your studio.”

-

Riki’s studio was clean. It smelled oddly like oil paint and old newspaper. Nevertheless, it was spacious, with a lot of empty canvases on the side and painting tools compiled on a corner.

Riki watched as you looked around the studio before glancing at him. His breath halted. He couldn’t believe it. You’re here in his studio. After weeks of chasing after you, and flirting with you, you walked into his trap. Now, all he wants is nothing but to just grab his materials and draw the most beautiful painting he could ever do.

“Your studio looks nice and clean,” you wondered, glancing at him who kept a casual appearance even though deep inside he was sweating hard. “It doesn’t look like someone suffered painting a piece here.”

“I keep my things clean post-painting,” Riki shrugged. “I don’t like unorganised things.”

You only hummed at his words. “You want to paint me right, Mr. Nishimura?”

“Of course, if you’d let me.”

You smirked for a second, until it formed into a vixen smile as you stared at him for too long, you could see how his throat bobbed.

“Well, there’s one thing that has been one of my interests for years,” you pondered. “Having a nude painting.”

Riki choked on his own saliva and you faintly chuckled. “Flustered?”

“Surprised you said that,” he cleared his throat, watching you wander around his studio, he could feel himself getting nauseous at the thought of you.

His eyes never left you, watching every movement you do, he couldn’t help but to hold his breath as you stopped in the middle of the studio wherein the lights highlight you as the masterpiece in the whole room.

You looked at him as your hands reached out for the zipper on the side of your dress, slowly you pulled it down and without missing a beat, let it drop on the floor.

You stood there in your glory — naked and vulnerable, left with your black seamless panty as your eyes locked on the young painter who was left stunned. If it wasn’t enough your fingers traced the hem of your panty and slowly slid it down to your feet.

Riki stood there frozen as you only approached him with confidence. Alluring and tempting like you’re the greatest sin he could ever commit. He could feel the oxygen leaving his body as you stood an inch closer to him, hands strumming his chest which made him gulp out of nervousness.

“Would you guide me, Mr. Nishimura?” you asked softly yet seductively.

“You’re driving me crazy Ms. l/n,” he chuckled.

“Scared?”

“Of my own urges? Would it scare you if I say yes?”

“But I do want a painting by the end of the day,” you smiled at him and Riki could only compromise.

Riki led you to a long couch in his studio wherein the sun gleamed in the afternoon — which completely kissed your skin as you lay there naked, hair sprawled on your shoulders. You had one arm resting on your stomach while the other one lay above your head. Closing your eyes, you breathe into the cold air as you lifted one leg while the other one lay flat on the couch. 

Riki was a few steps away from you, in front of his easel stand where a canvas board was placed, prepared to be filled with your colors. The younger man had his palette on his right hand and a brush on his left hand, eyes darting at you who only relaxed at the warmth of the sun.

“You seem nervous,” you mumbled, eyes still closed as the position felt comfortable and relaxing.

“I have to make sure that everything’s perfect.” Riki answered, he dabbed his brush on the oil paint, mixing colors together before he started to paint on the canvas. Careful as his eyes kept on darting on you at every minute. He holds on his palette tight as he dabs his brush back in the oil paint. 

The studio fell under a serene silence. All you could hear was the faint hum of the air conditioner along with the subtle strokes of Riki’s brush against the canvas. You almost fell asleep on the spot — you failed to notice how relaxed and safe you were in your most vulnerable skin, in front of the man you swore was a walking pest for you.

Your hands drafted on your chest, palms closed near your heartbeat faint and soft, Riki didn’t say a word when you moved but instead he kept on going. He glances at you minute by minute as his talent did everything to capture the view in front of him.

“Have you tried realistic portraits?” you couldn’t help but to break the silence in the middle of the session. “Seems like you’re having a hard time painting a portrait.”

“This is my first time,” Riki confessed, and yet his hands never stopped. “Don’t worry about me, art takes time nevertheless.”

“Should I be scared?” you asked.

“No, of course not, there’s no way I am going to let this be imperfect,” he assured and you didn’t answer for a second. 

“But what if your subject itself was imperfect?”

Riki stopped. He looked at you whose head had turned away, eyes darted on the window, staring at the view of the studio’s front yard, your lips formed thin as you wondered why those words came out of your mouth.

“That’s such nonsense,” Riki scoffed. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I see you are perfect — beautiful in such ways.”

“Then you think highly of me,” that’s when you glanced at him. “Should I remind you that I’m only human too? I am still flawed Riki, and you look at me as someone who’s perfect in everything — then, you don’t know me at all.”

Riki became quiet for a moment. A part of him was angry. How can someone like you could think of lowly of herself. If only, if only you could see yourself from his perspective, Riki hoped nothing more than to show you that you’re more than what his eyes could speak.

“Come here,” he dropped his palette and brushed, as he walked towards you, helping you stand up from the couch before carefully guiding you towards his canvas.

Riki didn’t say a word. He let you take a glance at the unfinished painting of his. There were no backgrounds nor props. It was just you — only you, naked yet divine. Your eyes closed and body at ease, hands on your chest just like earlier and how Riki managed to capture the change in your position shocked you.

“It’s —” you couldn’t even say it. Your pride got in the way. You didn’t like how Riki painted you so beautiful that you’re in awe of it. 

“How?” you asked instead.

“Muses keep the artist alive,” Riki answered. “whether worshipped or admired or inspired — an artist’s creativity never falters.”

His words cut deep through your heart. You weren’t able to say another word when you looked at it one last time before Riki had walked you back towards the couch. You’re suddenly hyperaware of him. How his hand brushed against your back and his figure behind you — so huge yet comforting in some ways.

“I told you,” Riki smiled, making you glance at him. “I see you’re perfect in such ways.”

“And just like I said,” you smiled back at him. “You think highly of me.”

“Maybe, because not even the goddess of beauty could match your beauty.” His hands darted on your face, fingers brushing against your cheeks, careful not to touch your bare skin as the two of you held a staring contest.

The tension was thick, you could feel it as you stare at Riki’s eyes — dark, hungry, and something inside him was fighting against his urges.

What he didn't know was you’re also holding back too.

“There you go again with your exaggerated compliments,” you taunted.

“You think I’m joking?”

“We’re playing a game aren’t we?” you asked.

He tilted his head amusingly, “We were? I thought you’re too old for stupid games.”

But you stepped closer to him. An inch close that Riki was taken back, despite the undeniable height gap between the two of you, you couldn’t help but to feel how you’re still in power between the two of you. It surprised you, but you suddenly felt the urge — to feel more of that power.

“Supposedly, but now, I am curious about the price of playing games with you.” you whispered.

“Why don’t you fuck around and find out?” he teased and you only chuckled at his answer.

“Maybe I do want to.” you smiled and immediately, Riki’s teasing smile faded.

You gave in.

The moment your lips landed on Riki’s lips was the moment you gave in. You’re now playing to win.

Riki’s back landed on the couch, almost stumbling back to sit while you bravely straddled on his lap, naked as his painted-smeared hands held the soft plush of your skin. His kisses were rough, eager, and loud, while yours were aggressive yet testing. Moans began escaping on his lips like he hasn’t touched a girl before —

That’s when you stop, looking at him who stared at you like the goddess of beauty herself offered you to him. His eyes glistened like millions of stars in the sky. That’s when your hands trailed on his face, tracing it softly as your red-painted nails caressed his cheeks.

“You want this right?” you asked, tone low and seductive.

“Ever since you walked inside my gallery, I knew that I wanted to have you,” he confessed, like a sin, and it gave you nothing but chills in your body. He looked at you like you were his greatest desire and that deeply burned you into your chest.

“Then you have to earn it.” you said to him before you locked him into another deep kiss — lustful and greedy, completely breaking down every wall you had built against him.

The studio became hot as you two continued making out on the couch. Sweat started to bead on your forehead as your lips travelled down on Riki’s jaws towards his neck which made him throw his head back with a breathy groan. Your hands busied itself on unbuttoning Riki’s blouse shirt, which made his hands tighten on your waist. You pushed it open and broke away from him.

“Hands down, you can’t touch me unless I told you so,” you ordered. “You want me right? Follow my instructions and I'll give you all.”

A whimper escaped on the younger’s lips before he nodded, removing his hold on you and placing his hands on his side, palm flat against the soft surface of the furniture. He watched as a faint smirk formed on your lips before your finger began tracing his sturdy chest, trailing it down to his refined abs that clenched against your feather touch, until you reached downwards to the obvious bulge in his slacks. 

Your soft hands ghosted against it, and Riki could only make soft moans from his lips as the first press sent shivers down his spine. He was breathless as you started to palm it. Squeezing every inch your hands could hold, you looked at the younger male whose eyes shut tightly, the smirk on your lips widened as you unzipped his slacks before pulling it down enough to leave him on his boxers.

His cock was straining underneath the garments. Without any second thought, you pulled down his boxer, revealing his hard length, already red and leaking with pre-cum. You spat on your palm before wrapping your hands around his shaft, earning an airy whimper from Riki which made you stroke his cock at a fast pace.

“Fuck — fuck, fuck!” Riki lets out a string of curses as your hand does wonders around his cock. He tried to thrust upwards, but you straddled his hips down. Firm hands pushing his chest to relax as you squeezed his tip gently before stroking his cock once again.

“Stay still,” you commanded and Riki could only nod as another groan escaped his lips. He couldn’t do anything but to feel your hand stroke his dick faster then suddenly, slower — then proceed to stroke it fast once again. You were a fucking tease, squeezing his tip, thumbing his slit, and using his precum to lubricate his length more. 

“Shit — please,” he stuttered, making you glance at him. He’s sweating hard, eyes shut as his tearline was already wet. You wanted to laugh at him. He was flushing red which amused you. Where did the confident and flirty Riki go? 

There was an undeniable greed and lust brewing inside you as you watched Riki fall under you. You knew he was desperate to have you. But you didn’t think this would be the outcome — to let you control him in everything. 

“Open your eyes,” and he was quick to obey too. Teary eyes staring at you while you fasten your stroke against his cock. His mouth was opened apart, only breathy moans and soft whines escaped his lips which only made you smile wider.

“Please,” he begged and you only cooed, your free hand cupping his cheeks as the tears strolled down from his eyes. Wiping the tears away as if you’re not the reason he’s a crying mess.

“You want to cum?” you asked so sweetly that it felt chilling. Riki feverishly nodded. You could feel him too, his body shaking and dick twitching. He’s about to cum. Any moment now, and he’s about to give in, he’s just holding back because of you. 

“Fuck — I — god —” Riki wasn’t able to finish his words when you removed your hands. A choke cry left his lips as his dick stood there red, denied, and twitching. 

“Look at you,” you hushed, gripping his face to look at you upwards. “You look so pathetic Riki, do you really want this?”

“Please! I’m begging you,” he pleaded as his desperation could be seen in his stare. 

You chuckled darkly before you reached for his cock once again. Riki whined loudly as you stroke his dick all of the sudden. His head fell onto your shoulders, like he was seeking for your warmth as your hands continued its pace.

His hands could do anything but to form into knuckles on his side. Afraid of disobeying you, Riki could only do nothing but to feel your hands fuck his dick, his stomach tensing and breathing becoming unstable. He could feel it again, his orgasm coming —

“Fuck!” his voice echoed inside his studio as you removed your hands once again. The soft laugh escaping your hands before placing a kiss on his cheeks. Riki whimpered at the thought of being denied once again and yet, he remained from where he was seated.

“Poor boy, couldn’t even try to cum because of me,” you teased as you planted a kiss on his lips. Soft and tender as you separated, you caught how Riki reached for you. 

“Relax, I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry,” you assured before you pushed him to lean against the headboard. Clean hands cupping his cheeks softly, that you could feel his soft breathing relaxing against your touch.

Riki watched as you fixed your position, hips up enough before you grabbed his hard shaft. He watched as you lined his tip on your entrance and slowly sank down on his cock. The stretch was new for you, he’s big and girthy that it burned against your walls.

“Fuck — you feel so good,” you moaned as your tight pussy swallowed him whole, making you full as squirm around his cock. Adjusting to his size as soft exhales escaped your lips.

Riki couldn’t help but to reach for your body, in a snap, you swat it away and placed it on his side.

“No touching.” you reminded him coldly.

“But —”

“Riki.” you warned, staring at him who looked at you with pitied eyes.

“How could I not, when you look so beautiful in front of me?” he muttered and though his words had your heart skip a beat, you only stared at him deadpan.

“Flattery won’t take you anywhere,” you whispered to him. “But obedience will.”

You started moving. Grinding against his hard dick meanwhile the only thing he could do was watch you use him. Taking everything you give him, your pussy sucking his dick hard that it got him holding his breath, his hands turning red against his knuckles as he fights himself from cumming inside you. 

“There you go, good boy,” you whispered darkly against his ears before you started bouncing onto his dick. Your wet pussy squelched against his hard shaft, the sound echoing inside the studio along with Riki’s whimpering cries. 

“Y/n — fuck —”

“What?”

“N-noona, please,” he breathed and his begging only had your pussy twitching. The way he stuttered his words, calling you that word — something inside you was triggered.

So this is what it feels like to have control of your partner? It’s no wonder your ex-husband chose a younger significant other. They’d fall under your command in just a snap.

You thought that Riki was a different case. He was a man. You thought he was so desperate to have you that he’d do everything to dominate you — but instead, he’s desperate to have you so that he’s willing to submit himself to you.

That’s why a chuckle of disbelief escaped your lips. Men have never been nice to you. You were a woman and the only place that you had dominated was your company and its industry. Never in your life had you dominated Heeseung, and it never crossed your mind to even dominate a man.

But now, seeing how Riki beg, whine, and choke under everything you do, thrilled you — in the end, you still have power even outside your work.

“Hold it.” you ordered and it only made him whimper as you took all of him, harder and harsher. His cock kissing your cervix as you moans become more louder than before. Your right hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, tilting his head upwards to make him look at you.

“Shit.” Riki groaned loudly and the next thing you knew, you felt warm liquid spilling inside your pussy. You stopped your actions as his hot cum continued spurting inside you, filling your insides all of the sudden. 

“Fuck! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Riki begged, tears flowing from his eyes as your hold on his hair loosen up.

“I told you to hold it,” you stated with a cold tone.

“I tried — I’m sorry, I just — you just feel so good,” he excused but a click on your tongue was the only thing you could do.

“And here I thought you’d do anything for me.” you said with a disappointed tone.

“I do, please, I’m sorry! I’ll do anything please.” Riki pleaded. His cries became loud while your gaze remained on him. 

“Anything you said?” you asked, and without any second thought, Riki nodded.

So you began moving your body once again, you felt Riki stiffening beneath you. His cock was still rock hard despite having to cum.

“W-wait, what are —”

“Don’t fucking move, I haven’t get to cum yet,” you stated before moving up and down. Grinding against his cock as Riki started to shake against your hold.

“Stop —”

“You said you’d do anything right? Now don’t move and let me use your dumb cock.”

Riki could only whimper. Your hands rested on his shoulders, nails digging on it deep as you bounced on his cock, eager for it to brush against your sensitive spots. Your pussy’s wet and loud, mixed with both of your juices, you continued your ministrations, trying to chase after your high.

“Slow down please,” Riki begged. He could feel his dick twitching and aching, hard as your warm walls engulf around him.

You brought your clean hands to muffle his mouth, dark eyes staring at him as your hips fastened its movement.

“You know what I like in a guy? When they’re quiet and don't tell me what to do. You’d do that for me Riki? Stay pretty and quiet like a doll while I use your dick to get me off?” you asked with your most rotting sweet tone. You watch as Riki’s eyes gleam with desire and mercy, nodding eagerly, making you smile. 

“Good, let’s put you to use don’t we? You’re fucking me good baby, my good, good boy,” you taunted as you could feel your body becoming more sensitive. Your stomach’s curling and movement getting sloppy. 

You removed your hands from his mouth before locking it with your lips which he reciprocated with much aggressiveness, both leaving hefty moans against the wet kisses as you quickened your pace, chasing after your orgasm as you felt Riki’s heavy breaths against your mouth — he’s near too.

“You’re going to cum?” you asked against his lips.

“Please — I’ll be good — fuck, please let me cum,” he begged and you only kissed his lips one last time.

“Cum with me baby, fill me good with your cum,” you ordered, and with a harsh thrust, you squeezed on his cock tight that it triggered Riki’s orgasm along with yours.

Both of you could feel the overwhelming sensation of the high, louder moans filling the studio, but that didn’t stop you from bouncing on his cock, you continued moving until Riki’s became messier underneath you. You’re eager to milk his shaft dry as you continued to fuck both of you into your highs.

The studio was warm and smelled like sex once you stopped. You lean on Riki’s shoulders as both of you are catching your breath. Riki couldn’t help but to rest his head on the headboard, tired and fucked-out, as his hands finds itself around your waist, in which you didn’t mind as you snuggled closer to his body.

“You alright?” he asked, strong hands rubbing warmly your back meanwhile a soft exhale escaped your lips.

“Yeah.” you shortly replied.

“Did I do a good job?” he asked once again, making you lift your head, looking at him, you only smiled as you planted a kiss on his lips. 

“You’d do good if you help me clean up.” you teased.

Riki didn’t hesitate. He helped you get off his lap, mixtures of liquid spilling out of your pussy, which only made the younger blush hard. 

“Noona — if you let me —”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“I’d clean you up,” he offered. “If you let me.”

Before you could say another word, he laid you down on the couch, kneeling in front of you as he spread your legs wide.

“Riki —”

“I want to make you feel good, please,” he requested, hands already on your thighs which left you with no choice.

“Fine.”

With that, Riki didn’t hesitate to lick a strip on your pussy. Tasting both his cum and yours, he didn’t care about the odd taste as he licked gently, moaning against your pussy as his tongue flicked against your entrance up to your clit.

“Fuck,” your moans began to fill the studio and Riki hold onto it like his pride that’s why he cleaned off your pussy fast and eager, slurping at every liquid his tongue could taste. Eager like a dog in heat, he buried his face close to your cunt.

“Right there Riki — shit! You’re doing good baby,” you cooed, which only earned a strong lick from him. His tongue doing wonders in your pussy, licking your entrance and swiping right on your clit. Giving it much attention makes you shake underneath his touch. His hands gripped on your thighs tightly, spreading your legs wider as he continued his ministrations.

You couldn’t help but to hold onto Riki’s hair as your hips started to thrust upwards to meet his tongue, you could only shut your eyes close as your curses escaped your lips. 

“Cleaning me good like a good boy you are, fuck Riki —” you softly said as you could feel your body shaking because you’re all over sensitive.

Riki didn’t stop, but instead used his tongue deep inside your entrance, protruding and sucking your pussy clean. He continued bobbing his face to meet your thrust, his nose bumping on your clit on purpose which only left you moaning and shaking in pleasure.

“Oh my — gonna cum — ah!” your legs began shaking, toes curling and body twitching as your second orgasm came crashing down, you were a crying mess as Riki continued sucking your pussy harshly, drinking every juice it emits, his hold on you tight as you whine in pain for the overwhelming sensation.

With a harsh tug, you lifted Riki’s face from your core. He looks at you with his glistening eyes and mouth and chin filled with your slick.

“Get up,” and he only did what you told him. 

“Did I do good?” he asked once again. 

A breathy chuckle escaped your lips, “it was perfect.”

Riki only smiled at your words before locking his lips on your once again. You kissed him back without any hesitation, tasting yourself on his lips as your arms wrapped around his neck and tugged him closer to your warmth.

-

“Something’s inaudibly different about you,” Sunoo pointed out.

You looked at him, before darting your stare back at your computer desk. “What are you talking about?”

Sunoo was quiet for a second. He was observing you like you’re a criminal in an interrogation room. “You had that glow in your face, the same one you had when you first started dating Heeseung. It’s also the same as when you two got married.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“You look relaxed, lighter, and happier — did something between you and Riki? Oh my god, you two had sex didn’t you!? That’s a post-sex glow!” he shouted.

“Oh my — office volume please,” you warned but Sunoo clapped insanely as the smile on his face became wide. “So you let the kid bang you.”

You scoffed, but the smirk on your lips was obvious. “More like the other way around.”

“Oh? Oh — you? I mean not surprising though,” Sunoo thought for a moment. “You ended up doing what I told you.”

“Which is?”

“Doing what your ex-husband did.”

“Went to the younger one?”

Sunoo nodded, and that stopped you for a second. 

“It’s just sex — not marriage with all the scandals.” you looked at him. “I know what I am doing.”

“So you’re just fucking around.” your best friend clarified.

“Am I not allowed to?”

Sunoo shook his head as an answer. “No, no, of course not, just be careful — situationships are hard, and I am telling you this as a best friend who's concerned about your feelings and image. You don’t want the public to criticize you more, right?”

“Of course,” you breathe. You’re not a reckless person. You knew what you were getting into when you started to play along with Riki. “Thank you, I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Right, just be extra careful and you know, enjoy whatever setup you and Riki have.” your best friend advised one last time.

Sunoo’s words got into you throughout the whole day.

You didn’t even notice it — but Riki did.

“Care to share what you’re thinking of?” Riki asked, his hands never stopped on your portrait while you lay on the same couch where a lot of things happened a few days ago.

“It’s nothing that should concern you,” you brushed off.

“But it concerns you,” Riki rebutted. “Come on, we have all night here.”

“You’re dropping me off at my place at eleven.”

“That’s too bad, I wanted to keep you here.” he smiled.

You only rolled your eyes at his words. The room fell into silence once again as Riki continued his work, he didn’t pry further and it made you wonder how he’s so observant about you. 

“Have you always been like this?” you asked.

“Like what?” he asked back, still focused on his painting.

“Observant.”

Riki chuckled. “It’s not hard when my subject’s expression is off.”

“My expression you say?” you hummed at his words. “That’s odd. People always say that I am cold. I always wore a neutral expression and the only expressions I could make were annoyed and disgusted.”

“Maybe you don’t show much of yourself to others, you only show your true self to the people you trust.” Riki pointed out.

“You think I’ve shown my true self to you just because I show an off expression?”

Riki stopped. He peaks over his canvas and stares at you for a minute before smiling. You stopped your trances when Riki places down his palette and paintbrush on the side. He walked towards you who sat up on the couch immediately.

Instead of sitting beside you, Riki squatted in front of you, head up looking at you observingly before he traced your face.

“It’s a pleasure to see that you’ve shown different expressions when it’s just the two of us.” he stated.

“Such as?”

“Bothered, relaxed, satisfied —” his stare darkened. “Pleasured.” 

You hummed to his answer. “Which one do you like the most?”

“I haven’t seen it yet.”

Your forehead creased.

“I haven’t seen you happy yet,” Riki confessed, and you only stared at him, stunned with his answer. 

“Maybe someday,” you told him, even though you’re unsure when it will happen. “Will you be patient?”

Riki stands up and leans a kiss on you. Something short and sweet that happened in a blink. “If it means waiting for eternity, then I would be happy too.”

You only blinked at his words. It was a hypothetical question which he answered with a promise. He left you there deep in thoughts as returned to his work, making you shift back to your old position before the room fell into utter silence once again.

It was past eleven when you decided to call it a night. After a takeout of ramen and gyoza, you’re getting ready to leave his studio when you open your bag and remember something.

“Here,” you handed Riki a small red envelope, thick and faintly smelled like rose.

“What is this?” he asked as he accepted the envelope.

“An invitation to the Metro Gala Ball,” Riki heard of it, "The Metro Gala Ball is the annual gala ball held by your company. A private yet public event that’s exclusive and knit-tight. You’re the host of the ball and there’s not a year where you exceeded last year’s event.

Every celebrity would die to receive an invitation from you. You hand-picked the guests yourself. Powerful names in the business industries, celebrities from different categories — films, music, fashion, and even sports. You’re selective and weren't the type to hand out invitations to anyone.

With Riki receiving one, it means that his name is known to you. 

“Woah,” it was the only thing he could say as he opened the envelope and grabbed the thick paper inside that contained the details and dress code.

“Be in your best behavior there Riki,” you told him and he quipped his head at you with an offended look on his face.

“Why would you say that to me?” he asked, appalled.

“Because my ex-husband will be there.” you informed.

Riki’s forehead creased. “You invited your ex-husband?”

“He’s a well-known businessman, and his wife is the current trending idol-model, it’ll cause a stir if I don't invite them,” you shrugged. “For formality.” 

“Should I keep you company then?” he suggested, and you only smiled.

“No Riki, this is an opportunity for you to mingle with potential clients and sponsors,” you told him. “I am doing you a favor.”

“But I want to dance with you there,” he whined, like a kid asking for candy and the act only made you roll your eyes.

“The ball doesn’t require any dance.” you pointed out.

“Well, will I still see you there?” his hands crept onto your hands, fingers intertwining as the warmth immersed between the two of you. Something about his gesture felt soft and gentle — quickly, you could feel your heart’s betrayal due to its rapid beating.

You blinked, looking at him as you only nodded slowly. “Of course.”

-

The night of the gala ball had arrived.

Photographers, reporters, and hosts are on the entrance of the convention hall who took pride in hosting your annual ball. 

You arrived last. Stepping out of the limousine, you exit the vehicle alone. You wore a vintage gown lent by one of your sponsored brands. A fiery red gown that perfectly shaped your figure. You wore it along with your hair down and clean makeup.

You were welcomed by the cameras flashing, the photographers screaming your name, and reporters announcing your arrival. You only flashed your professional smile as you did a few poses before arriving inside the hall wherein guests stopped what they were doing the moment you entered the place.

All eyes were on you — the most powerful women not only in the hall, but all in the media and publishing industry. Your words hold every weight and power. For years of running your magazine, you have done nothing but to be brutally honest that everyone either hates you or respects you.

Sunoo guided you towards the stage where you gave your welcoming speech. A small smile and eloquent words were given throughout your speech, not a single word stuttered out of your lips. With a glass of wine in your right hand, you raised a toast to officially open the event.

Then came the socializing part. A lot, of course — a lot of people would love to strike a conversation with you. You knew that you’re in for the whole night. The fake smiles and backhanded compliment, you continued putting your senses on every conversation you had from different strangers, hoping that you wouldn’t end up bored or annoyed. 

You had escaped a few strangers when Sunoo had dragged you to talk to you. Thankfully, your best friend knew when you shut down and from time to time, he would drag you to converse with him along with your secretary. 

“Excuse me,” the three of you stopped when a masculine voice interrupted your conversation.

To your shock, it was your ex-husband who’s standing in front of you. Looking lavish in his navy blue suit and tie — it looks custom-made especially when it’s hard to not notice the entranced details on his suit. 

“Can I borrow y/n for a moment?” he asked.

“Only if she wants to,” Sunoo sassed.

“It’s fine,” you answered. The two of them who only nod at your request, leaving you and your ex-husband alone in that place.

“Congrats y/n,” Heeseung started. “Extravagant yet polished as always, just like the way you like it.”

“Thank you, I do hope you’re enjoying the ball, I heard you just got back from your honeymoon,” you said.

“Santorini was a beau, you should go there sometimes,” he laughed.

“Maybe when I retire from this industry,” you joked and Heeseung merely laughed.

“Your wife’s not clinging on you tonight, a shocker,” you quipped.

“She’s talking to some model friends of hers,” Heeseung turns to his right, glancing at his younger wife who’s sharing laughs with her same-age friends. You noticed how clear her glass was compared to the rosy tint of pink wine of the ball.

“She’s pregnant,” Heeseung announced, and that made you glance at him. “A month pregnant.”

You nod. You could feel your heart palpitating at the news. It felt bitter in your heart but the only thing you could do was click your tongue and nod as you stare at Heeseung, a proud yet small smile on his lips.

“Congratulations then,” you told him, trying hard not to sound bitter at all. “You got what you want. I hope you’re happy now.”

“Thank you,” he quipped. “I don’t see your boyfriend around, afraid to show him to the world?”

You laughed, a sarcastic one. “He’s not my boyfriend Heeseung.”

“Really? What is he to you? Some kid you play with?” he mocked. “I guess you really had a change of heart and went for the younger ones.”

“He keeps following me around, the more I push him the more he wants to be in my life,” you answered. “Does it ring a bell?”

“Sounds like your type of man,” Heeseung teased and you only rolled your eyes.

“More like you guys couldn’t accept rejection.”

“Hey, you rejected me once but look what led us,” Heeseung laughed and you chuckled in disbelief.

“Yes, divorced,” you took a sip on the wine. “If I had known this would be our outcome, then I shouldn’t have given you a chance.”

“You know the divorce wasn’t just my fault,” Heeseung stated with a serious tone.

You stared at him a second, a bitter smile forming on your lips. “Right, because I am incapable. If not, cold and heartless who wouldn’t comply with your wishes.”

“I thought I could change you, but you’re just stubborn.” he answered back.

That’s when you laughed, “change me? With what? The traditional bullshit of being a housewife? I run a company Heeseung, I have a reputation and my name’s something people quiver when heard. You think I’d exchange all of that to become a submissive housewife of yours?”

“That’s not what I want you to do.”

“That’s how I felt.” That's when you heave out a sigh. “What’s the point of arguing this? You’re married Heeseung, and your wife’s fucking pregnant, do we really have to talk about this all over again when this is the reason why we divorced.”

“See, that’s the problem with you, you avoid the problem instead of facing it, you never listened to me nor acknowledge what I feel because you only care about your feelings.” Heeseung argued, his tone becoming higher and angry. “You’re not cold nor heartless, you’re selfish too.”

You only stared at him deadpan. “Maybe I am selfish, and maybe I am incapable of loving someone. It doesn’t matter to me though.”

“You just proved my point,” he breathed. “And just like what you did to me, you’d throw that boyfriend of yours in just a snap, once you see him useless in your life.”

“Throw you away? Like it wasn’t you who delivered the divorce papers in my office —”

“Is he bothering you?” you felt a figure shadowing you from behind. That’s when you realized that it was Riki and it had only sinked into you that this was the first time you saw him in the ball — you didn’t seem to notice him or maybe, you were just too overwhelmed with everything that you failed to look for him.

And talking about right timing, he just happened to show up during your argument with your ex-husband. The scene made Heeseung laugh, “oh look, prince charming’s here.”

“Dude fuck off,” Riki barked and it only made Heeseung chuckle harder. 

“I’m older than you, have some respect, dude.” the older man ordered.

“I don’t respect you when clearly you’re bothering y/n.”

“Where are your manners kiddo? Did y/n teach you proper decorum before attending this ball?” your ex-husband taunted.

“Shut up.” 

“You fuck off dude, we’re having a conversation here and you’re interrupting it, acting like her boyfriend or something —”

“Heeseung, shut up,” you couldn’t help but to butt in, glaring at your ex-husband before giving the younger one a stare. “Riki, calm down please.”

“Can’t tame your boy toy y/n? Look at him barking at me, when I’m just talking to you.” but Heeseung didn't listen, and instead, he continued with his words.

“You’re insulting her, I could see it,” Riki defended, stepping in for you who was pushed behind his back.

“You’re too protective for someone who’s not even her boyfriend.”

“Heeseung, stop it.” you warned once again.

“Like you didn’t say to me earlier that he’s not your boyfriend,” he cornered before taking a sip of his wine. “Word of advice kid, from man to man, don’t live to your fantasies of y/n.”

“You don’t tell me what to do.” Riki angrily spoke.

Heeseung smirked before glancing at you. “Just saving you from the heartbreak, kid, she’s incapable you know? Her words, not mine, by the way.”

Riki’s forehead creased, “the fuck you mean?”

“Oh? She hasn’t told you, I guess she doesn’t trust you enough.”

“Shut up.” You gritted your teeth, glaring at your ex-husband who fell deaf to your warnings.

“Take it or leave it man, the rumors of her being a coldless monster is true —”

Heeseung wasn’t able to finish his sentence when Riki’s fist landed on his jaw, earning a commotion from the crowd. The older man laughed as he stumbled a few steps. Remaining on his balance, he only stared at the younger man whose fists were red.

“I guess someone forgot to tie a leash on their pet,” Heeseung mocked. 

“Take it back —”

“Riki that’s enough,” you told the younger, blocking him from taking another punch on your ex-husband. Heeseung didn’t move either, his wife was already holding his arms too. 

The crowd gathered on the four of you. Whispers and words began to spread meanwhile some had the nerve to take out their phone to take a picture. You couldn’t help but to heave out a sigh, leaving with no choice but to pull Riki away and leave the venue. 

-

The door of your penthouse closed in a loud slam, you dropped your bag on the couch before proceeding towards the kitchen. Riki was behind you, quiet yet pissed as all he could think of was that he wasn’t able to punch your ex-husband enough after insulting you.

You opened your fridge out of frustration, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging on it. Riki remained at a distance, staring at you who wore nothing but a disappointed expression.

“Noona —”

“You ruined the party Riki, you were careless,” you lectured. 

Riki didn’t say a word, he watched as you took another large chug on your water bottle before placing it down on the kitchen counter.

“This gala ball is important to me. It’s my image and reputation — I expect you to behave well, I put my trust in you —”

“You’re making it like I was acting like a fucking kid back there,” Riki defended

“Because you are,” you crossed your arms. “You let Heeseung’s words get into your mind —”

“He’s insulting you.”

“And I don’t care about what he said.” 

“I care, everything he said to you — it’s insulting not only for you, but for me too.” Riki pointed out and as much as you wanted to be flattered with his words, you remained quiet because deep down — Heeseung was right.

“He’s not insulting me Riki,” you stated. “Heeseung was just telling the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That I’m incapable.”

“You’re confusing me.”

The weight on your shoulders became heavy. You only stared at him as you leaned at the counter, looking for support. Your lips turned thin as the aching feeling on your heart started to grow.

“Do I really have to tell you about it?” you whispered.

You noticed how Riki’s forehead creased.

“What do you mean?”

“Riki, I am infertile.” you confessed. 

Silence took over for a whole minute. Riki stood there frozen as your confession replayed in his mind on a loop.

“What?” he asked, trying to process everything you just said.

“I can’t have kids Riki, my body’s couldn’t — I could never, not even second options could help me,” you told him, crossing your arms like what you just said was nothing heavy. “You think Heeseung and I are incompatible? We divorced because I couldn’t bear children.”

“And you let him get away with it?” Riki asked, almost offended.

“Rather than have him tied up in a childless marriage, what else could I do?” you shrugged. “There are things you’d do for love —”

“Love? Fuck, you still love him right? That’s why you let him insult you, step on you because you still love him.” he accused.

“And if I do? Will it change how you see me? Are you going to stop pursuing me now, knowing that my heart still beats for my ex-husband?”

“You’re fucking kidding me? You still love him despite insulting you? What am I then? You’re fooling around with me!?” Riki lashed out.

“I told you many times, that I am not interested in love anymore, and to answer your question, no, I don’t love Heeseung anymore,” you clarified.

“Then what’s stopping you from being with me?”

“I told you Riki many times, you’re too young for me. You’re a rookie in the art industry, you have a long way to go, I am not going to let your career be ruined by me.” you explained

“Ruined by you? If it means being with you, I don’t mind.”

“You’re fucking pathetic.”

“Damn right I am,” he looked at you, smiling like a madman he was. “And I don’t fucking care if you can’t have kids, that’s your body, it’s your choice to have kids. I just want you.”

You became quiet for a minute. Deja vu rushed and damn, it made your heart shrill in pain.

“You’d say that right now, but then there will come a time where you’d think of having a family, having your own children and blood, and I’m telling you right now, if that’s what you want, I can’t give you that.” you softly said yet your tone was pricked with bitterness.

But Riki reluctantly shook his head. “That’s not what I have in my mind right now, all I care about is you.”

“Of course you don’t,” you interjected immediately. “But time will tell, people change and the next thing you know, you’d want kids and I’d repeat myself for you. I can’t give you that.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why are you pushing me all of the sudden?”

“Because you reminded me so much of Heeseung,” you admitted. A cold statement that you hated so much as your ex-husband’s name slipped out of your lips. 

Riki’s eyes widened. Your clasp on your arms tightened, nails digging on your skin as you kept yourself composed.

“You are just the same as my ex-husband when we first met. He was a charmer, a flirt — a man of persuasion that god damn, I had fallen for him without me knowing.” you started and you hated how memories came crashing down like tsunami. Every moment with your ex-husband felt so right that you were assured that he’d be the one for you.

“I told him about my situation, I couldn’t bear his children and he was okay with it.” You confessed. “When we got married, suddenly, he wanted a family. I felt betrayed because I thought he was content with just the two of us.”

“I’m not like him,” Riki gritted his teeth. “It's insulting for me that you think that I am like your asshole of an ex-husband.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “You two are just so alike that it scares me to fall for your charm — but here I am and now I’m scared that if I let you in my life longer, there will still come a day where you’d betray me the same way he betrayed me.”

“You think lowly of me then.”

“I must be,” you admitted. “Because you’re young and free and persistent, but once you mature and decide for yourself, you’d realise that you could’ve done better.”

Riki stared at you. For a minute no one talked, only your eyes spoke for each other. Riki noticed it, the way your eyes softened out of piety and desperation. He understood what you meant. He was defeated by the fact that you think lowly of yourself just because of your past — yet, a part of him was hurt, because no matter how hard he tries, you couldn’t take him seriously. 

“When are you going to see me as your equal? Not some kid fooling around and charming his way to be your significant other? When are you going to realize that I am serious when it comes to you and I may have sounded pathetic and foolish through my words, but I am telling you, I like you from the very start — I may be in love with you right now. If that’s not enough for you, then what do you want me to do to prove my love for you?”

You remained quiet due to Riki’s confession. Your heart stopped as all you felt was how speechless you were hearing those words that came out of his lips.

You should’ve been happy hearing those words. It felt assuring despite the desperation on his tone. Riki was willing to fight for you, but all you could feel was deja vu. The same confessions, same sentiments four years ago — and now, you’re scared that it might happen all over again.

Your lips moved, because the longer you stay in whatever you two had, the more you’re going hold Riki back to a future that he deserves. 

“Nothing Riki,” you mumbled to him. “Nothing could ever make me look at you the way you want me to.”

“You’re just giving me reasons to walk away,” he pointed out.

“I am really giving you reasons,” you bitterly spoke. “I can’t love you no matter how much you try, I am a heartless monster, just like what the public portrays me to be.”

“Don’t say that —”

“I am telling you this as someone older than you,” you told him. “Just not me. You could never change me nor had me settle down. I am married to my company and love will never be my priority. Just give up now.”

“No.” Riki firmly stated. “I don’t want to let you go. I can prove to you that you can still love —”

“Just leave Riki.” you ordered. “Please.”

“You’re really decided?” he asked once again, almost inaudible.

“In the first place, I never had the intention of loving you,” you confessed. “You played with your own flames, Riki.”

Riki bitterly smiled, he glanced at you one last time before speaking, “just so you know, everything about us wasn’t a game for me.”

The door closed after a few seconds. You stood there frozen as you tried to process everything that just happened. A blink and two, you grabbed the water bottle and threw it in your trash can.

You returned to your bedroom, stripping off the gown all by yourself, you left it creased on the floor as you made your way towards your bathroom wherein you removed your makeup and took a cold shower to wash off tonight’s exhaustion.

You went to bed an hour later after finishing your nightly routine, covering yourself in your warm blanket, you couldn’t help but to curl into a fetal position as the silence deeply devoured you.

The first tear dropped not a few minutes ago, then came the broken and held-back sobs — not until it burst. You cried so loud that it echoed inside your room. You felt pathetic as you curled closer to your own skin, crying in your cold bed which felt huge for you, as the only thing you could think of was how lonely your life is.

-

The fight was all over the news but you didn’t bother acknowledging it.

Your ex-husband made a statement. Of course, along with the scripted words and sorry face as if he wasn’t the one who pushed Riki’s button. Meanwhile, Riki remained quiet on his own, which relieved you. You’re scared that the media might be harsher to him compared to Heeseung.

All you did was bury the news, especially when the ball was tied to your name and in the years of hosting the gala ball, this was the first time a fight occurred. What's funnier was that it was because of you.

Great. You should’ve removed Heeseung from your guest list and you should’ve pulled Riki away the moment Heeseung opened his mouth.

But then again, why are you the one who’s going to fix the mess those dumb guys started? You could only shake your head as you finished your statement. Stating that everything happened because of a small misunderstanding. Small misunderstanding my ass, if only you could say that your ex-husband was an asshole and Riki was immature for getting it inside his head, then you could’ve been having a peaceful post-gala ball week. 

Nonetheless, it didn’t even tip off your crown nor did it ruin your image for a bit. For the public, it’s even a more juicy detail; two men fighting over you, a love triangle in the making they say, which sounded more stupid than you’d imagine. 

You remained quiet for the past few days. Focused on other priorities and next month's issues. You kept your mind distracted with the hundreds of tasks and meetings, hoping it’ll drown away the loneliness you’ve been feeling.

But it doesn’t help going home to an empty penthouse — so huge and cold with you living alone, it only shows you how you may be everything, but couldn’t have everything. Days passed by and only did it cross your mind whether this is the fate of other female CEOs like you. Powerful, independent, and charismatic in public — yet, lonely deep inside.

“Sunoo you got to be honest with me,” you started.

You convince yourself that your loneliness wasn’t because of him. You had enough to accompany you — your family, your best friend, maybe you need time off from the office and just talk to them in hopes to fill your emptiness.

That’s why you ended up in a quiet bistro with your best friend, sharing plates of steak and red glass of wine.

“What is it chief?” Sunoo asked.

You became quiet for a moment, eyeing on your wine glass before saying, “Am I useless? Just because I can’t have kids.”

“Well, do you want to have kids?”

“I don’t actually. I was twenty-one when they told me about my condition, from there, I had accepted that I could never have kids,” you casually explained. “It’s just, I hated how no matter how powerful and reputable I am, it’s all useless because I couldn’t be a wife and mother — it's like that’s the standard of my womanhood.”

“Since when have you thought of that? That never crossed your mind,” Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “Unless, you’re thinking about settling in.”

You shake your head, “I don’t know, I thought I’d be satisfied with my job and company. I like how people respect me, I even like it when they’re scared of me, but still — I feel like it will never be enough for me.”

“Do you want to resign?” your best friend asked.

That made you chuckle as you took another sip. “Fuck no, I spent the last five years running this company, there’s no way I am giving this up.”

“Then where does this conversation lead us?”

“Nothing, just a random thought — blame it on the alcohol,” you merely chuckled. “I just thought about whether things would’ve been different if I wasn’t like this.”

“Like what? Cold? Heartless? Infertile?” Sunoo dramatically sighed before massaging his temples. “Y/n, don’t you ever think of having a change of heart just because of your past mistakes when it comes to guys. Do I really need to give you the pep talk about this?”

You only stare at him for a second before laughing, “if this pep talk is about an hour long, then I don’t need it.”

“Good, because I am not going to be that best friend of yours who wanted to see you getting hurt by those assholes.” Sunoo smiled and although his comforting words eased you, it didn’t help any of your worries at all.

Maybe this time, companionship isn’t what your heart is desiring.

“Sunoo, am I unlovable?” you asked and the question made your best friend stop.

“Why would you even think of that? Is this because of Riki?”

You shook your head as an answer. “No, it’s not just about him — it’s — nevermind, forget I said it.”

“Y/n, you deserve to be loved, and to be loved, they need to accept everything, I meant everything about you. You’re not unlovable because you’re lacking something.” Sunoo’s hands reached for yours, holding it lightly, your best friend gave you a fond smile which you found serene. “I know that someday, you’d find that person.”

“I thought of that same thing. Heeseung accepted me despite everything — then suddenly, he needed something I couldn’t give —”

“Y/n, Riki isn’t Heeseung, not all men are like Heeseung. I know that they may seem alike, but holding onto your ex-husband and your burden of not being able to have kids will be a hindrance for you to have another chance when it comes to love.”

“I’m just scared,” you admitted, and you hated how you’re suddenly vulnerable in front of Sunoo.

“Love is a risk chief,” Sunoo smiled. “Love is never an easy thing, and I just hope that if you meet him again, you’d open your heart instead of closing it.”

It was what you needed to hear. You nodded at Sunoo’s words as you quietly took a sip on your glass. Sunoo’s hands squeezed yours one last time before he shifted his attention to his own drink.

The rest of the night was filled with tranquil silence, your heart remained heavy with thought, but all you knew was that maybe this time was not for you.

-

Surely a month passed by would help you realize that you’d be contended with what you had, right?

Your name has slowly been out of the tabloids and articles. Thankfully, you pray for times like this. Every issue involving you had died down and although the past few weeks weren’t hell for you, you’re just glad that you’re not going to deal with any bullshit from gossipers and pot-stirrer websites.

It was Monday morning. You just parked your car in your usual spot when you hear a familiar ringtone. You quickly grabbed your phone and saw that it was Sunoo who’s calling you. 

“What is it? I’m in the building already —”

“Stop, don’t go here, go to Aphrodite Hall, Ms. Miyawaki wanted to have a personal meeting with you about the upcoming event with the Park trades,” your best friend informed you.

Your forehead creased, “wait, that was today? I could’ve swore that it’ll be on Thursday.”

“Adjustments! Her secretary informed Wonhee last night about it, and she reached you through your email but also informed me because she knows that you don’t open your emails on Sunday,” your best friend explained.

“Suddenly?”

“She’d be leaving for Milan later in the afternoon and won’t be back until Friday, that’s why it was best to talk to you before her flight.”

“Fuck, I hate Mondays,” you complained.

“Take care on the way there chief~” with that, your best friend hung up the call and you had no choice but to turn on your car’s engine and drive away from your company building.

Deja vu came crashing into you as you arrived at the said hall. Parking in the underground parking, you sat there for a minute as you thought about Riki. This was the first place where you two first met. A funny yet annoying encounter for you. You wondered how he has been now — he’s been on radio silence ever since that night.

But you had enough dwelling in the past, you have moved on with your life and you wished that he’d do the same too.

Entering the elevator, you pressed the closed button and as the elevator went up, your heart skipped faintly as your anxiety started to heighten up. 

The entrance of the hall was empty the moment you stepped outside the elevator. It was relatively quiet and oddly, you’d anticipated that your client would be welcoming you. But there were no people inside, not even their receptionist or guard — was Sunoo pranking you?

But the lights inside the main hall were open, you assumed that Ms. Miyawaki’s inside. You followed your instincts despite your nervous heart palpitating like it's on a race.

You pushed the glass door open and your jaw dropped on the floor. You were frozen from where you were standing at the sight of the painting in front of you.

The first thing you saw was you. Your painting — no, it wasn’t the nude painting you requested Riki. It was something else.

It was you during your visit to his first gallery launch, back shown but clearly, the outfit says that it was you because funny enough, you remember the outfit you wore that day. You stood there astonished as it had sinked into you that the gallery wasn’t that filled much with paintings, but was filled with all of you.

Your feet started to move. Looking at each painting one by one — some were portraits of you during your encounters with Riki while some are just portraits of you. Just you. As if the painter was painting you from his memory. 

You remember how Riki doesn’t like to paint portraits but you couldn’t believe how ethereal his paintings were, it didn’t sink into you that all of these paintings were too beautiful to have you as its subject. 

The moment you walked further into the room, that’s when you noticed a figure standing in front of a painting — your nude painting. You stopped — your mind went haywire and your heart stopped beating. You were frozen as you stared at the back of the man that you thought you were over now.

Riki was staring fondly at your painting. He had finished it all by himself and the result only left you appalled as you stared at the painting. What you’re seeing right now is his view every time you lay there on the couch. It’s soft — you looked relaxed and calm, a complete contrast to his other portraits of you. It shows vulnerability, and a sight that was only for him and you. 

You couldn’t help but to move, hands clutched on your purse tightly as you stood beside Riki. Your heart started to beat in a rapid manner. You ignored the way Riki glanced at you for a second before returning his stare at the painting. The two of you stood there in silence, not knowing how to address each other nor wanting to acknowledge the suffocating tension between the two of you.

“I thought about what you said,” Riki started, breaking the ice. “You’re right. I was blinded by your image and everything. I was desperate for you, and hope I get recognized by you.”

“I did everything, even if it means ruining my image for you, I didn’t care that you’re cold and would push me away — heck, I was even thrilled to play games with you because for once, you noticed me and I am not going to stop until you looked at me the same way.”

Riki shifted his stare at you at the same time you looked at him. You noticed it immediately, how his eyeglasses couldn’t hide the eyebags underneath his eyes, he had aged in less than a month and poor boy, he had grown thin as his cheekbones started to pop out.

“That’s not love Riki, that’s obsession.” you stated.

“You’re right. I was pathetically obsessed with the idea of you, and now, it felt wrong — about us back then, felt wrong.”

You only stared at him, and Riki only smiled bitterly.

“It hurt me when you pushed me away that night. I craved for you — for your presence, your touch — fuck, you drove me insane.” he took a deep exhale, lips thinning as his eyes remained on you. “I wanted to remember everything about you because I don’t want to forget about you.”

That's when it hit you. The gallery, the paintings where every encounter was painted. All those paintings of every inch of your body and face were on display. Raw, vulnerable, and imperfect. An act of devotion of Riki to you.

“I didn’t paint all of this to win you back. But you were my muse and you brought me out of my artist block, I painted all of this just because I want to.” he explained and you nodded.

“And how did it make you feel?”

“I feel good, light, and satisfied. I was happy, because I was painting the image of the woman I love.” Riki muttered. “I was painting it during my deepest sorrow but seeing it right now, I was satisfied — the paintings, that’s how I see you, and I hope that’s how you see yourself too.”

“It's beautiful, you made me too beautiful,” you whispered.

“Well, you’re beautiful.”

“Even when I am incapable?”

“Flawed, heartless, or cold. Regardless of that, you’re everything I’d love to be with — for the rest of my life.” he stated and you swore that his words made your heart leap out of joy..

“That’s too much.” You stared at him, trying to remain composed even though you’re on the edge of exploding due to your suppressed feelings for him. “I don’t want you to revolve your life around me Riki.”

“Too late.”

“Riki, I am serious.” you scolded.

“Right, right, I’ll listen.” he chuckled, and you only let out a deep sigh.

“You’re a good man Riki, a talented painter, you have a long way to go and —” you stared at him for a minute before your lips moved. “Are you sure about me?”

“The moment you walked into my gallery, I wanted to have you,” he confessed. “But the moment you told me everything about you, all I wanted was to love you, to show you that you’re still worth loving despite all the flaws you had.”

You didn’t answer him immediately. You waited for more, because something inside him was holding back. Riki was afraid — afraid that even if he prepared a speech to show his love to you — you’d still reject him anyway.

His mind went blank as you stared at you. Expressionless, yet there’s a faint glimpse on your eyes — patiently, waiting for his words.

And that gave him hope. 

“And you may look like the type of woman who doesn’t need a man but, just once, can you please open your heart to love again?” he managed to choke out a few words, Riki himself felt like it was a desperate plea but he couldn’t care less anymore. One month has passed, he’s not going to let you walk away especially when you walked inside his gallery first. 

“What good will I gain from loving you then?”

“Do you need to gain anything when it comes to love? Can it be just something that will give you security and comfort? Someone you can run to? A home? Safety? Because I hate to say this to you, but it must feel so lonely that you’re used to your solitude when you can have more than that.” he subjected which completely dazed you.

Your lips trembled. Heart shaking as your breath became unsteady. You looked at Riki as you could feel your eyes getting wet. 

“This is stupid, I shouldn’t have gone here,” you muttered to yourself, wiping the incoming tears harshly meanwhile Riki softly chuckled.

“You still look pretty even when you’re on the verge of crying.” Riki teased as his hands found their way to wipe away the tears. 

“Flattery doesn’t get you nowhere —”

“I know, I know,” Riki nods. “But I hope my love does, and I am asking you one last time; can you give me another chance?”

“Will I be assured this time Riki? I am giving you a chance to walk away again, think about your future. Think about having kids and —”

“All I can see is you, and I know you’re scared, but I am not going to let you go through the same thing ever again.” he swore to you, and you could nod.

“There’s no turning back here.” you told him. “It’ll be just the two of us — no kids, no tiny riki or tiny me running around. Just the two of us.”

“Sounds like a dream for me,” with that, his hands found the round of your cheeks, cupping it gently as he made you look up at him. “All I need are your words. Everything about us is your choice.”

“I’m already crying, what else could I say?” you whispered.

A teasing smirk formed on his lips. “No, I need to hear it from you.”

“Stubborn kid.”

“You know me well noona.”

“Fine.” you only rolled your eyes. “Yes Riki, I — unfortunately, have fallen for you and it would hurt me to not give you another chance.”

With that, Riki grinned. “Fuck yeah.”

“I can’t believe that’s your response to my confession,” you complained, slapping his arms as he laughed at your words. “If this is what my relationship with you looks like in the incoming years, I’d take back —”

You weren’t able to finish your sentence when Riki leaned down for a kiss. A deep, tender one that had you grasping for breath that moment you two separated.

Riki’s smile was wide, he softly gazed as he said. “No more take backs noona. You’re mine now.”

“I guess you won your game” You stared at him and from there, he only gave you a smile as another kiss was stolen from yours. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you close to his warmth wherein you feel yourself melting.

“Where’s my prize then?” he teased and you only scoffed in disbelief at how he managed to squeeze in another flirty jab to you.

Yet, you only pull him by his collar, locking your lips onto his once again while he leans down on you with much obligation, sharing a kiss full of love and yearning for each other. 

[misolhee]

[2025.misolhee]

needy!boyfriend texts with ot7 (explicit)

gen. taglist : @kristynaaah