Jakey Jakey

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[thatfeelinwhenyou]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon

Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.

word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)

pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader

featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit

genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST

warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.

notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!

tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au

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The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.

Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.

“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”

“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”

“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.

She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?

By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.

Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.

His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.

You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.

There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.

And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.

Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.

You were supposed to be over this.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

You slam your laptop shut.

If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.

But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.

You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.

The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.

That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.

The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.

From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.

You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night. 

You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?

You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.

When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.

The reply comes faster than expected.

For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change. 

He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY

“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?

He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t. 

He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.

Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered. 

You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth. 

And he alone crushed it.

The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.

The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic. 

You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.

When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.

You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore. 

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.

The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.

It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.

And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back. 

But more importantly, he was holding you back. 

Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.

So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.

“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”

And hit send.

Just like that, another four years passed without him. 

Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. 

Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.

You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.

Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.

But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.

But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.

You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.

Worse than it should.

And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.

“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.

A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.

“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.

Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park

+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.

+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!

+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-

+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.

Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.

“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”

He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.

“Interesting research.”

Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.

“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.

Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.

“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.

“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.

And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”

“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns. 

You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.

“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.

Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.

“Shit—!”

You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.

Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.

Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.

But the fall never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.

You look up.

Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.

You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.

You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.

You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.

A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.

It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.

He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.

The rumours about his injury.

It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.

At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”

You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”

He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.

But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.

You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.

Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.

“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.

You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.

“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”

You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.

“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.

“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”

You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.

“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.

He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”

You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.

You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”

A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.

“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”

You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”

“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.

You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”

Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.

“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.

You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”

He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.

“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”

Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”

You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”

His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”

You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.

You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”

You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.

At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”

“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”

A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”

That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.

You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”

The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.

Not reporter and subject. 

Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.

He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”

“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”

He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.

Still so familiar. Still so far.

You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.

“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.

You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.

Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.

But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.

Feels like he's reaching out to you.

And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.

You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.

You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.

But it’s too late for that now.

You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.

"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."

Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.

Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

You nod once, curt. “Got it.”

And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.

You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.

Behind you, you hear nothing.

No apology. No explanation. No plea.

Just silence.

Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.

For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.

You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.

Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.

He told himself that this would be closure.

But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.

And you’re already gone.

You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface. 

Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.

You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?

Wrong.

So incredibly, painfully wrong.

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.

And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.

Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.

Well, not to you.

You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain. 

Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.

That’s fair game.

No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight. 

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations. 

You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.

He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.

So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.

Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.

Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him. 

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.

You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one.

You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.

You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.

Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.

But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.

So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.

Before you know it, you're signing it off.

And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.

Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.

It’s a story about how well you still know him.

And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.

You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.

The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.

And if he reads it—

Well.

Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.

“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.

His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.

Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.

Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.

“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”

Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.

“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”

Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.

This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.

There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.

And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.

“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”

Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.

“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.

Oh.

That was going out today?

You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.

By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:

[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.

You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”

On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.

His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.

Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.

Tweets fly across your feed:

@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost

@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again

@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.

You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.

And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.

Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.

Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal. 

Not really.

And yet—how could it not be?

You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.

You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.

From: [email protected] Subject: That Article

You squint.

How... tacky.

You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.

Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.

You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.

It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.

At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.

Just one final line, added like an afterthought:

You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.

You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.

Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.

You scoff.

[email protected]. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.

Bold choice, he says.

This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”

And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.

Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.

The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.

But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

But you don’t delete it either.

You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—

"I need a coffee break."

With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.

The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.

You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

You freeze mid-step.

No way…

You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.

And there he is.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.

His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.

“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”

“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. 

“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”

He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”

You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”

It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?

You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”

He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”

“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”

The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.

Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.

You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.

“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.

But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.

Not because you have nothing to say—

But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.

You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.

He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”

You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”

You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.

You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.

He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.

You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.

So you do.

From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.

He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.

It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.

His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.

But what he finds isn’t quite that.

His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.

Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.

He reads it again. Then again.

It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.

He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.

You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.

You don’t do anything without intention.

Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.

So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.

He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.

His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.

He snorts softly.

What counts as urgent, exactly?

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.

He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.

But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.

So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.

It feels like the pause before a beginning.

And he waits.

Just like you did for him all those years ago.

The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.

You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.

When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.

“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.

You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.

And you nod.

Because how could you say no?

“Of course,” you say.

He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.

Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.

Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.

Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.

The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.

You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.

Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.

Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.

You were confident this long-distance thing could work.

After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.

You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.

But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.

And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.

You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.

And for a while, you made it work.

You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.

You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.

You meant it.

You meant every word.

But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.

And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.

There wasn’t much left over.

Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.

You waited.

You waited longer than you should have. 

And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.

Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.

But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.

And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.

Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?

You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.

You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.

But you know better.

And so would he.

The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.

You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.

You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.

But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.

Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.

The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.

You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.

You live.

You function.

You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.

But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.

Nothing.

And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.

You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.

Maybe you never were.

And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.

Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.

So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.

No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.

And for a while, you almost believe it.

Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.

Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.

But then you see it.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.

Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.

You unlock your phone.

And you read:

Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.

You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.

But they don’t.

It’s him. Sunghoon. 

Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."

But because he thought of you.

And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.

You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.

No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.

You type:

You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.

Another message follows almost instantly:

Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.

You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up. 

A favour?

It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.

Still, a part of you hesitates.

Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.

You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.

You type:

You: Where and what time?

The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.

Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.

Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.

But real. Present.

And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.

Sunghoon arrives at the café first.

It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.

He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you. 

But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.

And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.

Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.

But you’re showing up.

And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.

Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.

You don’t see him at first.

Of course you don’t.

Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.

Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.

He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.

He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.

And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.

And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.

He doesn’t call out to you.

He just watches.

Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.

And God, you look—

You look pretty.

Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.

You look real.

Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.

Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.

Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.

He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.

And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.

Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.

And then—finally—your gaze catches his.

The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.

You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.

That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.

You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.

Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.

But tonight, he’s here.

By the window.

Plain as day.

And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it. 

A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories. 

A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.

Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.

He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.

You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.

He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.

When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.

You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.

Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.

“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.

You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.

And just like that, some of the tension splinters—

Not all of it.

Not enough to call this easy.

But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.

Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.

Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin. 

When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.

It’s a Popmart blind box.

The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.

You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.

He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.

“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.

He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”

You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.

“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.

“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”

The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.

The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.

And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.

You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.

“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.

He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.

“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.

“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.

You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”

He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:

“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”

The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.

Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

He pauses.

You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.

“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.

“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”

Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.

He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.

Something real.

Something worth holding onto.

And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.

Carefully.

Effortlessly.

Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was worse than cruelty.

It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”

It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.

It’s why now?

It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?

Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.

“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”

You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.

“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.

Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.

But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.

You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.

Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.

But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.

You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.

Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.

You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.

"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."

You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.

But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.

“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”

You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.

You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.

But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.

"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.

"I’m sure," he says simply. 

A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.

Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.

Trust in you. 

Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.

Not the article. Not the media coverage.

This.

Reaching out to you.

Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.

And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.

And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.

It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.

"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.

"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."

Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.

You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.

You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.

There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.

So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.

"I’ll be in touch," you say.

And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.

You don’t look back.

But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.

You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.

“It’s in Spain.”

The words land heavy between you.

Spain.

Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.

The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.

If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.

Leaving.

Staying gone.

“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”

He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”

And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.

No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.

Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.

This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.

You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.

“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.

Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”

He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.

“A month.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.

"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—

“How long would you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”

So not just gone.

Possibly gone for good.

Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.

"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."

His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."

You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.

"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.

"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"

He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”

His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.

"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."

You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.

"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.

And it is.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.

You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.

Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.

So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.

Click.

Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.

He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”

He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.

You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.

“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme  was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.

“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:

“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”

He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.

“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.

He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.

And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.

It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.

You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.

Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.

You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.

Real laughter.

Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.

“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.

That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.

You type something—delete it. Type again.

Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.

Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.

Until now.

This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.

Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.

Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.

Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.

Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.

For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.

The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.

When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.

You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.

And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.

It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was

And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.

He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.

But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.

So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him.  Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.

It’s artistry.

His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.

He lands it perfectly.

Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.

Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.

The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.

Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.

And yet—somehow—exactly the same.

You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"

"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.

You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.

But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.

And now here you are again.

You, still waiting.

Him, still too afraid to walk closer.

Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.

Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.

And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.

But in person.

So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.

You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.

“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”

You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.

And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?

Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.

It never was.

It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.

To end it your way.

To remember the love, not the loss.

So you click send.

And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.

To let him go.

Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]

Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.

FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.

His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.

Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.

The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.

Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.

“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.

“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.

“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.

“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.

“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.

Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.

His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.

And that’s the problem.

Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just…  I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.

After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.

You feel chosen.

He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.

He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”

You speak.

“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”

He listens.

And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.

You don’t say anything more.

And that’s when he moves.

Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.

Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.

Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.

The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.

Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️

Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]

Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!

Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.

Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭

Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.

Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.

You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.

You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?

His reply is almost instant.

Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.

You: And by PR you mean... you?

Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.

You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.

You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄

Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷‍♂️

You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…

He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.

Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.

You: I would not accept otherwise.

You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.

You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.

“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.

He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.

The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.

And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.

And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.

You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.

“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”

There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.

“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”

"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”

And that’s the difference. That’s everything.

This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.

His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.

You kiss him.

And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.

It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.

Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.

Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.

This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.

It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.

It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.

It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.

And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.

Skating. Himself. You.

Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.

And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.

Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.

You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.

And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.

Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.

Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.

And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.

But one thing is certain:

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.

And that’s the way you’ll love him—

The way he loves you.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.

Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.

However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.

Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.

In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”

Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.

Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.

In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

Copyright© 2025 thatfeelinwhenyou All Rights Reserved

[svvtvenom]

holy shit. I think my entire trajectory of life has changed just reading this. The way you were able to convey the emotional sense of literally everything has me reeling and rethinking how I look at the world.

I like how you didn't make the relationship between them superficial and you included real life struggles in most relationships. More fics like this need to be written, where emotion runs raw and becomes unfiltered if left unchecked for too long.

This is genuinely amazing and I'm so glad you put time and effort into this because 44k is not easy and I'm so proud of you! Thank you

[kinkyhoon]

On the way - Yang Jungwon part 1

Pairing: childhoodfriend!jungwon x fem!reader Genre: college!au, summer love story, fluff, angst Synospsis: Bestfriends forever and nothing will ever make it change...well that's what you thought, but one summer (and an unrequited love) changed everything between the two of you. Maybe you never really saw him as your bestfriend all along... Warnings: dry humping, swearing, oral (both!rec), softdom!jungwon, make out (heavy), alcohol WC: 21k Note: The story takes place in the WGFT Heeseung ff universe and this time it's Jungwon's turn to get his time to shine!!!! Since y’all were so sad about him losing to Heeseung I wanted him to get his happy ending too!!! Hope you enjoy!!! Playlist: Apple Cider by Beabadoobee, Everytime by Ariana Grande, Lost Island by Enhypen, We can't be friends by Ariana Grande, Earrings by Malcolm Todd

You haven't been home in eight months, and somehow the air feels exactly the same as it did when you were seven years old. Some things don't change. Your family's house is exactly as you left it.

"Y/N IS HOME!" your younger brother screams. He barrels into you before you've even dropped your bags, and you stumble backward into the doorframe with an oomph that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

"Daniel, you're seventeen, not seven," you wheeze, patting his back with the one arm that isn't pinned to your side. "You're supposed to be too cool for this."

"Never too cool for my favorite sister."

"I'm your only sister."

"That's why you're my favorite."

Your mother appears from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, her face breaking into a smile so wide it crinkles the corners of her eyes. She pulls you into a hug t, and for a moment you just stand there, letting yourself be held, letting the chaos of your family wash over you like water.

"You're too thin," she says, pulling back to examine your face. "Have you been eating? College students never eat."

"I eat, Mom."

"Lies. I can see your cheekbones. That's not natural." She pats your face firmly. "We're fixing this immediately. I made braised short ribs. And your grandmother sent over three kinds of kimchi."

The next hour is a blur of unpacking, being force-fed approximately seventeen side dishes, and deflecting increasingly pointed questions from your mother about whether you're "seeing anyone." You dodge the question with the practiced skill of someone who has been dodging it since high school, and eventually your mother gives up and redirects her energy toward making sure you eat a third helping of everything.

It's only when you're helping clear the table that she drops the bomb.

"Take some of the dumplings next door," she says, already packing a container. "The Yangs just got back yesterday. I'm sure Jungwon would love to see you."

Your hands freeze over the sink. "Jungwon's home?"

"The whole family. And Jungwon looks so grown up now. College has been good to him." She presses the container into your hands and gives you a look that brooks no argument. "Go. Say hello. You used to be inseparable, I'm sure he's been dying to catch up."

You and Jungwon. Inseparable. That's one word for it.

You've known Yang Jungwon since you were four years old, a solemn little boy with a bowl cut and a cute smile who had shown up at your family's barbecue with his parents and promptly shared his packet of strawberry Pocky with you without being asked. That was it. That was the beginning. From that moment on, you were a unit, a package deal, a two-for-one special, a matched set that no one bothered trying to separate.

Your childhood is a highlight reel of Jungwon moments. Jungwon teaching you how to ride a bike. Jungwon walking you to school every morning, even when his own school started earlier and he had to leave his friends to do it. Jungwon sneaking you extra snacks from his lunchbox because you always finished yours first.

You never had to explain yourself to Jungwon. He just knew. He knew that you needed silence sometimes, that your sarcasm was a defense mechanism, that you were terrified of thunderstorms but would rather die than admit it. He knew the exact moment you were about to cry (your left eyebrow twitched, just slightly, before the tears came). He knew you better than anyone, and you knew him just as well.

But then he left for college. And two years later, you left too. And the texts that had started out daily became weekly, then sporadic. The phone calls that had stretched for hours became minutes, then voicemails, then silence. You still sent each other memes sometimes, still liked each other's posts. But the closeness that had defined your entire existence had faded.

It's not anyone's fault. It's just what happens. People grow up, move away, build separate lives in separate cities. It's normal. It's fine. You're fine.

The doorbell chimes, a little melody that you remember from a thousand childhood visits. You hear footsteps inside, heavy and quick, and then the door swings open.

And you forget how to breathe.

Jungwon is standing in the doorway, and he is…he's…he's not the boy you remember.

The Jungwon in your memories is soft around the edges. Lanky limbs, round cheeks, the kind of face that made grandmothers pinch his cheeks. This Jungwon is wearing a tank top that is very, very see-through, because it's soaked with sweat. His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, and there's a towel slung around his neck that he's holding with one hand. His shoulders, when did he get shoulders? -are broad and defined. He's been working out. He's been working out, and the evidence is right there, and you are staring.

"Y/N?" His voice is deeper than you remember. He says your name like it's something precious, and his face breaks into that familiar smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, the one you've known your whole life.

"Dang-" he starts, and then he's pulling you into a hug before you can react, his arms wrapping around you with an enthusiasm that makes the container press awkwardly between your bodies. He smells like sweat and fabric softener and something else, something warm and masculine. "You're home," he says into your hair. "You're actually home. When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago," you manage, your voice coming out relatively normal despite the fact that your face is currently pressed against a pectoral muscle. A pectoral muscle that belongs to Jungwon.

He pulls back, holding you at arm's length, and his eyes sweep over your face with an expression that's so purely, genuinely happy. "You look…you look amazing. Did you get taller?"

"I haven't grown since tenth grade."

"You look taller. It's the posture. You're standing like an adult now."

"Maybe because I’m an adult?"

He laughs. "Come in, come in," he says, stepping aside and gesturing you inside. "Mom's going to lose her mind when she sees you. She was just talking about you yesterday, she found that photo album from the summer we tried to build a treehouse ."

"Oh not the old pictures please."

"You know how nostalgic she can get."

"Y/N?! IS THAT Y/N?"

Mrs. Yang emerges from the kitchen, and within seconds you're enveloped in a hug. She's exactly the same as you remember, warm and effusive, with the same kind eyes that Jungwon inherited.

"Look at you!" she exclaims, pulling back to cup your face in her hands. "You're so beautiful! So grown up! Doesn't she look beautiful, Jungwon?"

"She looks beautiful," Jungwon agrees, and when you glance at him, his ears are slightly pink. Probably from the workout.

"Mom brought dumplings," you say, holding up the container. "She said you just got back yesterday and probably haven't had time to cook."

"That woman is an angel. Tell her we're having dinner together this weekend, no arguments, no excuses. I'm making bibimbap." Mrs. Yang takes the container and steps back toward the kitchen, already calling for her husband to come see who's at the door.

Mr. Yang appears a moment later, and the whole scene devolves into the kind of chaotic, overlapping welcome that you've experienced a hundred times before. Mrs. Yang starts pulling out photo albums. Mr. Yang asks about your classes and nods approvingly at your answers even though you're pretty sure he doesn't fully understand what your major entails.

And then the photo albums open, and the real embarrassment begins.

"Oh, this one!" Mrs. Yang crows, pointing at a photograph. "Look at you two! You must have been... what, six and eight? The school talent show!"

You lean in to look at the photo, and your soul briefly leaves your body.

"We were doing a skit about King Arthur," Jungwon says, his voice pained. "Y/N was Arthur. I was Lancelot."

The photos keep coming. Jungwon's first day of middle school, with you standing next to him on the front steps, your arm linked through his. A Halloween where you both dressed as characters from the same video game. A summer vacation at the beach where Jungwon got sunburned so badly he couldn't move for two days, and you sat beside him reading aloud from his favorite book until he fell asleep.

"I should probably head back," you say eventually, after the photo albums have been exhausted and Mrs. Yang has extracted a firm promise that you'll be at the family dinner this weekend. "Mom's probably wondering if I got kidnapped."

"I'll walk you out," Jungwon says, and there's something in his voice, something slightly awkward, slightly hesitant, that makes your stomach flip.

He walks you to the front door. "Hey," Jungwon says, his hand on the doorframe. "You want to walk to the convenience store? Like old times? I could really go for one of those melon ice creams."

"Sure," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel. "But only if you put on an actual shirt first. I'm not being seen in public with you looking like... that."

He glances down at his tank top, and his ears go pink again. "Right. Yeah. Give me two minutes."

He disappears back into the house, and you stand on the front porch, trying very hard not to think about the way his shoulders looked in that tank top. Or the way his voice has deepened. Or the way his arms felt when he hugged you.

This is Jungwon, you remind yourself firmly. Jungwon, who is basically your brother except not actually your brother but definitely the brother-adjacent figure you've known your entire life.Stop being weird.

He reappears two minutes later in a soft-looking t-shirt and jeans, and the two of you set off down the familiar path toward the convenience store. 

"How's school?" Jungwon asks, falling into step beside you. "Your mom said you're doing really well. Something about making the dean's list?"

"Dean's list, yeah. It's not a big deal."

"It's a huge deal. You're a genius."

"I'm a person who doesn't sleep enough and has spent more time studying than partying."

"That's what being a genius is."

You laugh and maybe this won't be so hard. Maybe you and Jungwon can just... slip back into the rhythm you always had. Best friends, nothing more, nothing less. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way the fading sunlight catches the angles of his jaw, the way his sleeves stretch slightly over his biceps, the way his lips curve into that familiar half-smile. This is going to be a long summer.

Apple Cider - Beabadoobee now playing

The next few days are as you expected. Jungwon, as it turns out, is completely, infuriatingly, obliviously the same. Not the same as the Jungwon who left for college two years ago, no, he's different in ways that keep catching you off guard. The broader shoulders. The deeper voice. The way he moves now, with a quiet confidence that wasn't there before, like he's grown into his own skin. But the way he treats you? That hasn't changed at all. He's still the same protective, brotherly, endlessly thoughtful Jungwon who's been orbiting your life since before you could tie your own shoes.

And that's the problem.

On Tuesday, he shows up at your house at 9 AM with a toolbox and a determined expression. Your mother mentioned, in passing, at the barbecue planning session that had somehow materialized in your kitchen, that the hinge on the back door was sticking. Jungwon, being Jungwon, took this as a personal mission.

"You don't have to do that," you say, standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee clutched in your hands. You're still in your pajamas. Your hair looks like it's been through a tornado. You were not prepared for visitors.

"It'll take ten minutes," Jungwon says, already crouching down to examine the hinge. His t-shirt rides up slightly as he bends, revealing a strip of skin above his waistband, and you very deliberately look at the ceiling. "Your mom does so much for everyone. The least I can do is fix a door."

"You're a philosophy major, not a handyman."

"Undeclared, technically. And I've picked up some skills." He glances up at you, and his smile is so genuinely warm, so completely devoid of any awareness that he's currently making your morning extremely complicated, that you want to throw your coffee at him. "Besides, I like helping. It makes me feel useful."

"Your people-pleasing is showing."

"My what?"

"Nothing." You take a sip of your coffee. 

On Wednesday, he helps your mother cook. You walk into the kitchen to find them side by side at the counter, your mom teaching him how to fold dumplings. Jungwon's fingers are clumsy with the wrappers, his dumplings coming out lopsided, but he's laughing, that bright, infectious laugh that makes your mother smile and pat his cheek like he's her own son.

"He's such a good boy," your mom says to you later, after Jungwon has gone home with a container full of the dumplings he helped make. "So polite. So helpful. Any girl would be lucky to have him."

You make a noncommittal sound and flee to your room before she can see the color rising in your cheeks.

On Thursday, he brings you boba. Unprompted. Just shows up at your door with two cups of brown sugar milk tea and that same devastating smile, saying he remembered it was your favorite and the new shop in town finally opened and he wanted to try it with you.

"This is bribery," you say, taking the cup anyway. "What do you want?"

"Can't a guy just bring his best friend boba without ulterior motives?"

"I've known you for fifteen years. You definitely have ulterior motives."

"Fine." He has the decency to look slightly sheepish. "My mom wants me to clean out the garage, and I was hoping you'd keep me company while I do it. She said she found our old middle school yearbooks in there, and I thought we could... I don't know. Look through them. For nostalgia."

Nostalgia. Right. Because looking at photographic evidence of your awkward preteen phase while sitting in close proximity to Jungwon in a dusty garage sounds like a completely safe activity that won't do anything weird to your heart.

"Sounds fun," you hear yourself say, because you're a masochist apparently.

And it is fun. Infuriatingly fun. You sit on an old lawn chair while Jungwon sorts through boxes, and you flip through yearbooks filled with photos of the two of you at every stage of adolescence. Jungwon with braces. You with bangs that were a tragic mistake. The two of you at the eighth-grade dance, standing stiffly next to each other. The two of you at the high school soccer game, your face painted with the school colors, his arm slung casually around your shoulders.

"God, we were such dorks," you say, holding up a photo of Jungwon in a truly unfortunate neon-green track suit.

"Speak for yourself. I was rocking that look."

"You looked like a highlighter."

"A very fashionable highlighter."

The laughter comes easily, the way it always has. And that's the thing that's messing with your head. Because when you're actually talking to him, when you're just existing in his presence the way you've done a thousand times before, everything feels normal. Easy. Like nothing's changed. But then he'll reach past you to grab something, and his arm will brush against yours, and you'll catch the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something warm and distinctly him, and your brain will short-circuit entirely. Or he'll laugh at something you said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and you'll find yourself staring at the curve of his lips and wondering things you have absolutely no business wondering about your childhood best friend.

And then the guilt hits. Because this is Jungwon. The boy who has never once looked at you as anything other than his best friend, his little sister. And here you are, mentally glazing every time he so much as flexes his forearms, like some kind of deranged romance novel protagonist who's forgotten the entire context of her own life.

You're terrible. You're a terrible person. You need to get a grip.

The barbecue is on Saturday. Both families, together, in the Yangs' backyard. It's a tradition that's been going on since before you can remember, and missing it would be unthinkable. So you can't avoid it. You can't avoid him.

On Friday afternoon, your mother hands you a grocery list that's approximately the length of a short novel. "We need everything for the marinade, plus the sides, plus drinks, plus-"

"Mom, this is enough food for an army."

"The Yangs are an army. Take Jungwon with you. He's got a car, and you shouldn't be carrying all those bags by yourself."

"I can carry bags. I'm an adult."

"You're a twig. A strong wind could knock you over. Take Jungwon."

So you text Jungwon, and Jungwon responds within thirty seconds with an enthusiastic yes!!! and three emojis that don't go together in any logical way, and twenty minutes later you're in the passenger seat of his car, heading to the grocery store.

"Remember when we used to ride our bikes to the corner store?" he asks, pulling into the parking lot. "We'd pool our allowance and buy as much candy as we could afford, and then we'd sit on the curb and eat it all before dinner."

"And then your mom would be mad because you ruined your appetite."

"She was always mad. I was a very difficult child."

"Yeah, I remember when you used to get ragebaited by your grandma a lot. Really funny."

"Please don’t mention it again."

"You were twelve."

Grocery shopping with Jungwon is an experience. He pushes the cart, pausing every few feet to consult the list your mother gave him and cross-reference it with the items in the cart. He reads the nutrition labels on everything, which is new, the Jungwon of your childhood would have just grabbed whatever had the most colorful packaging.

"College changed you," you observe, watching him compare two jars of sesame oil. "You're like... a responsible adult now. It's disturbing."

"Someone had to become a responsible adult. You're still the same chaos gremlin you've always been."

"You want that gremlin to punch that pretty face of yours?."

"Oh so you like my face? I’m honoured."

"I like your face only when you shut your mouth."

The checkout line is long, and Jungwon insists on paying, "your mom already does so much, let me contribute something", and you're standing beside him, helping bag the groceries, when you see it.

A small box. Brightly colored. Sitting innocently in the plastic bag among the vegetables and the marinade ingredients and the six-pack of Sprite. Condoms. You stare at the box for approximately three seconds, your brain refusing to process what it's seeing. Then the processing kicks in, and a series of thoughts flash through your mind in rapid succession:

That's a box of condoms.

In Jungwon's grocery bag.

Jungwon bought condoms.

Why does Jungwon have condoms?

Oh god, Jungwon has condoms because he uses condoms.

Oh god, Jungwon has sex.

Jungwon has SEX.

WITH PEOPLE.

"Y/N?" Jungwon's voice cuts through your spiral, and you realize you've been frozen in place with a head of cabbage clutched in your hands like a stress ball. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine!" you say, and your voice comes out approximately three octaves higher than normal. "Totally fine. Great. Never been better. Cabbage. Love cabbage. Great vegetable. Very... leafy."

Jungwon squints at you, clearly not buying a single word of this, but the cashier chooses that moment to announce the total, and he turns away to pay. You shove the cabbage into the bag with perhaps more force than necessary.

It's not a big deal. It's not a big deal. He's a twenty-something guy in college. Of course he's had sex. Of course he's bought condoms. This is normal. This is fine. You're fine.

But the thought sticks in your brain like a splinter, and by the time you're back in the car, the groceries loaded into the trunk, you've worked yourself into a state of quiet, internal frenzy.

How many girls has he slept with? Did he have a girlfriend? Multiple girlfriends? Is he seeing someone right now? Why didn't he tell you? Why would he tell you? It's not like you're his- you're not his anything. You're his childhood best friend. You're basically his sister. He doesn't owe you a detailed accounting of his romantic history.

But still.

Who were they? What were they like? Were they pretty? Smart? Funny? Did he hold their hands the way he holds yours? Did he kiss them? Did he-

You cut the thought off before it can finish. You don't want to know. You really, really don't want to know.

Back at your house, you help him carry the groceries inside, your movements mechanical, your brain still running through increasingly unhelpful scenarios. Jungwon is chatting about something, the barbecue, maybe, or his plans for the rest of the summer, but you're barely listening. The box of condoms is burning a hole in your brain.

"Hey," you say, setting down the bag of vegetables with a little more force than strictly necessary. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always." Jungwon turns to face you, his expression open and unguarded, and you feel a pang of guilt for what you're about to do. This is none of your business. You shouldn't be asking this. You have no right to ask this.

But you're asking it anyway, because you're a self-destructive idiot who can't leave well enough alone. "Did you..." You pause, searching for the right words. "In college. Did you... see anyone?"

Jungwon blinks. "See anyone?"

"Like... date. Or... you know. Hook up with. Or whatever." You wave your hand vaguely, like you're talking about the weather. Like this is a casual, normal conversation between two platonic childhood friends who definitely don't have weird, complicated feelings about each other.

Jungwon's ears go pink. "That's... a pretty personal question."

"Forget it. Sorry. None of my business." You turn back to the groceries, your face burning.

"No, it's fine. It's just... unexpected." He leans against the kitchen counter, his arms crossing over his chest. "Yeah. I dated a bit. Nothing serious. I, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you recognize from childhood. "I hooked up with some people too."

Some people. Plural. Multiple. The words hit you like a punch to the stomach.

"Okay," you say, your voice remarkably steady considering the chaos happening inside your chest. "Cool. That's cool. Normal college stuff. Good for you."

"Are you sure you want to hear this? You're making that face."

"What face?"

"The face you make when you're trying very hard not to react to something. Your left eyebrow is doing the twitchy thing."

"Totally sure," you say. "I'm just curious. We haven't really talked about... any of this. I don't know anything about your life in college."

Jungwon is quiet for a moment, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "There was... actually, there was someone I really liked. Last semester."

"Someone you liked," you repeat.

"Yeah. A girl in my philosophy elective. I had this whole crush on her for months, but I was too nervous to say anything." He smiles, but it's a different kind of smile, softer, more distant. "It's kind of a long story. She actually ended up with one of my best friends. It's okay now, they're really happy together, and I'm genuinely glad for them. But it was... a wake-up call, I guess."

"A wake-up call?"

"I realized I'd spent so much time waiting and overthinking that I'd missed my chance. I didn't want that to happen again." He shrugs, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "So I decided to just... live. Explore. Stop being so scared of everything. I figured if I didn't put myself out there, I'd just keep watching opportunities pass me by."

"So you started... sleeping around."

"That's a very blunt way to put it."

"I'm a blunt person."

"I know." He laughs, the one that crinkles his eyes. "It's one of the things I've always liked about you."

"So yeah," Jungwon continues. "I hooked up with people. Nothing serious, like I said. Just... trying things. Figuring out what I want. It's been good for me, honestly. I feel more confident now. Less like I'm waiting for something to happen and more like I'm actually living my life."

"That's... good. That's really good." You're saying the right words, but your voice sounds hollow to your own ears. "I'm happy for you."

Jungwon grins. "What about you? Any hot college romances I should know about?"

"No. Nothing. I've been too busy studying."

"Really? No one caught your eye?"

Just you, you don't say. Just the person I'm not supposed to think about like this. Just my childhood best friend who apparently spent his college years having casual hookups with other people while I was sitting in my dorm room wondering why I couldn't feel anything for anyone else.

"Nope," you say out loud. "I'm married to my textbooks."

"That's tragic."

"That's academia."

He laughs again, and then his expression shifts into something more mischievous. "Well, if it makes you feel better, you don't have to be jealous. At least my first kiss was with you."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "What."

"You know. High school. My parents' closet."

Sophomore year. It was a random Saturday afternoon, and both your families were downstairs preparing for some dinner party or another. You and Jungwon had escaped to his parents' room, hiding in the walk-in closet among the coats and the winter boots, having one of those rambling conversations that always seemed to happen when you were alone together.

And somehow, the conversation had turned to kissing. Neither of you had done it before. Neither of you wanted to be bad at it when the time came. And somehow, you still don't remember who suggested it first, you'd agreed to practice. With each other. Just to get it out of the way.

It had started awkward. A nervous brush of lips, both of you too hesitant to commit. But then Jungwon's hand had found your waist, and your fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt, and something had shifted. The kiss had deepened. Became something hungrier, more urgent. His mouth had moved against yours with a confidence that surprised you both, and you'd made a sound, a small, breathless sound that had made him pull you closer.

It had lasted maybe five minutes. Maybe longer. Time had gone strange and elastic in the darkness of that closet. When you'd finally pulled apart, both of you breathing hard, his forehead pressed against yours, neither of you had spoken. The silence had been so loud it was deafening.

And then his mom had called you both for dinner, and you'd scrambled out of the closet like guilty criminals, and neither of you had ever mentioned it again.

Until now. Apparently. Because Jungwon is just casually bringing it up like it's some funny childhood anecdote, like it didn't fundamentally alter your brain chemistry when it happened.

"That wasn't-" you splutter. "That wasn't a kiss. That was... practice."

"Practice that went on for a really long time."

"We were curious!"

"We were very curious."

"YOU'RE THE WORST."

Your fist connects with his stomach before your brain can intervene. It's not a hard punch, you're not trying to actually hurt him but he doubles over anyway, laughing so hard that his shoulders shake.

"I'm sorry," he wheezes, "I'm sorry, your face, you should have seen your face-"

"I HATE YOU."

"You don't hate me. You've never hated me a day in your life."

"I'm starting today. I'm starting right now."

He straightens up, still grinning, and there's no awkwardness in his expression at all. No hidden meaning. No tension. Just fond amusement, like the memory of making out with you in a closet is just one of many sweet, funny moments in the long history of your friendship.

And that's when it hits you. Really, truly hits you.

This whole situation, the confusing feelings, the stolen glances, the jealousy that's been eating you alive since you saw that stupid box of condoms, it's all completely one-sided. Jungwon isn't looking at you differently. Jungwon isn't secretly harboring feelings for you. Jungwon is exactly where he's always been: your best friend, your brother in all but blood, the person who knows you better than anyone and loves you exactly the way he always has.

Platonically. Completely, utterly, devastatingly platonically.

"I should... go help my mom with the marinade," you say, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. "I'll see you tomorrow. At the barbecue."

"Definitely." Jungwon's smile is warm and genuine and so completely oblivious that it makes your chest ache. 

You're already backing out of the kitchen, your movements stiff and mechanical. Jungwon gives you a little wave, already turning back to the groceries, completely unaware that he's just detonated a bomb in the middle of your emotional state.

You make it to your home, then your room. You close the door. You lock it. And then you punch your pillow with the full force of your frustration.

"At least my first kiss was with you," you mutter, mimicking his voice in a high, mocking tone. "So you don't have to be jealous." Punch. "It was PRACTICE." Punch. "We were CURIOUS." Punch. "I've been pining like an IDIOT and you're out there having HOOKUPS and telling me about your PHILOSOPHY CRUSH."

You collapse face-first onto the pillow, your voice muffled by the fabric.

"He's so STUPID. He's so OBLIVIOUS. He's out there looking like THAT and talking about his SEX LIFE and bringing me BOBA and fixing my mom's DOOR and he doesn't even NOTICE-"

You stop. You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. "What doesn't he notice?" you ask the empty room.

You know the answer. You've known the answer since the moment you saw him standing in that doorway in his stupid see-through tank top. You're into him. You're into him. Into your childhood best friend who has never once looked at you as anything other than a little sister. Into the guy who just casually told you about his college hookups and his philosophy crush and the fact that he decided to "explore his youth," whatever that means.

And what are you supposed to do with that? Confess? Risk ruining a friendship that's been the most stable thing in your life for fifteen years? Put everything on the line for a chance that he might, maybe, possibly feel something too?

No. Absolutely not. You're not going to be one of those people who ruins a lifelong friendship because they can't control their feelings. You're stronger than that. You're smarter than that. You're going to shove these feelings into a box, lock the box, and throw away the key.

Reality check, you tell yourself firmly. He doesn't see you that way. He's never seen you that way. The closet kiss was just curiosity. The way he looks at you is just friendship. The way he always saves you a seat and remembers your boba order and offers to fix things around your house is just the person he is…kind and thoughtful and completely, thoroughly platonic.

You are his childhood best friend. You are basically his sister. And that's all you're ever going to be.

You press your face back into the pillow and let out a long, muffled groan.

The barbecue is in full swing by the time you make your way to the Yangs backyard, and the scene is exactly as chaotic as you expected.

Mr. Yang is manning the grill. Your father is standing beside him, offering unsolicited advice about the proper way to flip the meet, which Mr. Yang is ignoring with the practiced patience of someone who has been receiving this advice for two decades. Your mother and Mrs. Yang are setting up the side dishes on the long picnic table, their heads bent together in what looks like a very intense gossip session. And Jungwon, Jungwon is walking toward you with a plate of meat fresh off the grill and a smile that makes your stomach do a flip.

"You're late," he says, holding out the plate. "I saved you the first batch before my dad could burn it."

You take the plate, and your fingers brush against his. The contact is brief, barely a second, but your skin tingles where he touched you, and you have to resist the urge to yank your hand back like you've been burned. This is fine. You've made peace with your feelings and shoved them into a mental box, and you're going to act completely normal today.

"Thanks for the meat," you say, and your voice comes out blessedly casual.

"You look kinda goofy."

"And you look like an idiot."

"Your idiot," he says. He doesn't mean it the way you want him to mean it. He means it the way he's always meant it, best friends, partners in crime, the two of you against the world. 

The afternoon unfolds in the easy, familiar rhythm of family gatherings. You eat too much. Your mother tells embarrassing stories about your childhood. Mrs. Yang counters with embarrassing stories about Jungwon's childhood. At some point, someone produces a karaoke machine, and your father treats everyone to a truly spectacular show of an eighties power ballad that has the entire yard howling with laughter.

And through it all, there's Jungwon. Sitting beside you at the picnic table, his knee occasionally bumping against yours. Refilling your drink before you even realize it's empty. Catching your eye from across the yard and making funny faces until you crack a smile. It's so normal. So familiar. So exactly like every other barbecue you've attended in the past fifteen years.

Except it's not. Because now you're aware of him in a way you never were before. Now you notice the way his laugh sounds when he throws his head back. Now you catalog the way his fingers curl around his cup, the way his shoulders move under his shirt, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins at you. It's exhausting. It's infuriating. It's the most alive you've felt in months.

"You're eating all the mushrooms," Jungwon observes, watching you pluck another one from the communal plate. "You know other people might want mushrooms, right?"

"Other people should have been faster."

"There were like ten mushrooms on that plate and you've taken eight of them."

"Nine, actually. I took one while you were talking."

He laughs, and you stuff another mushroom in your mouth to compensate.

The conversation shifts, as it always does, into the easy back-and-forth that's been your default setting since childhood. You argue about the correct way to pronounce a word you both heard differently. You debate whether the new coffee shop in town is better than the old one. You're laughing unguarded, when Jungwon reaches past you to grab the pitcher of lemonade. His hand slides across your lower back as he moves, just for a second, just to steady himself, but the contact sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and his fingers press lightly against your waist, and his voice, when he speaks, is low and close to your ear.

"Excuse me for a second," he murmurs, and the tone, casual, intimate, completely unaware of what he's doing to you, makes your knees go weak.

Do not fold, you command yourself. Do not fold. You are a strong, independent person who is not going to melt because your childhood best friend touched your waist like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"The lemonade," you manage, your voice slightly strangled. "It's... right there."

"I see it now. Thanks."

His hand slides away, and you exhale a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Across the yard, your mother catches your eye and raises an eyebrow. You pointedly look away.

The drinking competition starts, as all great disasters do, with your father.

"Beer!" he announces, standing up from his lawn chair with the slightly unsteady enthusiasm of someone who has already had two. "We need more beer! And a competition!"

"A competition for what?" Mr. Yang asks, looking up from the grill.

"Drinking! We're all old now. When was the last time we really let loose?"

"Last New Year's Eve," your mother says flatly. "You threw up in the rose bushes."

"Details."

Despite your mother's protests, the beer is produced. And not just a few bottles, your father disappears into the house and emerges with an entire case, his expression triumphant. Within twenty minutes, both sets of parents are lined up at the picnic table, a row of shot glasses (filled with beer, because they're middle-aged adults who know their limits but are pretending not to) arranged in front of them.

"Rules!" your father announces. "First one to tap out loses. Winner gets bragging rights for the entire year."

"There are no rules," Mrs. Yang says. "You just made this up."

"I'm the commissioner of this competition. I can make rules."

"You're an accountant."

"I'm an accountant and a commissioner."

The competition, predictably, devolves into chaos. Your mother, who has the alcohol tolerance of a hummingbird, bows out after two shots and spends the next hour giggling at everything anyone says. Mrs. Yang puts up a surprisingly strong fight, matching your father shot for shot until she suddenly stops mid-sentence, blinks, and announces that the sky is "very sky-like tonight." Mr. Yang, who has been nursing the same beer for the entire afternoon, is declared the winner by default when your father attempts a victory shot and misses his own mouth entirely.

"I won?" Mr. Yang says, looking genuinely confused. "I didn't know we were competing."

"That's the spirit," your father slurs, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's winning energy."

By the time the sun sets, both sets of parents are in various states of inebriation. Your mother is asleep in a lawn chair, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open. Mrs. Yang is having a very intense conversation with the family dog about the meaning of life. Your father and Mr. Yang are attempting to fold up the picnic table and failing spectacularly.

Which leaves you and Jungwon. The only two sober people in a yard full of chaos.

"We should probably clean this up," you say, surveying the carnage. Empty bottles cover the picnic table. Plates of half-eaten food are scattered across every available surface. Someone, you suspect your father, has draped a string of fairy lights around the grill in what appears to be an attempt at decoration.

"Probably," Jungwon agrees. "Or we could just leave it and let them deal with it tomorrow."

"Your mom is currently explaining life to a golden retriever."

"The dog seems very engaged."

"Jungwon."

"Fine, fine. I'll get the trash bags."

The cleanup takes the better part of an hour. You collect the empty bottles while Jungwon tackles the food, scraping leftovers into containers and stacking plates with the practiced efficiency of someone who has cleaned up after many family gatherings. The parents eventually stagger inside, your mom leaning heavily on your dad, Mrs. Yang still muttering philosophical observations to the dog, until it's just the two of you in the quiet backyard, the only light coming from the string of fairy lights that your father had so artistically arranged.

"Well," Jungwon says, tying off the last trash bag. "That was..."

"A disaster?"

"I was going to say a successful family event, but disaster works too."

"It's not a real barbecue until someone passes out."

"Your dad set a new record this year. He almost made it to sunset."

"Personal growth."

Jungwon laughs, and the sound echoes in the quiet yard. He's standing close to you, closer than you realized and the fairy lights catch the angles of his face, the curve of his smile, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. He looks like something out of a movie. A romance movie. The kind you watch when you want to torture yourself with unrealistic expectations about love.

"So," he says, leaning against the now-clean picnic table. "The parents are asleep. The food is put away. The dog is having an existential crisis. What now?"

"I don't know. Go home? Go to bed?"

"We could do that." He tilts his head, and there's something in his expression, something teasing, something challenging. "Or we could continue the tradition."

"What tradition?"

"The drinking competition. You know. Carry on the family legacy."

"Everyone else is passed out."

"Exactly. The title is still up for grabs."

You raise an eyebrow. "You want to have a drinking competition. With me."

"I want to see if you can handle it." His smile widens, and it's the same smile he used to give you when you were kids. "Unless you're scared."

"I'm not scared. I'm sensible. There's a difference."

"Sensible is just a word scared people use."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes perfect sense. You just don't want to admit it."

The banter is familiar, comforting. But there's something different about it tonight. Something that feels almost like flirting, even though you know it's not. Even though Jungwon is just being Jungwon, and you're just being you, and this is exactly the kind of stupid challenge you would have accepted without hesitation back when you were teenagers and didn't know any better.

"Fine. But I'm warning you, I'm very competitive."

"So am I."

"My dad keeps a bottle of whiskey in the study," he says over his shoulder. "The good kind. The kind he thinks no one knows about."

"You're going to steal your dad's whiskey?"

"I'm going to borrow it. There's a difference."

"That's not how borrowing works."

"It's how my borrowing works."

The Yangs' house is quiet and dark, the only sound the distant snoring of a parent somewhere upstairs. You follow Jungwon to the study. He rummages through the bottom drawer with the confidence of someone who has done this before, and when he straightens up, there's a bottle of amber liquid in his hand.

"Ta-da," he says, holding it up like a trophy. "Twelve-year aged whiskey. My dad's been saving it for a special occasion."

"And this counts as a special occasion?"

"First barbecue of the summer? Definitely special."

"You're going to regret this tomorrow."

"Probably. But that's future Jungwon's problem. Current Jungwon wants to see if you can hold your liquor."

You follow him back to the living room, where he produces two glasses from the kitchen and pours generous measures of whiskey into each. He hands you a glass, and your fingers brush against his, and you very pointedly do not think about the contact.

"Rules," Jungwon says, settling onto the couch. "We take turns. Each of us drinks when it's our turn. First one to tap out loses."

"That's not a game. That's just... drinking."

"It's a drinking game. The game is drinking."

"That's the laziest game I've ever heard of."

"Do you have a better idea?"

You don't. So you clink your glass against his and take your first sip.

The whiskey burns going down, warm and smoky, and you can feel it spreading through your chest like a slow fire. Jungwon takes his turn, then you take yours. The glasses are refilled. The room starts to feel warmer, Jungwon's face is slightly flushed now, and his laugh comes easier, and he's sitting closer to you on the couch than he was before. Or maybe you're sitting closer to him. It's hard to tell.

"Remember the closet?" he says, and the question catches you off guard.

"What closet?"

"My parents' closet. High school. The-"

"I know which closet." Your face is heating, and it's not just from the whiskey. "What about it?"

Jungwon grins, and it's a looser grin than usual, less guarded. "Nothing. Just... that was a good kiss. For a first kiss, I mean."

"It was practice."

"It was a lot of practice."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"I'm not drunk. I'm... pleasantly tipsy."

"That's a very fancy way of saying drunk."

"I'm a fancy person."

"You're wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it."

"The cat is wearing a top hat. That makes it fancy."

Jungwon laughs so hard he nearly spills his whiskey. You catch his arm to steady him, and the contact is electric, and you pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"You know what," you say, the whiskey courage flooding through your veins, "you were actually a terrible kisser. Back then. In the closet. You were bad at it."

Jungwon's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Terrible. All teeth and no technique."

"That is... extremely revisionist history."

"It's accurate history. You were bad. I was just being nice about it."

"I was not bad. I was-" He pauses, searching for the right word. "-enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastically bad."

"You were enthusiastic too!"

"I was practicing. There's a difference."

The room is spinning slightly now, but you don't care. The whiskey has unlocked something in you, something reckless and brave and completely, utterly stupid. The mental box where you've been storing your feelings is starting to crack at the edges, and you can't seem to find the energy to patch it back up.

Childhood friend? Brother-sister bond? Screw that. Screw all of that.

"I've had time to perfect it, you know," Jungwon says, and his voice is lower now, rougher. "Since high school. I've gotten better."

"That's what you think."

"It's what I know."

"Prove it."

The words hang in the air between you like a challenge. Like a dare. 

Jungwon blinks, his glass pausing halfway to his lips. "Prove it?"

"You said you've gotten better. I don't believe you." Your heart is hammering, but your voice is steady. "I want to test it out. For scientific purposes."

"You're drunk."

"So are you. That's not an excuse."

Jungwon stares at you for a long moment. His expression is unreadable, surprise, confusion, something else that flickers in his eyes and disappears before you can identify it.

"You're serious," he says.

"I'm always serious."

"You're the least serious person I know."

"And yet here I am. Being serious."

The silence stretches between you. Your heart is pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. This is it. This is the moment where he laughs it off, makes a joke, brings back the familiar brotherly distance that's been the foundation of your friendship for fifteen years.

But he doesn't.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is so quiet you almost miss it. "Let's test it out."

He sets down his glass. You set down yours. Jungwon stands up, and you stand up, and the room tilts slightly, but you don't care.

"Let’s go to my place," you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady. "My room. The parents are all passed out anyway."

"Your room," Jungwon repeats. "Your childhood bedroom. With the stuffed animals and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling."

"The stars are still there. The stuffed animals are in a box."

Jungwon follows you to your house (which is literally five steps outside his house). Your room is exactly as you left it, the bed is made, the curtains drawn, and the lamp on your nightstand casts a warm, golden light across everything.

Jungwon stands in the doorway, his hand on the frame, his expression caught between hesitation and something else. "Last chance to back out," he says quietly.

"I don't want to back out."

"You're sure?"

Everytime - Ariana Grande now playing

Instead of answering, you reach out and grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into the room. The door clicks shut behind him.

Jungwon sits at the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. You stand before him for a moment, heart pounding in your chest, before climbing onto his lap, straddling him with a confidence you don't know you possess.

His hands immediately find your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shorts. He pulls you closer, pressing you against the growing hardness beneath his jeans, and a soft gasp escapes your lips.

"What are you waiting to kiss me?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough with intoxication.

Instead of answering, you lean in, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss starts slow, tentative that quickly deepens as years of suppressed desire come rushing to the surface. His lips are soft but demanding, moving against yours with a practiced confidence that makes your head spin.

The kiss quickly escalates from tender to feverish. You are devouring each other, mouths opening wider, tongues tangling in a desperate dance. It is messy and urgent and everything you haven't let yourself imagine for all those years. Jungwon's hands roam your body, sliding up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, then back down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him.

He starts sucking your tongue into his mouth, drawing it in with a deliberate, sexual rhythm that sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His eyes remain open, locked with yours as he works your tongue, the intensity of his gaze nearly undoing you completely. The wet, obscene sounds of his sucking fill the room, mingling with your ragged breaths.

Your hips begin to move instinctively, grinding against him in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth on your tongue. The friction of your clothed bodies sliding together creates a heat that is almost unbearable.

"Fuck," he groans against your mouth, releasing your tongue briefly. "You feel so good. Move harder."

His words spur you on, and you move with abandon, dry humping him with a desperate need that borders on obscene. Every thrust of your hips against his sends waves of pleasure through your body, and you can feel his arousal pressing insistently against you, growing harder with each movement.

Jungwon's hands slip under your shirt, his rough palms sliding against your skin as he explores the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. You tilt your head back, giving him better access as your hips continue their relentless rhythm.

"You like that?" he whispers against your skin, his voice husky with desire. "Like riding me like this? So desperate for it."

"Shut up," you breathe, even as your body responds to his taunts, moving faster, harder.

"Make me," he challenges, capturing your lips again in another searing kiss. His tongue invades your mouth with renewed intensity, and this time you meet him with equal fervor, sucking and licking and biting in a battle for dominance that neither of you is truly trying to win.

The room grows hotter, the air thick with the scent of whisky and arousal. Jungwon's hands roam freely now, squeezing your breasts through your shirt, pinching your nipples until you cry out against his mouth.

"You’re so cute," he murmurs, his words muffled by your kisses. "Wonder how you'd look with my mouth somewhere else." Jungwon meets your rhythm, thrusting up against you, his hands gripping your hips to guide your movements. "Look at you," he continues, his voice dropping lower, becoming rougher. "So desperate for it. Bet you're soaking through these panties right now, aren't you?"

"Only if you're not already leaking through those jeans," you shoot back, your own voice breathy with need.

His response is a guttural groan as he increases the pace, his hips bucking up to meet yours with an urgency that matches your own. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound joining the symphony of wet kisses, ragged breaths, and whispered profanities that fill the room.

"Jungwon," you gasp against his mouth, the name a prayer and a curse all at once.

"Right here," he responds, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you even closer as he increases the friction between you. "Not going anywhere."

The pressure builds to an almost unbearable level, your movements becoming frantic as you chase your release. Jungwon seems to sense your need, his mouth returning to yours in a kiss that is both possessive and tender, his tongue once again sucking yours into his mouth with a rhythm that pushes you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes over you with surprising intensity, waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you collapse against him, boneless and trembling. Jungwon holds you through it, his arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft kisses against your hair as you struggle to catch your breath.

When your senses slowly return, you become aware of the hardness still pressing against you, a testament to his own unsatisfied desire. You lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room.

"Your turn," you whisper, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you prepare to return the favor.

Just as you shift to take control, Jungwon's hands shoot out, gripping your waist with surprising strength. "Oh no," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "I'm not letting you lead this game. Not yet."

Before you can protest, he's flipped the positions, maneuvering you with an ease that is both impressive and infuriating. You find yourself sitting at the edge of the bed, breathless from the sudden movement, while Jungwon kneels before you. His eyes, dark and intense, never leave yours as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts.

"These have to go," he states simply, tugging them down your legs. The fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you completely exposed from the waist down. A flush creeps up your neck as you realize how wet you are, the evidence of your earlier orgasm glistening on your thighs.

Jungwon notices too, of course. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face as he traces a finger along the damp skin of your inner thigh. "Well now," he teases, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Someone got excited. Tell me, Y/N, did you just squirt? Because this looks like more than just regular excitement."

You open your mouth to deliver a sharp comeback, but the words die on your lips as he leans in, pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh. His lips are warm and gentle against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the roughness of his earlier actions.

"I should kiss your lips from down there too," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot against your core. "Since you're so convinced I'm a terrible kisser, maybe I need to practice on a different set of lips."

His mouth moves higher, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Then he pauses, sucking gently at the tender skin of your inner thigh, leaving a dark mark that will surely be visible tomorrow. He repeats the action on the other side, creating matching hickeys that stand out against your pale skin.

"I don't see the point of putting them on the neck," he explains, admiring his handiwork. "These are much more interesting, don't you think?"

You can't form a coherent response, not when his mouth is so close to where you need it most. And then he is there, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path along your folds. The sensation is electric, sending jolts of pleasure through your entire body.

Jungwon doesn't hold back. He devours you with an enthusiasm that is almost overwhelming, his tongue exploring every inch of your most sensitive areas. It is too much, too intense, and you find yourself trying to slide away, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you.

But Jungwon isn't having it. His arms lock around your thighs, holding you in place as he effortlessly slides you back toward his waiting mouth. "Oh no you don't," he growls against your core. "You wanted proof, and I'm not done proving anything yet."

His tongue enters you then, fucking you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl. It is delicious, the way he moves inside you, exploring every inch of your inner walls with a skill that is both impressive and infuriating. You look down at him, at the way his dark hair falls across his forehead as he works, at the intense concentration on his face as he focuses on bringing you pleasure.

Just as you are approaching the edge again, he slows down, his movements becoming deliberate, teasing. He runs his tongue through your folds with agonizing slowness, pausing occasionally to look up at you, his eyes dark with challenge. He knows exactly what he is doing, the bastard. He is provoking you, testing your limits, pushing you to the brink of insanity with his maddeningly slow pace.

The sounds are the worst part, or the best part, you can't decide. Each slow lick is accompanied by a wet, sucking noise that echoes in the quiet room, a constant reminder of what is happening between your legs. 

"Say it," he murmurs against you, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Say I'm a good kisser."

You bite your lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction. You are always stubborn, always bratty when challenged, and this is no different. If he wants you to admit he is good, he is going to have to work harder for it.

Jungwon chuckles, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. "Still so defiant," he says, pulling back slightly to look at you. "Is that how you treat your precious friend?"

He returns to his task with renewed enthusiasm, his tongue moving faster now, his lips sucking at your clit with a rhythm that makes your hips buck involuntarily. 

"Come on, Y/N," he urges, his voice rough with desire. "Just say it. Say I'm a good kisser, and I'll let you come."

That is all it takes. The combination of his skilled tongue and his dirty talk sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. As waves of pleasure course through your body, the words finally tumble from your lips.

"You're a good kisser," you gasp, your voice ragged with pleasure. "Oh god, Jungwon, you're such a good kisser."

Jungwon continues his ministrations through your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you are completely spent, collapsing back against the bed with a satisfied sigh. Only then does he pull away, a triumphant grin on his face as he looks up at you.

"Glad we settled that," he says, his voice smug with satisfaction. He rises to his feet, standing before you with a noticeable bulge in his jeans. "Now it's your turn. Suck my dick."

Jungwon doesn't wait for an answer. He simply stands and begins to unbutton his jeans. He pushes his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free, hard and heavy.

He stands before you, completely exposed from the waist down. He is bigger than you'd somehow imagined, thick and curving slightly upward, the tip already glistening with precum. A vein pulses along the underside.

"On your knees," he commands, his voice low and rough. It isn't a request, but you find yourself complying without hesitation, sliding off the bed onto the plush carpet of your bedroom floor. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that his cock is nearly level with your face. He tangles his fingers in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, using it to tilt your head back.

"Open up," he murmurs, his eyes dark with intensity as he looks down at you. "Let's see if that mouth is good for more than just talking back."

You part your lips, your heart pounding in your chest as he guides himself to your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the salty bitterness of his precum, and he lets out a low groan, his fingers tightening in your hair.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathes, his voice strained. "Just like that."

You take him into your mouth then, slowly at first, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way he fills you so completely. You move your tongue along the underside, tracing the path of that pulsing vein, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"Careful," he warns, though his tone is more pleased than admonishing. "I’m enjoying this a bit too much."

You want to see him come undone, to hear him gasp and groan, to know that you are the one causing his pleasure. You take him deeper then, until the tip of his cock brushes against the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, your muscles contracting.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his hips beginning to move in a shallow rhythm. "You're…fuck…you're really good at this."

You pull back slightly, creating a suction that makes his eyes roll back in his head. Then you take him deep again. Your hands come up to grip his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch as he fights to maintain control.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with need. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you're sucking my cock."

You look up at him then, your eyes locking with his as you continue your ministrations. The intensity in his gaze is nearly overwhelming, a mixture of raw desire and something that looks suspiciously like affection. Jungwon begins to move more freely then, his hips thrusting in time with the movements of your mouth. The pace quickens, growing more frantic as he approaches his release. 

"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained.

You can feel it too, the way his cock seems to swell in your mouth, the way his thrusts become more erratic. You double your efforts, taking him as deep as you can, your tongue working frantically against him.

"Y/N," he gasps, his fingers tightening in your hair. "I'm…fuck, I'm coming."

His release is sudden and explosive, hot and salty as he spills into your mouth. You swallow instinctively, taking everything he has to give. When he is finished, Jungwon pulls away slowly, his cock softening as he withdraws from your mouth. He looks down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and satisfaction, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing.

"Come here," he says, his voice softening as he reaches down to help you to your feet. He pulls you into his arms, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is both tender and reassuring, tasting of him and of you and of everything you have just shared.

"You did great," he murmurs against your lips, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

You melt against him, your body still humming with pleasure, your mind reeling from the intensity of what has just happened. 

You wake up to the sensation of someone driving a truck over you.

No. Wait. That's just the hangover.

Your eyes crack open, and the first thing you register is the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. The second thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The third thing is that you're wearing only one sock. The fourth thing hits you like a freight train.

Jungwon.

You bolt upright so fast that the room spins violently, and you have to press your palm against your forehead to keep your brain from escaping through your ears. The memories come flooding back in fragmented, disjointed flashes, the whiskey, the challenge, the door clicking shut. His hands on your waist. You grinding on him. The way he'd said your name, low and rough, like it was something sacred.

You look down at yourself. You're still in your shirt from last night, wrinkled but still there. Your shorts are on the floor. And there, on your inner thigh, just above your knee, is a mark. A small, purplish bruise that definitely wasn't there yesterday.

You look for more, your heart hammering, and find another one. And another. A whole constellation of hickeys mapping a path across your skin.

"Oh my god," you whisper to the empty room. "Oh my god, it wasn't a dream."

It was not a dream. It was very much not a dream. You and Jungwon had gone at each other like two people who had been waiting their entire lives for an excuse. There had been hands and mouths and the kind of sounds you didn't know you were capable of making. And now you have to face him.

You spend approximately fifteen minutes staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to will the evidence off your skin. The hickeys are not going anywhere unfortunately. The smell of breakfast hits you before you even reach the bottom of the stairs. Eggs. Bacon. The unmistakable aroma of your mother's hangover soup, which she only makes when the entire household has made questionable decisions the night before. You follow the scent to the kitchen, your stomach churning with a mixture of nausea and pure, undiluted terror.

And there he is.

Jungwon is sitting at your kitchen table. Your kitchen table. In your house. Eating your mother's cooking like he belongs there, which, to be fair, he kind of does. He's been eating at this table since before he could see over the edge of it. But today, the sight of him makes your entire body go hot and cold at the same time.

He looks... fine. Completely, infuriatingly fine. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered. He's wearing a soft-looking sweater and jeans, and he's laughing at something your dad is saying, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that familiar way. There's no sign of a hangover. No sign of regret. No sign that anything at all has changed between you.

"There she is!" your mother announces, spotting you in the doorway. "The last survivor of last night's chaos. Come, sit. I made soup."

You mumble something that might be "good morning" or might be "please kill me," and you slide into the chair across from Jungwon. He glances up at you, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think you see something flicker in his eyes, a flash of recognition, a hint of heat, but then it's gone, replaced by that same easy, brotherly smile.

"Rough night?" he asks, and his tone is light, teasing, completely normal.

"You could say that."

"Your dad was snoring so loud I could hear it from my house."

You stare at Jungwon, waiting for something, a knowing look, a secret smile, something that acknowledges what happened between you. But he just keeps eating his eggs, chatting with your parents like this is any other morning, like he didn't spend a significant portion of last night with his mouth on your-

"Y/N, you're not eating," your mother says, pushing the soup closer to you. "Are you feeling okay? You look flushed."

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just... tired."

"Too much whiskey," your dad says sagely. "I told you kids. The Yangs can hold their liquor. Our family has no chance."

"I'm literally a Yang," Jungwon points out.

"Exactly. You have the advantage. It's genetics."

The conversation flows around and you sit there in silence, pushing your soup around your bowl, watching Jungwon act like everything is normal. Like everything is fine. Like he didn't whisper your name against your lips in the dark of your childhood bedroom.

It's infuriating. It's absolutely, completely, maddeningly infuriating.

The moment breakfast ends, you corner him.

Your parents have retreated to the living room, and Jungwon is at the sink, rinsing his bowl with the same helpful energy he's always had. You wait until you hear the TV turn on, and then you grab his arm and pull him into the hallway.

"Hey-" he starts, but you're already backing him against the wall, your hands planted on either side of him, your eyes blazing.

"What the hell was that?"

Jungwon blinks at you. "What was what?"

"That!" You gesture vaguely at the kitchen, at the breakfast table, at the entire morning. "Sitting there, eating eggs, acting like nothing happened!"

"Because nothing happened."

"Nothing-" You choke on the word. "Nothing happened? Jungwon, we…last night…my room…"

Understanding dawns on his face, and his expression shifts into something more serious. More guarded. "Oh. That."

"Yes. That."

He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping. "Y/N, look. Last night was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "It was a mistake."

The word hits you like a slap. "A mistake."

"Not because of you," he adds quickly, his ears turning pink. "Never because of you. But I shouldn't have... we were both drunk. We weren't thinking clearly. I took advantage of the situation, and I'm sorry."

"You didn't take advantage of anything. I'm the one who started it."

"You were drunk."

"So were you."

"That's exactly my point." He runs a hand through his hair, a frustrated gesture you've seen a thousand times. "We were both drunk, and we did things that... that we probably wouldn't have done if we were sober. And I don't want that to change anything between us."

Your stomach drops. "You don't?"

"No. You're my best friend, Y/N. You've been my best friend since I was six years old. I'm not going to let one night of... whatever that was... ruin fifteen years of friendship." His voice is earnest, his eyes searching your face for understanding. "I mean, it wasn't even... we didn't even... it was just foreplay, right? It's not like we went all the way. We can just forget it happened. Move on. Go back to normal."

Just foreplay. The words echo in your head like a taunt. Just foreplay. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter. Like the marks on your thighs are just random bruises, meaningless and forgettable.

"Right," you hear yourself say, and your voice comes out remarkably steady. "Just foreplay. No big deal."

"Exactly." Jungwon's shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so relieved, so genuinely happy, that it makes your chest ache. "I knew you'd understand. You've always been the reasonable one."

"I'm the sarcastic one. You're the reasonable one."

"Then we're both reasonable. Even better." He reaches out and ruffles your hair, the same gesture he's been doing since you were kids, and then he's walking past you, back toward the kitchen, calling out something to your mom about helping with the dishes.

You stand there in the hallway, your back pressed against the wall, and you feel the sting of tears behind your eyes. You blink them back furiously. You are not going to cry. You are not going to cry over Jungwon, who just called what happened between you a mistake. Who said it was just foreplay. Who wants to forget it happened and move on.

You're not going to cry. But you're also not going to forget.

Two days pass.

Two days of pretending everything is normal. Two days of Jungwon acting exactly the same as he always has, helpful and cheerful and brotherly and infuriating. Two days of you smiling and nodding and laughing at his jokes while something hot and angry and desperate simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

The problem is, you can't stop looking at him.

Every time he reaches for something, you notice the flex of his forearm. Every time he laughs, you watch the way his throat moves. Every time he brushes past you, your body remembers the weight of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the sound of his voice saying your name in the dark. 

It's frustrating. It's maddening. It's the most alive you've felt in years.

"Convenience store run?" Jungwon appears in your doorway on the third afternoon. "I'm craving melon ice cream."

"You're always craving melon ice cream."

"Pretty please."

"Fine." You grab your jacket and follow him out.

Jungwon chatters about nothing, a movie he wants to see, a new boba flavor he tried and hated. You respond in monosyllables, your attention divided between the conversation and the way the afternoon light catches the angles of his jaw.

You need to get a grip. You really, really need to get a grip.

The convenience store is blessedly air-conditioned and mostly empty. Jungwon heads straight for the ice cream aisle, leaving you to wander toward the chip section.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

You turn. The guy standing in front of you is vaguely familiar. It takes you a moment to place him, but then the memory clicks into focus: Jaehyun. High school. You'd sat next to each other in math class for two years.

"Jaehyun!" you say, genuinely surprised. "Wow, it's been a while."

"Right? Three years, maybe? You look great." He grins, and it's a nice grin, friendly and open. "Are you back for the summer?"

"Yeah, just visiting family. You?"

"Same. My parents still live in the old house, so I'm stuck here until August." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Small towns, right? Nothing ever changes."

"Tell me about it."

The conversation flows easily, catching up on majors and career plans and mutual acquaintances from high school.

"Hey, we should catch up properly sometime," Jaehyun says, pulling out his phone. "A bunch of us are doing a bonfire next weekend. You should come. Bring whoever you want."

"Yeah, maybe. That sounds-"

And then his hand reaches out and ruffles your hair. It's an innocent gesture. Friendly. The same kind of casual physical contact that people exchange all the time without thinking about it. But before you can even process what's happening, there's a blur of movement behind you, and Jaehyun’s wrist is being yanked away from your head with enough force to make him yelp.

"Hey now," Jungwon's voice says, and it's light, teasing, the same tone he uses when he's joking around. But there's something underneath it, something cold and sharp that you've never heard before. "Let's keep our hands to ourselves, yeah?"

Jaehyun stares at him, his eyes wide. You stare too. Jungwon is smiling, a pleasant, polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. 

"I was just-" Jaehyun starts.

"Just saying hi. I get it." Jungwon's smile doesn't waver. "But here's the thing…you don't touch her hair. That's not something you get to do. Understand?"

Jaehyun nods quickly, and Jungwon releases his wrist, patting him on the shoulder with that same easy, friendly energy.

"Good talk. Enjoy your summer, man."

And then he's turning away, his hand finding your elbow, steering you toward the checkout counter. You catch a glimpse of Jaehyun’s face, confused, slightly alarmed, before you're being dragged down the snack aisle and out of view.

"What the hell was that?" you hiss, yanking your arm free.

"What was what?" Jungwon doesn't look at you. He's studying the ice cream selection like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"That! With Jaehyun! You just, you threatened him!"

"I didn't threaten him. I set a boundary. There's a difference."

"You grabbed his wrist!"

"Gently."

"Jungwon." You step in front of him, forcing him to look at you. "What is your deal?"

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tight. Then he moves, one step, two, and suddenly you're backing up, your shoulders hitting the cold glass door of the ice cream freezer. He's right there, inches away, his body crowding yours against the door, and you can feel the chill of the glass through your shirt and the heat of him in front of you.

His hand comes up. His fingers slide into your hair. And then he ruffles it,but it's not the casual gesture from before. It's slower. More deliberate. His fingertips trace against your scalp, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

"Don't let other guys touch your hair," he says quietly, and his voice is low and rough and completely, utterly serious. "That's mine."

You stare up at him, your heart hammering, your brain short-circuiting. His face is close, so close you can see the individual strands of his eyelashes, the way his pupils have gone dark and wide. He looks like a completely different person. He looks like someone who wants to devour you.

And then he steps back. "Anyway," he says, and his voice is back to normal, cheerful and light, like nothing at all just happened. "I'm getting melon and chocolate. You want strawberry, right?"

He turns and walks toward the checkout counter, leaving you frozen against the ice cream freezer, your legs weak, your heart racing, your hair still tingling where he touched it.

What. The hell. Was that.

You stay there for a solid thirty seconds, trying to remember how to breathe. The cold from the freezer is seeping through your shirt, and you can hear Jungwon chatting with the cashier like he didn't just press you against a freezer and claim ownership of your hair. Your hair. Like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And the worst part, the absolute, devastating worst part is that some dark, twisted corner of your brain liked it. Liked the way he'd crowded you. Liked the way he'd said mine in that low, possessive voice. Liked the way his fingers had felt in your hair, slow and deliberate and completely unlike anything he'd ever done before.

You push yourself off the freezer door and follow him to the checkout. Jungwon is already paying, his expression serene, his posture relaxed.

"Got your strawberry," he says, holding up the ice cream. "Ready to go?"

You nod mutely.

The walk home is quiet. Jungwon eats his melon ice cream and comments on the weather and points out a funny-shaped cloud, and you walk beside him in a daze, your mind spinning with questions you're too afraid to ask.

*What was that back there?*

*What did you mean by "mine"?*

*Do you want me the way I want you, or was that just some weird protective instinct that you're going to laugh off later and pretend never happened?*

But you don't ask. Because you're scared of the answers. Because if he laughs it off, if he says it was nothing, if he goes back to being the same platonic Jungwon he's always been, you don't think you can handle that.  So you walk in silence, and you eat your strawberry ice cream, and you try very hard not to think about the way his fingers felt in your hair.

The invitation comes on a Thursday, delivered via text message with the casual energy of someone suggesting what to have for lunch.

**Jungwon:** *lake tomorrow? picnic? there's that spot we used to go to as kids. i'll pack food.*

You stare at the message for approximately five minutes. The spot he's talking about is a small, secluded clearing by the lake about twenty minutes outside of town—a hidden gem that you'd discovered together when you were kids. You'd spent entire summers there, swimming until your fingers pruned, eating sandwiches that got slightly soggy from the cooler, lying on the grass and making up stories about the shapes in the clouds.

It's also, objectively, one of the most romantic places in existence. Secluded. Quiet. Surrounded by trees and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. If you were a romance novel protagonist, this would be the chapter where the love interest makes his move.

But you're not a romance novel protagonist.

This is a terrible idea. You should say no.

**You:** *sure. what time?*

The next morning Jungwon picks you up at ten, his car already packed with a cooler, a picnic blanket, and two towels that he definitely stole from his mom's linen closet.

"Ready for adventure?" he asks, holding the passenger door open with an exaggerated flourish.

"Ready for a twenty-minute drive to a lake we've been to literally a hundred times?"

"Every time is a new adventure."

"I’m already tired of you speaking."

"It’s just the beginning."

You roll your eyes and climb into the car, and he closes the door behind you with a satisfied grin. You roll down the window, letting the warm air whip through your hair, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Easy. Like it used to be before your feelings got tangled up in everything. And then Jungwon connects his phone to the car speaker, and a familiar song starts playing.

Lost Island - Enhypen now playing

"Oh my god," you say, recognizing the opening notes. "Is this-"

"Lost Island," he confirms, his grin widening. "Don't pretend you don't know every word."

"I don't know every word."

"You definitely know every word. You made me watch the colour coded lyrics when it came out."

"That was just to see the translation.."

"What about when you made me look at the concept photoshoot of the album?"

"It was for art purposes. I was studying the different concepts."

"You were studying Ni-ki’s pictures for the Afterlight version (iykyk), yeah?"

"Those pictures are a cultural reset."

He laughs, and the sound fills the car, and then he's singing along, loud and off-key and you can't help but join in. You've known this song since it came out. You've listened to it on late-night study sessions, on walks across campus, on the bus ride home from college. You know every lyric, every beat, every ad-lib. And singing it with Jungwon, your voices clashing and harmonizing in all the wrong ways, feels like coming home.

"AND NOTHING’S MORE PRECIOUS THAN TIME? THAN TIME WITH YOU!" he belts, completely butchering the song.

"That's not even close to the right key!"

"It's the right key in my heart!"

"Your heart is tone-deaf!"

The banter carries you the rest of the way to the lake, the familiar landscape scrolling past your window like a slideshow of your childhood. 

"It's exactly the same," you breathe, stepping out of the car.

"Some things don't change," Jungwon says, and there's something in his voice, something almost wistful that makes you glance at him. But he's already turning away, pulling the cooler out of the trunk, his expression back to its usual cheerful neutrality.

Jungwon spreads the blanket on a flat patch of grass near the water's edge, weighting down the corners with rocks so it doesn't blow away in the breeze. He unpacks the cooler very carefully, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a container of cut fruit, two bottles of lemonade, a bag of chips, and a small box of the cookies you used to beg your mom to buy when you were little.

"You remembered the cookies," you say, and your voice comes out more surprised than you intended.

"Of course I remembered. They're your favorite." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like remembering your favorite childhood cookies is just something people do. "I also brought the chips you like, even though you always eat the entire bag and then complain that you feel sick."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I will push you into the lake."

"You can try."

After lunch, Jungwon leans back on his elbows, tilting his face toward the sun. "We should swim."

"We didn't bring swimsuits."

"So?"

"So I'm not swimming in my clothes."

"Who said anything about clothes?" He grins at the look on your face. "Kidding. Kind of. You can swim in your t-shirt and underwear. It's basically the same as a swimsuit."

"Underwear is not the same as a swimsuit."

"It's fabric. You wear it. You get wet. Same concept."

"The concept is not the same. There's-" You stop, because he's already pulling his shirt over his head, and the sight of his bare torso short-circuits your brain.

You've seen Jungwon without a shirt before. Plenty of times. Swimming as kids, running through sprinklers, that one disastrous summer when he decided to try to get a six-pack and made you do crunches with him in his backyard. But this is different. He's different. The lean muscle of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the way his stomach tightens as he tosses the shirt onto the blanket, it's all very, very different.

"See something you like?" he asks, and his tone is teasing, light, completely unaware of the chaos happening inside your brain.

"Just trying to figure out where your tan line starts," you say, your voice blessedly steady. "It's very uneven."

He laughs and wades into the water, his back to you, and you take the opportunity to have a small, internal meltdown. If he doesn't see you as a romantic prospect, then what does it matter if you're in your underwear? It's not like he's going to look at you differently. It's not like anything is going to change.

"Fine," you say, standing up. "But if I get hypothermia, you're explaining it to my mom."

"You're not going to get hypothermia. It's like eighty degrees."

You pull your shirt over your head, shimmy out of your shorts, and are left standing in your underwear, a simple black set that you definitely didn't choose this morning with the vague, subconscious hope that someone might see it. That would be ridiculous.

Jungwon glances back at you, and for just a second, just a fraction of a heartbeat, his eyes flicker down your body. But then he's looking away, splashing into the deeper water, his voice carrying over the lake. "Hurry up! The water's perfect!"

You wade in after him, and the water is cold enough to make you gasp. You push through the discomfort and dive forward, submerging yourself completely, and when you surface, your hair is plastered to your face and you're laughing.

"See?" Jungwon says, swimming toward you. "Not hypothermia."

"Ask me again in ten minutes."

"You'll be fine. You're tough."

You float on your back, staring up at the sky, and Jungwon floats beside you, and for a while, neither of you speaks. It's peaceful. Quiet. The kind of moment you'd want to bottle and keep forever.

And then Jungwon ruins it. "Remember when we used to do this as kids?" he says, his voice dreamy. "You were so small I could carry you around the whole lake."

"I was not that small."

"You were tiny. I could pick you up with one arm."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"It's not a lie. I'll prove it."

Before you can protest, he's moving toward you through the water, his hands finding your waist. You barely have time to yelp before he lifts you, actually *lifts* you, like you weigh nothing and suddenly you're dangling in the water with his hands under your arms, your face level with his.

"See?" he says, and his grin is insufferable. "Still got it."

"That's not, you're using both hands-"

"Details."

The position is ridiculous. You're basically suspended in the water, your legs floating uselessly behind you, his hands wedged firmly under your armpits. But his fingers, his fingers are pressing into the sides of your chest, dangerously close to-

Oh god.

His thumbs are brushing against the curve of your breasts.

You freeze. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. Your face, which was already flushed from the sun, goes approximately forty shades redder. Jungwon doesn't seem to notice, he's still grinning, still holding you up, his fingers still in that exact same position.

"You're so light," he's saying. "Have you been eating enough? Your mom was right, you're like a-"

You don't let him finish. You thrash in his grip, twisting out of his hands with a splash that sends water cascading over both of you. When you surface, gasping, you use the momentum to push a wave directly into his face.

"What was that for?!" he splutters, wiping water from his eyes.

"You were being annoying!"

"I was being helpful!"

"Your hands were-" You stop. You cannot say your hands were on my boobs. You absolutely cannot say that. "You were in my personal space!"

"That's what happens when you carry someone! There's personal space involved!"

"Not that much personal space!"

"You're so weird." But he's laughing, and the moment passes, and he's swimming away from you toward the deeper part of the lake, completely oblivious to the cardiac event he just caused.

You float there for a moment, your heart hammering, your skin tingling everywhere his fingers had touched. He didn't notice. Of course he didn't notice. He was just being Jungwon, playful and physical and completely unaware of the effect he has on you. To him, it was just another childhood game. Just another memory in the long highlight reel of your friendship.

But to you? To you, it was everything.

You take a deep breath and dive underwater, letting the cold silence swallow you whole. When you surface again, you've composed yourself. Your face is still flushed, but you can blame it on the sun. Your heart is still racing, but you can blame it on the swimming.

"You okay over there?" Jungwon calls from the deeper water. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

"I'm always thinking too hard."

"What about?"

About you. About your hands. About the way you said "mine" in the convenience store and then never mentioned it again. About how I'm trying so hard to move on and you keep doing things that make it impossible.

"About how I'm going to get revenge," you say instead, and you launch yourself toward him with a war cry that echoes across the lake.

The splash fight that follows is epic. Water goes everywhere. You end up with lake water in your sinuses and a piece of algae in your hair. Jungwon laughs so hard he accidentally inhales water and spends a full minute coughing on the shore. When you finally drag yourselves out of the lake, shivering and dripping and exhausted, you collapse onto the picnic blanket side by side, staring up at the sky.

The sun is starting its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Your clothes are spread out on the grass, drying in the warm air, and you're lying in your underwear on a picnic blanket next to your childhood best friend, and somehow it doesn't feel awkward. It feels natural. Easy. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

But as the sky darkens and the first stars appear, you remind yourself: this isn't a romance novel. He doesn't see you that way. And you're trying to move on.

You just wish moving on didn't feel so much like falling.

You're both still damp from the lake, a pleasant chill raising goosebumps on your skin. Jungwon notices you shivering slightly as you sit on the picnic blanket, pulling your knees to your chest.

"You're cold," he says, stating the obvious as he stands up. "Come on, let's get you warmed up."

Before you can protest, he's already pulling you to your feet, his hand warm and firm around yours. He leads you toward a large, flat rock at the edge of the clearing that has been baking in the afternoon sun. It radiates a gentle heat against your bare legs as he positions you to sit on its edge.

But he doesn't sit beside you. Instead, he positions himself directly in front of you, between your legs, his body creating a shield against the evening breeze. The proximity is intoxicating, his bare torso just inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough that you could lean forward and press your lips against his if you were brave enough, or stupid enough.

"You need a break," he says, his voice lower than it was moments before, his eyes fixed on yours. "After that epic defeat in the water."

"I didn't lose," you retort, but your voice lacks its usual conviction. You're too aware of his hands as they come to rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking your skin in slow, deliberate circles. "It was clearly a tie."

"Denial is not just a river in Egypt," he replies, a small smirk playing on his lips. But his eyes... his eyes are serious, intense, focused on yours with an unwavering gaze that makes your breath catch.

You try to ignore the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his touch sends jolts of electricity through your entire body. You try to focus on the lake, on the sunset, on anything other than the man standing between your legs, looking at you like you're the only person in the world.

But then his hands begin to move.

It's a slow, deliberate journey, his fingers tracing a path along the sensitive skin of your thighs. Higher and higher they go, until they reach the inner curve of your legs. Your breath hitches, your muscles tensing as his fingers continue their exploration, inching ever closer to your most intimate place.

His hands reach the apex of your thighs, his fingers curling around the curve where your legs meet your hips. And then, oh god, his thumb slides inward, the tip of it brushing against the edge of your panties, touching the place where your folds begin through the thin fabric.

A soft gasp escapes your lips, your hips shifting involuntarily. The touch is electric, sending waves of pleasure through your entire body. You can feel yourself growing wet, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that betrays your attempts at nonchalance.

Jungwon's eyes darken, his thumb pressing slightly more firmly against you, a silent acknowledgment of your reaction. The air between you grows thick with tension, charged with unspoken desire. You lean in slightly, your lips parting, your entire being focused on the man before you and the hand that's doing unspeakable things to your composure.

And then he pulls away.

Just like that. As if nothing had happened. "We should probably get back to the blanket," he says, his voice completely normal. "I think there are still some cookies left."

You stare at him, your mind reeling, your body still humming with unfulfilled desire. Is he doing this on purpose? Is this some kind of game to him, a way to provoke you, to test your reactions? Or is he really so clueless that he doesn't realize what he's doing to you, doesn't understand the effect his casual touches have on your body, your mind, your heart?

You slide off the rock, your legs feeling shaky beneath you as you follow him back to the picnic blanket. As you dress, you watch him out of the corner of your eye, searching for some sign, some indication of what's going on in that head of his. But he's whistling softly, sorting through the remnants of your picnic, completely at ease.

And you're left wondering, as you have so many times before, whether the tension between you is real or just another product of your overactive imagination.Or whether, just maybe, he's as confused about this as you are.

Jungwon is lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his hair still wet and curling slightly at the ends. He's got a cookie in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through something with casual ease. His phone buzzes, cutting through your thoughts. Jungwon glances at the screen, and his face breaks into a grin.

"Oh, it's Heeseung," he says, already accepting the video call. "I told him I was at the lake. He said he didn't believe me."

Heeseung. The name is familiar, Jungwon's best friend from college, the one he's mentioned a few times in passing. You've never met him, but you've heard enough stories to piece together a rough picture.

"Jungwon!" A voice crackles through the phone speaker, and Jungwon angles the screen so you can see. The guy on the other end is exactly as advertised, sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of face that probably breaks hearts without even trying. He's sitting somewhere indoors, a window behind him letting in soft afternoon light. "You actually went to the lake? I thought you were lying."

"Why would I lie about going to a lake?"

"I don't know. To seem more interesting than you actually are?"

"I'm very interesting."

"You read philosophy books for fun. That's not interesting. That's a cry for help."

You snort, and Heeseung's attention immediately snaps to you. "Who's that? Is someone else there?"

"This is Y/N," Jungwon says, tilting the phone toward you. "My childhood best friend. The one I've told you about."

You wave awkwardly at the camera. "Hi. I'm the one who didn't pour coffee on her own head."

Heeseung laughs, and it's a genuine, surprised laugh. "I like her already. She's got better instincts than me."

"Everyone has better instincts than you," Jungwon says. "You're famously bad at decisions."

"I'm famously bad at some decisions. I'm very good at other ones." Heeseung shifts, and in the background of his video, you catch a glimpse of movement. Someone else is in the room with him, a girl, sitting at a desk, her face partially obscured by a laptop screen. She's got headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever she's doing, and there's a colorful highlighter tucked behind her ear.

"Oh, is that-" Jungwon starts, and something in his voice changes. It's subtle, a slight softening, a slight hesitation, but you notice it immediately. You've spent too many years cataloging every nuance of his expressions not to notice.

"Yeah, that's her," Heeseung says, glancing over his shoulder at the girl. "She's studying. Again. I told her it's summer break, but she said, and I quote, the mitochondria doesn't take vacations."

"That sounds like her," Jungwon says, and there's that tone again. That soft, almost wistful tone that makes your stomach clench.

The girl in the background looks up, as if sensing she's being discussed, and Heeseung waves her over. She removes her headphones with a slightly confused expression, and then she's walking toward the camera, and you get your first clear look at her.

She's pretty. Really pretty, in a natural, unassuming way. Round glasses perched on her nose, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing an oversized sweater that looks like it's been through several all-night study sessions. There's something about her expression, a little nervous, a little awkward, but also warm and genuine, that makes you understand immediately why someone might fall for her.

"This is Y/N," Heeseung says to her, gesturing at the phone. "Jungwon's friend."

"Hi, Y/N," the girl says, leaning into the frame. Her smile is slightly shy but sincere. "I've heard a lot about you. Jungwon talks about you all the time."

"All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly good things. He mentioned something about a treehouse incident?"

"I'm not taking responsibility for that. That was entirely his fault."

"It was not entirely my fault," Jungwon protests. "You were the one who wanted to add a second story."

"Because you said you wanted a better view of the stars."

"I was being romantic!"

"You were being delusional. The tree couldn't even support one story, let alone two."

The girl laughs, and Heeseung looks at her with an expression so openly, unguardedly fond that it makes something twist in your chest. That's love. That's real, undeniable, completely transparent love. The kind of love that doesn't hide or apologize or pretend to be something else.

"We should let you guys get back to your picnic," Heeseung says. "I just wanted to confirm that the lake does, in fact, exist."

"Confirmed," Jungwon says. "It's still here. Still wet. Still full of fish."

"Excellent. Very informative." Heeseung grins. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That doesn't leave much."

"Exactly."

The call ends, and the screen goes dark. Jungwon sets his phone down on the blanket and reaches for another cookie, completely oblivious to the storm that's just started brewing in your chest.

That's her. The girl from the philosophy elective. The one Jungwon had a crush on for months. The one he talked about in your kitchen with that soft, distant look in his eyes. The one who ended up with his best friend instead of him. And she's... nice. She seems nice. Genuinely nice, not fake nice, not trying-too-hard nice. The kind of nice that makes it impossible to hate her, even though a small, petty part of you really wants to.

"Jungwon?" you say.

"Hmm?"

"That was her, wasn't it? The girl you liked."

He pauses mid-chew, and for a moment, something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, or the ghost of an old wound. But then it's gone, replaced by a smile that's a little too casual to be entirely genuine.

"Yeah. That was her."

"She seems nice."

"She is." He swallows the cookie and stares out at the lake, his expression unreadable. "She's really nice. She and Heeseung are good together."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm okay with that." He says it firmly, like he's practiced the words. Like he's said them to himself enough times that they've started to feel true. "It took a while, but... yeah. I'm okay with it. They make each other happy. That's what matters."

You don't know what to say to that. There's a heaviness in his voice that he's trying to hide, and you know him well enough to recognize it. He's not lying, he really is okay with it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still sting. That doesn't mean he doesn't still think about it sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and the what-ifs creep in.

"I'm going to take a nap," Jungwon announces, stretching out on the blanket and pillowing his head on his arms. "The sun and the swimming made me tired."

"Okay."

"You should nap too. You look tired."

"I look radiant."

"You look radiantly tired."

"That's not a thing."

"It's a thing now. I invented it." He closes his eyes, and within minutes, his breathing evens out. He's asleep. Just like that. 

You sit there for a while, watching him sleep.

We can't be friends - Ariana Grande now playing

It's strange, seeing him like this. Unguarded. Vulnerable. The tension that he carries in his shoulders has melted away, and his face is relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake.

Your eyes trace the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes. You know every inch of this face. You've memorized it over fifteen years of glances and gazes and stolen looks. But there's something different about looking at him now. Something heavier. Something that sits in your chest like a stone.

So that's he*, you think. That's the girl who had his heart.

And she's lovely. She's genuinely, painfully lovely. You saw it in the way she smiled, in the way she looked at Heeseung, in the way she clearly has no idea that she was once the center of someone else's entire world. She probably doesn't even know. She probably went about her life, completely unaware that Jungwon spent months pining over her, working up the courage to say something, only to lose his chance because he waited too long.

And that's the thing, isn't it? He waited too long. He liked her and he didn't say anything, and by the time he was ready, it was too late. Someone else had already stepped in. Someone bolder, someone braver, someone who didn't wait.

But he's not like that anymore. You've seen the change in him. The confidence. The ease. The way he carries himself like someone who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to go after it. He told you himself, after that whole situation, he decided to stop waiting. To start living. To explore his youth and put himself out there and not let opportunities pass him by.

She did that. That girl, with her round glasses and her messy ponytail and her complete, oblivious unawareness of the effect she had on him, she changed him. She's the reason he started hooking up with people in college. She's the reason he bought condoms and learned how to kiss properly and became the kind of person who presses other people against freezers and claims ownership of their hair.

You should be grateful to her. In a weird, twisted way, she's the reason Jungwon is who he is now, more confident, more assertive, more willing to go after what he wants. But all you feel is a hot, jealous knot in your stomach that you can't seem to untangle.

What does she have that you don't?

The thought surfaces before you can stop it, ugly and uninvited. You push it down, but it keeps rising back up, persistent and sharp.

What does she have that you don't? You've known Jungwon your entire life. You've been there for every scraped knee, every broken bone, every triumph and every failure. You know the exact way he takes his coffee and the name of every pet he's ever had and the song he listens to when he's sad. You've seen him at his worst and at his best, and you've loved every version of him.

And yet. And yet.

When he talks about her, there's still a softness in his voice. When he looked at her on that video call, there was still a flicker of something, not longing, exactly, but memory. The ghost of a feeling that was once very real. And you've never had that. You've never been the person Jungwon looked at like that. You've never been the person he pined over, the person he wrote letters to, the person he stayed up late thinking about.

You're just Y/N. His childhood best friend. The person he carries around in the lake and ruffles the hair of and tells all his secrets to, but never, ever looks at the way you want him to.

"It's not fair," you whisper, and your voice is so quiet it barely disturbs the air. "What does she have that I don't?"

The question hangs there, unanswered, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You look down at Jungwon, still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the turmoil churning inside you. His lips are slightly parted. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. There's a piece of cookie crumb on his chin that he missed when he wiped his mouth earlier.

You reach out and brush it away, your fingers lingering against his skin for just a moment longer than necessary.

"I've been here the whole time," you murmur. "I've always been here."

He doesn't stir. He doesn't hear you. Maybe that's for the best.

You lean down, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you press a kiss to his cheek. It's soft. Barely there. The kind of kiss that could be dismissed as friendly if anyone saw, but is secretly, desperately not. Your lips brush against the warmth of his skin, and you close your eyes, and for just one moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if he woke up and looked at you the way Heeseung looked at that girl. Like you were the center of his universe. Like you were the reason he existed.

But he doesn't wake up. And the moment passes.

You pull back, your heart aching, and you lie down beside him on the blanket. The sun is still warm, and the breeze is still gentle, and the lake is still lapping against the shore. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

You close your eyes, and you let sleep take you, and the last thing you feel before you drift off is the warmth of his body next to yours, close, but not close enough. Always, always, not close enough.

You wake up to the gentle hum of an engine and the soft pressure of something warm draped over your body.

It takes you a moment to orient yourself. You're not on the picnic blanket anymore. You're not by the lake. You're in a car, Jungwon's car, you recognize the air freshener and the one-eyed bear in the backseat, and someone has covered you with a jacket. Your jacket. The one you'd left in the backseat this morning.

Outside the window, your house is silhouetted against the dusky evening sky. The porch light is on. Your mom's car is in the driveway. Everything is exactly as you left it this morning, and yet nothing feels the same.

You push yourself upright, blinking sleep from your eyes, and that's when you notice Jungwon. He's not in the driver's seat. He's outside the car, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed, staring up at the sky. The first stars are starting to appear, and his profile is illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp. He looks pensive. Distant. Like he's been standing there for a while, lost in thoughts he doesn't want to share.

You open the car door, and the sound makes him turn. His expression shifts immediately, the pensiveness replaced by that familiar, warm smile. But there's something tired about it tonight. Something that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he says. "You were out cold. I didn't want to wake you."

"You carried me to the car?"

"You were dead weight. It wasn't that hard."

"I'm average height."

"You're fun-sized."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. You're too busy processing the fact that he carried you from the lake to the car. That he wrapped you in your jacket and drove you home and then waited outside, in the cooling evening air, just so you could sleep a little longer.

"Thank you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intended. "For today. For... all of it."

"It was nothing." He shrugs, but his smile is genuine. "I had fun. It was like old times."

Old times. Right. Because that's what this was to him. Just another memory in the long, unbroken chain of your friendship. Nothing more.

He reaches out and ruffles your hair, the same gesture he's been doing since you were kids, the same casual, affectionate touch that used to feel so natural and now feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Get some rest," he says, already turning toward the driver's side. "I'll see you tomor-"

"Wait."

The word escapes before you can stop it. He pauses, his hand on the car door, his head tilted in confusion.

"What's up?"

Your heart is pounding. Your palms are sweating. Every rational part of your brain is screaming at you to let him go, to swallow your feelings, to keep pretending that everything is fine. But you're tired of pretending. You're tired of hiding. You're tired of watching him walk away and wondering what would happen if you just said the words you've been holding back for weeks.

"I need to tell you something," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything. Can you do that?"

Jungwon's expression flickers, confusion, concern, something else you can't quite name. But he nods. "Okay. I'm listening."

You take a deep breath. The evening air is cool against your flushed cheeks. The streetlamp buzzes softly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The world keeps turning, oblivious to the fact that you're about to upend everything.

Earrings - Malcolm Todd now playing

"I like you," you say.

The words hang in the air between you.

"I don't mean like a friend. I don't mean like a brother. I mean... I like you. I have feelings for you. And I've been trying to ignore them, and I've been trying to move on, and I've been telling myself that you don't see me that way and I should just accept it, but I can't. Not anymore. Not after everything that's happened."

Jungwon is completely still. His hand has dropped from the car door. His face is unreadable.

"I know you probably don't feel the same way," you continue, the words tumbling out faster now, a dam that's finally broken. "And that's fine. That's... I mean, it's not fine, but I'll deal with it. I just couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't keep acting like everything was normal when it's not. Not for me."

The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity. When Jungwon finally speaks, his voice is careful. Measured. Like he's choosing every word with deliberate precision.

"Y/N... I think you're confused."

"I'm not confused."

"You've been through a lot lately. The stress of college, being back home, all the changes, it's natural to latch onto familiar feelings and mistake them for something else. But what you're feeling isn't-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "Don't tell me what I'm feeling. I know what I feel. I've known for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe I've known for years and I just didn't have the words for it until now."

"Y/N-"

"I like you, Jungwon. I want to be with you. Not as your childhood friend. Not as your sister figure. As a woman who wants to be with a man. That's what this is."

He flinches. Actually flinches, like the words have physically struck him. "You don't mean that."

"I do mean it. I've never meant anything more in my life."

"You can't-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration that you've seen a thousand times. "You can't just say that. You can't just drop that on me and expect-"

"Expect what? For you to feel the same way? I already told you, I know you probably don't. But I had to say it. I had to be honest with you, because that's what we've always been. Honest. And I've been lying to you for weeks, and I couldn't do it anymore."

Jungwon is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost pained. "I can't return your feelings."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You knew they were coming. You prepared for them. But knowing and hearing are two different things, and the sound of them, the finality of them knocks the breath from your lungs.

"I don't see you that way," he continues. "I've never seen you that way. You're my best friend. You're the most important person in my life. But I can't...I don't-"

"You don't see me as a woman."

"I see you as Y/N. My Y/N. The person who's been by my side since I was six years old. And I can't risk that. I can't risk us."

"Risk us?" You hear your voice rising, the hurt transforming into something hotter. Something angrier. "What about the mixed signals? What about the way you held me in the lake? What about the convenience store, when you told that guy not to touch my hair because it was yours? What was that, Jungwon? Was that just friendship too?"

His jaw tightens. "That was different."

"Different how?"

"That was... I don't know. Instinct. I wasn't thinking."

"You weren't thinking." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Right. Of course. You never think. You just do things and say things and then pretend they don't mean anything. Just like the closet in high school. Just like my bedroom last week. Just like everything."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You step closer to him, your eyes blazing. "Let me ask you something. Honestly. Do you still have feelings for her? That girl? The one from the video call?"

Jungwon blinks, clearly thrown by the shift in topic. "What? No. I told you, I'm over that. She's with Heeseung. They're happy. I'm happy for them."

"Then what is it? If you're over her, and you're out there hooking up with other people, then what's so different about me? Why can't you see me the way you see them? Am I not attractive enough? Am I not-"

"Stop." His voice is sharp, sharper than you've ever heard it. "Don't do that. Don't compare yourself to anyone else. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about-"

"About what?"

"About the fact that you're the only thing in my life that's ever been mine!" The words burst out of him like a dam breaking, and suddenly he's not the calm, measured Jungwon anymore. His eyes are bright, his hands shaking slightly at his sides. "Do you understand that? You're it. You're the one thing I've always had. When my parents were fighting, when school was hell, when I was sitting in my dorm room at college feeling like I didn't belong anywhere, I always had you. You were always there. And I can't lose that. I can't."

"So you'd rather keep me as a friend than risk having me as something more?"

"Yes." The word is quiet but firm. "Yes. Because if we tried and it didn't work...if we broke up, if we hurt each other...I wouldn't just lose a girlfriend. I'd lose everything. I'd lose my best friend. I'd lose the person who knows me better than anyone. I'd lose fifteen years of history and memories and-" His voice cracks. "I can't do that. I won't."

"You're a coward," you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you expected. Softer. Almost sad.

Jungwon flinches. "Y/N-"

"No. You are. You're a coward. You've always been a coward. You liked that girl for months and never said anything, and someone else got to her first. And now you're doing the same thing again. You're so scared of losing what we have that you won't even consider the possibility of something more." You swallow hard, the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "You said you changed. You said after that whole situation, you decided to stop waiting and start living. But you haven't changed at all. You're still the same guy who waits too long and lets things slip away because he's too scared to take a risk."

"Please," he says, and his voice is raw, desperate. "Please don't do this. We can still be friends. We can go back to how things were. Nothing has to change."

"I don't want to be friends!" The words tear out of you, loud and broken. "That's the whole point! I don't want to be your friend anymore! I want to be more! I want you to look at me the way you looked at her! I want you to touch me like you mean it and not pretend it was nothing afterward! I want to be the person you think about when you can't sleep at night! But I'm not! I'm never going to be! Because you won't let me!"

Tears are streaming down your face now, hot and unstoppable. You don't bother wiping them away.

"I have been here," you say, your voice cracking. "I have been here for fifteen years. I was here when you failed your first math test. I was here when you got your heart broken for the first time. I was here when you needed someone to talk to at 3 AM. And I've been here this whole summer, watching you, wanting you, and you didn't even notice. You never notice."

Jungwon's face crumples. "I notice," he whispers. "I notice everything about you. That's the problem."

"Then what is it?" You step closer, your chest tight with frustration and hurt and the desperate need to understand. "You've been giving me mixed signals since I got back. The way you look at me. The way you touch me. The convenience store. The lake. Carrying me around in the water with your hands all over me. What am I supposed to think?"

"I wasn't...I didn't mean to..."

"Didn't mean to what? Lead me on? Make me think there was something there when there wasn't?"

Jungwon's face crumples, and for the first time in this conversation, he looks genuinely stricken. "I wasn't trying to lead you on. I was just... being myself. That's how I've always been with you."

"Maybe that's the problem." Your voice cracks, and you hate it. You hate that he's seeing you like this. "Maybe you've always been like this with me, and I've just been too blind to notice that it doesn't mean anything to you. But it means something to me. It means everything to me."

"Y/N..."

"You know what I hate the most?" You're crying, tears spilling down your cheeks, hot and uninvited. "I hate her. That girl from the video call. I hate her so much it makes me sick."

"That's not fair. She didn't do anything-"

"I know she didn't do anything! That's what makes it worse!" The words are pouring out of you now, unstoppable. "She didn't do anything except exist, and she still managed to change you. She's the reason you're like this now. She's the reason you decided to stop waiting and start living. She's the reason you bought condoms and hooked up with people and became this whole new version of yourself. And I...I've been here the whole time. I've been here for fifteen years, and I've never been able to make you look at me the way you looked at her."

"Y/N, please-"

"You've known her for what, a few months? And she got to have your heart. She got to be the one who changed you. And I've been here since we were kids, and I've never...I've never been anything more than your best friend.. The person you carry around and ruffle the hair of and tell all your secrets to, but never, ever look at the way I want you to."

The tears are falling faster now, and you can barely see his face through the blur. You wipe at your eyes furiously, angry at yourself for crying, angry at him for making you cry, angry at the whole stupid universe for putting you in this situation.

"I've always been here," you whisper. "I've always been yours. And you've never once seen me."

Jungwon's composure cracks. His eyes are wet, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides like he's trying very hard to hold himself together and failing. When he speaks, his voice is raw in a way you've never heard before.

"You asked what she had that you don't? Nothing. She had nothing that you don't. But she was safe. She was someone I could have a crush on from a distance and then let go when it didn't work out. But you...you're not safe. You're not distant. You're under my skin and in my bones and wrapped around every part of who I am. And if I let myself feel what I'm afraid I might feel for you, and it goes wrong..."

He stops, his voice breaking. A tear slips down his cheek, and he doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"I can't lose you," he says quietly. "I would rather have you as a friend for the rest of my life than risk losing you entirely."

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The street is quiet. The stars are starting to come out. And then you shake your head.

"We can figure this out. We can-"

"No. You don't get to have it both ways. You don't get to reject me and then ask me to stay exactly the same. That's not fair."

"Please." His voice cracks, and he reaches for your hand. "Please don't do this. You're too important to me. Our friendship is too important."

"Goodnight, Jungwon," you say.

"Y/N, wait-"

But you're already walking away. Already climbing the steps to your front porch. Already reaching for the door handle with hands that won't stop shaking.

You don't look back. You can't. If you look back, you'll break completely.

The front door closes behind you with a soft click, and you lean against it, pressing your palms to your face, and you let the tears come. All the tears you've been holding back for weeks. All the feelings you've been pretending not to have. They pour out of you in great, heaving sobs that shake your entire body.

You understand. God help you, you understand. He's scared. He's been scared his whole life, scared of losing people, scared of taking risks, scared of wanting something too much and having it slip through his fingers. He looks at you and sees everything he's afraid to lose, and instead of reaching for more, he's clinging to what he already has.

But understanding doesn't make it hurt less. Understanding doesn't fill the hollow ache in your chest or stop the tears from falling or make you forget the way his face looked when you walked away.

You don't know how long you sit there. The house stays quiet. The stars wheel overhead. And somewhere out there, on the street in front of your house, Jungwon is still standing by his car, staring at the door you just closed, hoping you'll come back out.

But you don't. And eventually, he leaves.

[svvtvenom]

gasped at the ending and then remembered this was only part 1

[velvetdolor]

adonis. ⸻ L.HS

{S} You’re a prolific photographer, renowned for your unconventional devotion to your craft. Enter Lee Heeseung—top model, golden boy, and muse extraordinaire. When you discover a leaked tabloid photo of him in bondage, you arrange a meeting and make your offer: become your muse, and in return, you’ll pave the way for his redemption after a career-shattering scandal. The unexpected follows—an intense entanglement and obsession to photograph your muse who serves every whim of yours, offering his unrelenting submission. Yet beneath Heeseung’s charismatic persona and dangerously alluring beauty lurks an unsettling darkness: a possessiveness with a taste for murder and destruction.

GENRE: psychological-horror, obsession, model au, yandere, dark smut, oneshot.

model! heeseung x photographer! reader,

WARNINGS: death, murder, violence, dark smut, power imbalance, blood, self-harm. switch! heeseung, switch!reader, mutual masterbation, manipulation, oral ( f receiving), some mentions of bondage, elements of dubcon, mentions of animal death. read at your own risk. wc: around 14k (currently unedited)

taglist: @ninistranaut @jkayy-prodian @yenienha @faerouzia @yukisroom97 @isagistar @seunglover @mheretoreadff @petulapetula @masochistcult @bunyaya @goldendwann @etherealcherrie @str4gguk @sosaphiee @ikeuwoniee @v1shwa-xo @engeneheree @raicecakes-and-buldak @01209r

You can’t look away. His back curves like an offering, shadow carving over muscle and bound arms. Silk cuts into flushed skin, a body wrapped and gagged, eyes glassy with something raw, something indecent.

The supermarket hums around you—wheels squeak, children whine—but none of it exists. Aisle seven has narrowed into a single frame: him.

Your fingers smear saliva on the glossy page as you turn it, still staring. The headline screams in cheap, tabloid font:

THE DOWNFALL OF LEE HEESEUNG? HIS AGENCY STAYS SILENT.

Silent. You almost laugh. The picture says everything.

Someone mutters for you to move. You don’t. Their cart wheels swerve, the sound grating like static—but all you hear is the click of a shutter that hasn’t been pressed yet.

Your hand trails down the laminated page, ripping it clean off of the magazine before placing it back onto the rack. Heads turn at the sound of your heels clicking against the linoleum floors, eyes cascading over the long leather trench you donned. Powerful. Moderately eccentric. The workers don't stop you from sipping the last of your iced coffee obnoxiously before you slide a bottle of wine forward onto the register.

You'd been pacing around the aisle for the last hour and a half, blankly staring at each bottle. None of them were perfect-nothing you really wanted but didn't want to leave empty handed.

But you know what you did want? Lee Heeseung— and his botched reputation arrived just on time.

You leave a wad of cash on the counter, three times worth the original amount while mumbling something along the lines of not wanting to count right now and telling the cashier to keep the rest of the cash for themselves.

The dial rings for half a beat before your manager picks up.

"Hello—“you interrupt Sunghoon.

"I want Lee Heeseung."

"Get in line." You imagine Sunghoon's perfectly plucked, raised eyebrow. Dry, to the point-busy. "No. I want Lee Heeseung. I refuse to photograph anyone or anything else until I get him." He hears the popping of a wine bottle from your end of the call.

Sunghoon pinches his nose bridge and sighs. "It's not good publicity. He's more than likely done for in the industry-what about Park Jongseong? Sim Jaeyun? You're supposed to be curating that collection—“

"I'm stuck. Haven't slept in three days since the photo was leaked. He's perfect and I want to photograph him. Sunghoon, pull some strings. Please?"

A quick swig, brown paper bag obscuring the bottle as you sat on a random park bench before lighting a slim cigarette. If Sunghoon were in front of you, the bags under your eyes would've sealed the deal.

"Fuckin' hell...'ll see what I can do. No promises." He's resigned in the wake of your stubbornness. You were his first big break as a manager, albeit the biggest pain in his ass thus far.

"I'll take you out to eat at that super pretentious restaurant you enjoy going to for whatever reason." You offer half heartedly, spacing out already, waiting for the call to end.

He snorts. "Fine." And the line goes dead.

You don't blink-hand curling around the ripped photo, tracing around his silhouette.

You want him, he’s perfect.

Heeseung digs his head into his pillow face first, hissing when Jungwon slides open his curtains with a loud clap-hollering. "Get up, asshole." Heeseung groans, shaking his head. "For the love of god—close the curtains."

"If you want to maintain your status as the Adonis of this industry, you'll get your perky ass up and take a shower. You reek of champagne and day-old strawberries." Heeseung blinks, squinting one eye as the other adjusts to the brightness of the room.

"And why would I need to do that, my dearest Jungwon?" All of his schedules should've been cleared off by now. He doesn't want to be sober or awake to see the messages about who else doesn't want to work with him now.

Jungwon rolls his eyes at the sweet sarcasm. "One of the most highly sought out and selective photographers of our generation's managers reached out. She wants to meet you."

Only now does Heeseung rise from bed, nonchalant and naked as he pulls the sheets off his body.

"Who?" Strange. Why would someone want to work with him at the height of his scandal?

"They work under the pseudonym, obscura. Their work is... interesting to say the least. Not much about them is known, but they're insanely gifted. Obsessive, l've heard—but every project they've done has done astronomically well." Jungwon twines his hands together, taking a seat on the plush velvet cream couch—resting his elbows on his knees as he stares into Heeseung's doe eyes. "You've got one shot. Get up. Get ready and don't fuck this up."

"Sure thing, Won." And all Jungwon sees is Heeseung's ass strutting to the bathroom—not a care in sight.

Heeseung's eyes drift across the room. Rolling over intricate photos all varying stylistically, all striking—profound. Some are even unsettling. Jungwon left him after saying he needed to meet with Obscura's manager, Sunghoon, to talk about the "boring stuff."

An array of nude photographs are arranged messily on the floor, piles of notes-unreadable because of all the strikes ripping through sentences of half formed thoughts immediately being rejected upon birth. He stops at a particular photograph of a woman—Venusian in form. Beautiful in the sort of way that can leave a life long imprint.

A pleasantly pitched voice interrupts him the moment he reaches down to pick up the photo curiously, interest peaking. "Glad to see you have an eye for these things too."

Slow clicks approach him as the woman from the photo breathes into life before him—only clothed this time, draped in a sleek black fabric. Long earrings compliment the length of your neck and he smells the allure of your perfume from where he stood. Before he catches the words, he breathes out an almost fascinated whisper of surprise. Beautiful.

You pause in front of him, eyes dragging from his polished shoes to the top of his head. Reaching a delicate hand out, you greet him. "Obscura on paper and to the public. But you have the option of calling me by my name." You pull your knees together and bend elegantly to pick up the photo. "—ah. I was wine drunk when I decided I wanted in on the project and took a half hearted self portrait. This is the only one I kept. The other fifty— I burned."

"Why did you burn them?" Heeseung tilts his head, silken hair lying over his eyes.

"Because they weren't perfect." You didn't miss a beat, eyes unwavering as you stare at him through your lashes, observing unabashedly.

You weren't trying to seduce him—not intentionally, however it may have looked. But your eyes draped over his form, imagining all the ways you wanted to contort it to your vision.

"Is imperfection so unsavory?" He asks. There was no judgement. Only professional intrigue with a dash of sexual attraction.

"Not always—but from the things I want? Yes." You admit.

"Why did you ask to meet me?" He takes a step closer. Not close enough to warrant a response or a step back, but enough for your head to tilt at the action.

You say it like it's simple. Obvious.

"Because I want you, Heeseung. And I want you to be mine."

His expression stays the same, doe eyes running over your eyes—something calculated under the surface of his saccharine features before it clicks back into place.

"And why would you want that?" For a moment, he thought you were another affluent woman inviting him into your bed—bold because you'd never been told no before in your life. But your gaze told him otherwise-that wanting to you was different from what wanting meant for others.

"You're striking and filthy. To be frank with you, I have no interest in your daytime persona: the one you've crafted into perfection with your company." Stepping forward, you smooth a small wrinkle forming near the collar of his suit. "I want to make you an offer—become my muse. My honest muse, the one I saw on that photo that you'd never intended on letting the outside world see, and I will make you a god."

Heeseung quickly learnt that he didn't have it in him to say no to you, godhood or not.

—

“Are you sure about this?” Heeseung catches the worry in Jungwon’s voice. Snorting, he tips his head, eyes sliding toward his manager at the wheel. “Funny. Thought you were the one who said—what was it?—‘don’t fuck this up.’”

“Yeah, but that was before I found out Obscura drives her muses past their limits—with no plan, no schedule, nothing.” Jungwon’s fists tighten around the wheel, eyes trained on the road.

Heeseung says nothing. He didn’t need to.

Jungwon doesn’t know the full weight of what this meant for him. Doesn’t know the candidness of conversation he found himself having with you.

Everything he wanted had landed in his lap—and he had no intention of letting it go. Not by a long shot.

The bathroom hums with the steady hiss of the shower, steam clinging to the checkered tiles that stretch in sharp black-and-white beneath his legs. Water runs lukewarm now, the heat bled out, but Heeseung doesn’t move to adjust it. He never does. Hotels blur together—unnamed, forgettable—rooms he slips into and out of as instructed, hiding from the weight of cameras and curious eyes. It’s a cycle as familiar as breathing, one he no longer bothers to resent.

Heeseung sits slumped on the marble floor of the stall, eyes glazed, expression unreadable. Blank. Bored. Empty. Droplets stream down the bridge of his nose, clinging until each slow blink lets them fall. His nails wander idly across his chest and down his ribs, scratching shallow lines at first, then deeper, until the skin blossoms in thin, stinging trails. Pink threads of blood dilute into the runoff, carried down the drain where it spirals and disappears—one more secret rinsed clean.

The shallow tears around his hipbone multiply, his scratching methodical now, as if testing how much of himself he can peel away. It feels liberating in its own quiet way—this freedom to ruin his own surface without correction, without polish. Once, he was alabaster. Porcelain. A body designed for admiration. Never permitted to scar under the limelight demanded from the nature of his existence. But he shattered that himself, the instant he left the door unlocked, the instant he let the lens catch him.

The scandal wasn’t an accident. It was the only time the world saw him as filth—and he liked it.

Good.

A flash of dark hair pulses through his memory, breaking through the bleakness like slips of sunlight peeling through clouds. You.

Heeseung drags his tongue across the ridges of his teeth, slow and deliberate, like he’s already tasting the ruin. You looked at him as if you wanted to dismantle him, to break him down just to see how he’d look rebuilt in your hands. And you wanted him. Not the Adonis. Not the golden boy. Just him.

No one ever did. Not where the lights could reach. They only wanted him in shadow—hidden behind locks, passwords, and neat little NDAs. But he was the one who’d started leaving the doors cracked open. The one who forgot to demand silence. The one who fed his lovers the chance to slip. He’d wanted the photo out there—wanted to watch his pristine image rot in public. There was nothing sweeter than the thought of being dragged into daylight, stripped and named for what he really was. In short, Heeseung wanted that photo to get leaked. Planned—fully intended, even. But you? You weren’t part of the original plan. And now, it’s even better.

To be fair, there was little thought that went into the process—no real plan. Just an expośe that cupped its hands full of public degradation on the walls for his enjoyment. Life had gotten too monotonous in cyclical praise. He was perfection—golden, god-like.

The slope of your waist—the supple texture of your skin that he could almost feel through the photographs’ sleek film. Your hair that cascaded along your form like water, the swell of your breasts, and the slightly visible puffiness of your cunt. His heart throbbed. And before he realizes it, Heeseung trails a porcelain hand down his abdomen, gripping a hand tightly over the pulsing girth lifting towards his navel. His head bangs lightly on the marbled tile as he sits back, eyes pointed towards heaven.

Heeseung knew he was disgusting. And maybe you were the one person who’d like him for it. You were two sides of a coin—he could feel it. He believed it.

Hips rocked against his hand—pushing, pulling at flesh like it was your wetness that enveloped him. Water fills his open mouth, pouring out and then in—choked groans sputtering out of him like liquid guilt. He twists his hand, raising it up to the tip of his cock, and jerks to what his memory could recollect of your nude shape—building up an unsettling tempo, as he descended slowly into a terrifyingly real illusion of you.

“P-please.” He begs and he doesn’t know to who or what he’a pleading to. To you. Maybe the universe. You’d probably photograph this moment—the arch of his back, the rapid thrusting into his hand—the sacred beauty of his distorted and invasive desire. It was primal, instinctual. There was no logical basis of his fascination towards you other than the level of obsession he knew you were capable of. But it wasn’t for him. It was for the world around you. He was just an extension of that.

And Heeseung already didn’t like that. Though he didn’t say it, he agreed to be yours with an unspoken expectation—he’d be the ultimate, singular object—the golden apple of your eye. He craved possession—Mutual possession, that is. Heeseung was a little more…under the table about it. And no one really needed to know that. No one wanted to, at least.

His hips roll, twitch, body keening over—the veins on his pelvis pronounced and throbbing—fucking into his hand like you were there to take it. Heeseung liked ruining pretty girls, but he could tell you weren’t the kind to lie on your back and take it.

You liked power. Control. Perfection.

And because Heeseung was intrigued by you, he’ll hand you a leash to see what you’d do with it.

Liquid heat pulses through him and he gasps—streaks of white painting his belly, gazing at the wall. Dazed. Feverish.

There was something dangerous about you

and Heeseung was never the type to turn away from a dark room—stepping into the shadows like it was destined to begin with.

—

“Hold still. There it is—“ Dainty hands squeeze the shutter, one eye squints while the other focuses on Heeseung’s form. You get it now—why he was deemed golden boy of the decade.

A subdued, yellow bellied light, painted by the afterglow of a flickering red bulb stood at the backdrop of your photo studio. You squint, tightening your fists, and focus on the lens—aiming towards Heeseung.

He was beautiful—fluid like water. Mysteriously alluring and full of silent charm. Heeseung didn’t say much but when he did, a crowd would crawl to hear the cadence of his voice—laugh when he wanted them to like it was a live audience.

Heeseung—almost languidly—rolls his head to look at you from where he rests on the arm of a maroon velvet couch. Eyes glossy, nearly unreadable were it not for his quirked lips. “Am I perfect yet?”

“No.” You instantly reply, smiling kindly. “But you’re beautiful. Beauty doesn’t demand perfection.”

“Ah—but didn’t you want perfection?” It’s a small inquiry, light in tone. The air between you is amiable. Smooth. Like old friends meeting again after years of living separate lives.

“I wanted honesty. I liked your filth, Heeseung. As nice as it is to see you smile so insincerely.” You laugh lightly.

“And what if it isn’t insincere—how would you know?” His smile only stretches, but his eyes—they firm. Prod like knives. Dark. Curious.

“Your eyes—they’re dead. I can’t feel any light from you. It’s practiced. Beautiful? Yes. But it doesn’t reach me.” You say it like it didn’t bother you. His fabricated character and the unsettling underbelly of who he truly was. Even you didn’t know the extent of it—just the epidermis of his filth, sensed by your intuition alone.

For a moment, Heeseung’s eyes widen. The initial lightness of his face fading into an almost boyish surprise. He finally blinks, turning his face away to stare at the ceiling, only humming in acknowledgement before a comfortable silence weighs the room.

You step towards him, placing a cold hand on his wrist to position it over his head. The tip of your index finger tilts his chin upward. “Eyes on the camera. Do me a favor—remember the last time you came. Every detail. Don’t say a word. I need that heat for this shot.” You knew the root of his scandal was his hunger, and you wanted to catch it—see if desire could fracture the shell of media-trained perfection.

Goosebumps form on his skin, though his calm facade didn’t betray him. The couch dipped beneath your weight as you rose onto the cushions, leaning over him, camera angled down the length of his body.

His eyes slowly drift over your shape—stationing themselves where your v neck sweater dipped and exposed the swell of your breasts. He smiles. Serpentine. Calculating—probing.

“I touched myself.” He starts with, casual. You hum lightly. Discussions of intimacy never shook you as an artist. It came up in conversations over cups of coffee—intensely indulgent details and photographic evidence of exhibitionistic escapades shared between friends and strangers when permitted.

“I thought of you.” His eyes peer into the camera as if the lens did nothing to obscure your eyes from him. Stilling, your finger pauses mid press—the sound of the incoming shutter growing dull. Your hands slowly pull your camera from your face as you stare at Heeseung.

He observes you, quietly sweet in a way that didn’t seem pressing—the kind of polite look you’d see from boys at church, a next door neighbor, or a mutual you’d run into at the grocery store.

It suddenly clicked. Heeseung played his part well—and it would take time to see him unravel. You were used to getting what you wanted nowadays, never expecting to have to work for it. And you certainly hadn’t planned on the golden boy carrying much depth beyond his deviant sex life. So you’ll let him play sweet even if you could sense his acrid nature.

You hum neutrally, feigning interest. “What did you imagine?”

Whatever got the heat out of him. You’d crack him open if need be.

His eyes scan your face, tracing the lines of your lips as they form words.

And he lies.

“I thought of you suffocating me.” You huff a breath. A half laugh—interrupted by your focus on the world you were trying to encapsulate through your lens, distracted. “—yeah? Did I kill you?”

Heeseung still doesn’t blink. “No—but I think I wanted you to.” He slipped the truth in slowly, darkening the energy of the room like ink in water.

“You like getting off to murder or something?” You quirk a brow, intrigued. You had no horse high enough to look down on him. Not when it came to the nature of desire.

“No, but I’d kill for the things I want.” He confesses.

“And how would that apply to me strangling you?” Without a beat. The air around you falls still—hot like magma. Like every time you spoke, ash found its way to clutter and stick to your mouth like cotton candy. It didn’t quite fit—tones that belonged in conversations about the weather found themselves weaved into Heeseung’s sudden confession of morbid desire. All the more, it was pointed at you.

“I’d also die for the things I want.”

Your finger flicks against the shutter. There. In that moment alone, you were able to get the shot you wanted. An unaffected smile breathes through your face before you ask with half a mind. “That’s all that did it for you? My hands around your neck?” The tension brewed. A sudden dawning and self reminder that you were the subject of his fantasy— began weighing on you.

“It wasn’t your hands that I imagined suffocating me.”

The air thickened impossibly, couch cushions creaking as you adjust your weight.

“Then what did—“

Before the question could fully leave your mouth, Heeseung clasps a hand behind the back of your left knee and pulls down. You tumble, a sharp gasp leaving your lips once you go off kilter. You’re only halfway down when he tugs again. Harder. Then slides the palms of his hands under your shirt until they rested above your womb.

Wide eyes blink up at you. Curious—almost innocent, though you knew better.

He shifts lower, settling into his fantasy—chin pressed to the soft curve of your inner thigh, head angled beneath you as you straddle his neck. His breath heats the fabric of your jeans, each exhale licking at the seam.

“You strangled me. Just like this.”

Click.

Your finger moves on instinct—recognizing the vision you’re chasing. His soft brown hair rustles, fanning on top of the maroon fabric of the couch like silk. A strand prods his left eye.

So much for salvaging his reputation. If every session unraveled like this, you wouldn’t erase his scandal—you’d only make it look tame compared to the collection you were about to curate.

And if Heeseung is only honest in bed, you wouldn’t oppose to sleeping with him. You’ve done worse in the haze of chasing photographic perfection: hanging off cliffs without proper gear just to catch the right angle back when you were still an intern. You were let go shortly after—but the shot you took drew enough recognition for Sunghoon to find you. (The company, meanwhile, wrote you off as too much of a liability.) You’ve snuck onto government property because you swore you’d glimpsed a rare bird, and vanished without a word to trek through a Mongolian winter after a dream you couldn’t shake.

Heeseung waited patiently. If anyone else peered inside of the small studio, they may have mistaken his gait as obedience—like Heeseung wasn’t the one who tied your thighs around his neck. But he was.

That’s the kick.

Your body shivers lightly when his thumb massages small circles onto your stomach.

“What else did I do to you?” Your eyes meet his, unwavering. Voice low—Confident. Controlled.

His only response is his hands trailing down your stomach, unbuttoning your jeans slowly, before pulling down the zipper with his teeth.

Click.

He doesn’t break your gaze as he grips on the sides of your jeans, tugging them down with a patient pace until they hit the barrier of his throat. He touched you with a certain feigned reverence—a lightness to his hands like a predator trying to fit into the mold of something small. Soft. Careful. Slow—cautionary.

The softness of his lips drag up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, warm breath brushing the fabric of your cotton underwear.

And then his head tilts up, finally whispering a reply:

“I can show you.”

Despite the calculation written on your face, your hands tremble slightly. Nonetheless, you point the viewfinder to his lips—obscuring his eyes, his gaze—centering it on the damp trace of saliva on his lips, its textures detailed under the clarity of film.

He flattens his tongue on the cloth, sliding upwards to catch the fabric of your underwear between his teeth—pulling to his left before kissing the soft puffiness of your cunt.

“There you are.” He whispers, deceivingly reverent. Sweet.

And then his eyes steel. Gazing at you from his lashes, calculated—observing. Your back arches, hips pushing towards his mouth when he slides the muscle between your folds slowly and sucks. His grip on your hips tighten before he pushes you to sit completely on his face, weight pressing against his mouth, jaw working.

He circles around your entrance and pushes in with a groan. Dipping, tasting. Pulling out, flicking lightly.

Heated kisses press against your flushed flesh—open mouthed and hungry. You see red and think that the color suits Heeseung. A little too well but true to character.

A filmy heat glazes over his expression, eyes rolling back at the taste of you on his tongue.

He can’t breathe.

He doesn’t want to.

And though you know you should probably get off—you don’t. Not before taking a photo of his eyes, hot and heavy as they fight to stay open and not roll back to watch your expression. Your thighs border the photo—slick apparent on his cheekbones from the rolling of your hips.

Click, click, click—

Heeseung gasps when you slide off of him before you could orgasm. His eyebrows furrow and arms reach to wrap around your waist in defiance.

He looks a mess. A sheen of white, almost translucent liquid drips lightly from the corner of his mouth, and smears itself around his jaw. “W-wait—“

Click.

Even his desperation is beautiful.

“My beautiful muse—behave. Stay still.” Your voice is soft, but edged with command. Heeseung doesn’t loosen his grip, yet his body remains frozen, his gaze locked exactly where it was the instant you spoke.

He won’t speak unless you tell him to.

Shutter sounds fill the room and he fights the urge to move and taste the remnants of you off his lips—letting you move his limbs to your liking, like a doll.

And this particular instance began the long, winding road you and Heeseung would walk in the years to come—a single moment that quietly laid the foundation for something far darker than either of you had originally intended.

—

Even after you published the first few photos you’d taken of Heeseung in an exhibition titled, Adonis in fragments, the spectacle of a body— there was no unwriting the workforce duo you’d become. From then on, Heeseung would take no offers, would refuse to be photographed by anyone else. Refused to allow anyone else take his place and title as your muse.

By photographing him, Heeseung was reborn—his scandal no longer weighed him. It amplified his image.

Just as you’d expected, the photographs you’d taken of Heeseung during that era overshadowed the initial leak. Made it look like light work. A fine work of enthralling exhibitionism, of Heeseung’s immorality taken in splices and vignettes.

You had made art of his anatomy, his submission, and his seemingly endless appetite for hedonism and excess. Heeseung wasn’t merely golden—he was a sex symbol, an infamous libertine whose body was both idolized and consumed: laminated on storefronts, archived in hidden digital albums, desired and acknowledged from every corner of the world.

And Heeseung was yours. Not in the traditional way. Somewhere between quiet boundaries—a sort of purgatory between the metaphorical state lines of lovers, yet not quite friends. Closer to being strangers despite the years that stitched the two of you together.

To you, he was a doll—programmed to drop to his knees at the slightest beckon. He’d abandon tasks midstream just to answer your call on the first ring, to appear at your side the instant a vague idea crossed your mind.

It was cold, cut—direct. Unfair, probably.

The gala was an opulent masquerade—high society draped in rare textiles, jewels that scattered light like kaleidoscopes when strands of light flickered against pearlescent surfaces. You sat at the edge of the room, eyes wandering around, mildly interested in the theatrics of the rich, famous, and pretentious.

Wine, champagne, and caviar whisks by on silver platters held by handsome waiters—plastic laughter reverberating off the hollow edges of the grandiose, Parisian venue.

Ignoring fire safety, you slip a hand into the brown leather purse at your side and draw out a bronzed cigarette case. Beside you, Heeseung sits motionless, waiting for the rare moments you choose to acknowledge him. A pale hand reaches forward, zippo lighter flicking open to slowly burn at the end of your cigarette. Music plays faintly in the background, a dull lull and orchestration.

Heeseung pulls his arm away, smoothly tucking away the metallic canister.

Inhaling, you finally break your casual silence—eyes still trained on the scenes playing before you.

“My adonis—have you been well?”

His tone is saccharine, but edged with something mildly frustrated. Dampened, despite his politeness. “No. I haven’t heard a single word from you in the last month. Surprised to hear that I’m still your adonis.”

“Whether or not you’re an Adonis—you’ll always be mine.” You smile at his boyishness.

His suit rustled—charmingly wrinkled, carelessly thrown on. Heeseung unfastened the cuffs of his white shirt and rolled the fabric slowly up his forearms. You feel his eyes on you, probing and dark.

You jolt when a cold hand slips up slowly—as if memorizing the texture of your skin—from your elbow to lace around your fingers, tugging them toward his mouth. His lips close deliberately over the spot where your lipstick stains the soft filter. His lashes flicker in the ember’s glow, shadows dancing as smoke curls between you, thickening the air and marking you both with the same scent.

Heeseung liked smelling like you by the end of the night—the familiar and intoxicating air of your perfume and expensive tobacco.

“I didn’t mean to abandon my puppy.” You smile at him, watching him close his eyes once your palm cusps his cheek—digesting the feeling of your occasional softness.

“…What’s kept you occupied?” He had a gut feeling. And it sickened him.

You knew he wouldn’t take it well, but you didn’t hesitate to rip the bandage off. “I met a boy in Busan—the son of a fisherman’s family. He caught my eye.”

You take another drag, turning away with furrowed brows—vacant. The air around you seemed to freeze, sharp and crackling like ice.

Heeseung’s eyes visibly darken. “And do you treat him the same?”

You sigh, exasperated. “What do you mean by that, Heeseung?”

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw ticking with all the right words lodging themselves in his throat—stiff. Anxious.

You rarely called him by his name. That means he’s annoying you. And Heeseung hated annoying you.

Because that meant he was even more liable to lose you. But he couldn’t shake off the anxiety, the disturbance—the darkness that’s long been rooted and festering inside of him like an infection.

His palms dampen with sweat, dragging them against the fabric of his pants before gripping his knees. The silence is thick—barbed with something too fleshed out for Heeseung. He couldn’t do this out in public. The words. The violence he carried towards you. The hefty weight he’s always carried—that he kept under deadbolts, lock and key.

“Does he do everything you want?” The question slips out low, bitter.

“Does he sleep beside you? Has he tasted you? Has he been inside you—the way I have, for as long as I’ve known you?” His voice breaks uncharacteristically, a sudden fragility that stuns even you. Gone was the poster boy and beside you, sat a man horribly in love.

You snuff out the cigarette, digging the edge until it bent on the exterior of your bronzed case. “He’s a boy.” You hiss, body turning towards him—offended, continuing.

“I don’t do this—“you gesture between you two. “This isn’t the usual process of my work, Hee. And even I have enough morality to not even dream of looking at a fifteen-year-old boy like that—are you insane?” The words stretch out, pushing through gritted teeth.

“Whatever his age—is he more beautiful than I am?” His eyes are wide and anxious, steadily breaking open at the seams. You rise to tug him off his seat—leading the way to an empty balcony that hung above the garden. The night air bites you as you try to find a middle ground—softness enough to placate him, needle-sharp defense for your own sake—while shadows of branches bleed across his form, the looming willow tree obscuring his expression.

“Heeseung, you’re the crowned Adonis—eyes follow you wherever you go. You can have anything you want at the palm of your hand if you so much asked for it—“

“Damn the rest of the world. Do you think I’m the most beautiful? I want you — I want you so much it aches.” It almost sounds like a plea: for help, for relief, for answers — for you.

“It keeps me awake at night. I haven’t slept, I barely eat, and even in dreams you haunt me. But I can’t have you—not the way you have me. I don’t have a hold on you.”

His eyes hollow with anguish, beauty breaking open as desires he buried for ages finally surge to the surface.

It was cyclical—his tendency to unravel the moment your gaze shifted to anyone else. But this was the most outwardly turbulent he had ever become. His desperation always hit at a small soft spot on you no one else knew about. And it resulted in a lack of taking on any other projects with the exemption of his.

Heeseung only ever cried during sex—sometimes as reprieve, other times overstimulation. But never out in the real world. Never beyond that closed door he adored locking you both inside.

To this day, you still don’t know what you feel for him.

It was a delicate dance between almost being in love—but you didn’t know if it was with him or the power you had over him.

But then moments like this were a sharp reminder of how much power he had over your life. It’s one of the many things Heeseung’s good at—fooling someone into thinking they had all of the power, only for them to realize this was the exact position he planned to be.

“Heeseung—“ you step towards him, holding his face in your hands. “…What can I do? We can’t keep doing this. You are my greatest muse—but I can’t ignore the outside world either. So what can I do for you?”

He doesn’t blink, gaze fading into something unreadable as he stares down at you—less soft, less vulnerable. He pulls you closer by the slim of your waist, fingers splaying where the curve of your spine dipped.

“Let me have you.”

“What does that mean?” He tilts down to look at you, swallowing and contemplating what words should leave him. But you couldn’t read him. And whenever that happened…you were scared of him. Of something that lingered under the surface you tried to shove away from you so that it was far away enough to not acknowledge.

It reminded you of the first time you’d fallen for Heeseung’s seduction—how he sank slowly to his knees, sharp gaze fixed on you, unblinking, as if he refused to miss even the slightest flicker of emotion across your face.

Kneeling, he buries his face against your stomach, inhaling deeply as his arms tighten around you.

“You have me. Entirely. Whenever you call, I’ll be there. I’ll bend into whatever shape you want me to take—strip myself nude and make a spectacle of myself for you and your art.” He breathes out a promise. Silken and velvet voice, maroon and reddened at its edges. “I’m a fool for you. Powerless. Pathetic. But what are you willing to do for me? Or am I nothing to you? Even when I hold you close enough to be an extension of your heartbeat, I feel lonely.”

It’s a somber confession. One that left his lips. One that he wouldn’t change—a certain resignation that even if it continued down that path, he wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t.

At last, he lifts his head from your stomach to look up at you. You meet his gaze with calm composure, weighing his words, before gently tugging him to his feet.

He doesn’t question you—doesn’t ask where you’re taking him to, and only watches. Still, as always, resting his eyes on you like he made a promise to God to never look away.

The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the air stale with old perfume and cigarettes. You’ve barely stepped inside before his body betrays him, tightening in anticipation—like he’d been waiting for you in the dark all along.

Like muscle memory, he moves to sink onto his knees again before you stop him with a hand on his waist. He stills, tracking your movements as you kneel in front of him—eying him like you’d allow him to do anything he wanted to you. And he feels like his heart’s gonna fall out from his throat. In all the years he’s known you—not once have you given up that cool and composed control.

You’re different—subdued, quiet, almost willing. Shy, as if offering him a rare glimpse of sweetness he was never meant to see. And when you finally speak—light, submissive, gentle—he draws in a sharp breath.

“Do what you want.”

The crackle tears through the air, the shift so brutal it snaps you back with whiplash. He looms over you, body caging yours as his hand clamps hard around your throat, jerking you upward with no mercy. The force slams you into a kiss—violent, starved, and depraved. A tumultuous hunger pouring out from where his hands touch you.

You gasp, his tongue sliding in like venom—the kind that numbs prey before it’s devoured. A cruel mercy, born of instinct’s brutality.

“And what if I want something horrible?” His chest heaves, searching for breath.

You don’t have an answer to that.

And so he unravels.

—

You shouldn’t be surprised. Not when Heeseung’s had a metaphoric collar around his neck for years under you. Your chest heaves, nails clawing at Heeseung’s damp back—flexing against the curved muscle of his shoulder blades, too prideful to tell him to stop.

Your body jolts under the force of his hips pounding into you, arching into his mouth—sweat ridden body reddened and sticky from post orgasm sensitivity.

“H-Heeseung, slow down.” You grit out finally, but he doesn’t register it. The sheets are soaked and clinging onto your skin, breathing out sharply when he presses your thighs against your chest.

“So good. You feel so good.” He whispers this again and again, humming it into your hair like a mantra. Licking over your pulse line—your body a live wire.

Your body’s memorized him: the rhythmic stretching, the pushing and pulling of your bodies against each other. The taste of his release still lays heavy on your tongue—sweet and tart, slowly being masked by the salty dampness you lick from his body.

Another orgasm.

You’ve lost count.

But Heeseung’s gone blind, lost himself to a space where he only registers the feeling of your heat and breath. And he can’t stop. Even if you beg him to.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, legs shaking and pushing against his chest

He trails his lips over your collarbone before sinking his teeth into your shoulder, deep enough to leave purple indentations

“You’re mine.” He whines into your ear, rolling his hips and stuffing you to the hilt. The sensation of him throbbing inside of you is vivid—vulgar. Every inch of him, each vein, and curve dizzied you.

The meat of your thighs ricochet once he picks up the pace again, wetness tacking your skin together, and your moans muted as his fingers crawl into your mouth. You lather your tongue against the cold skin, sucking lightly—dazed.

His mouth wraps around your breast, pulling the skin in and tugging with his teeth. A small yelp leaves you and he grins at the sound. He pushes to fold your body even further,

The headboard slams rhythmically against the wall, bed going slightly off kilter once Heeseung digs your face into the mattress with a hand around your throat.

You were the only one who’s seen him. Really seen him.

And you’re his.

“Say it. Say that you’re mine.”

Your eyes glaze over, face red as you claw at his forearms, deliciously overwhelmed—and push the words from your gaping mouth.

“I’m yours. I’m yours, Hee.”

You look helpless. Small. Powerless

He refuses to close his eyes when he cums inside of you, plugging himself in with his temple against yours, and commits it to memory. He folds himself over you, lowering his frame until his head rests in the nook of your neck with heaving breaths.

He repeats back to you. “I’m yours, I’m yours.”

—

Heeseung’s gone AWOL. No text, no call—no notice.

It’s been five days and on any other occasion, you wouldnt have thought hard about it.

You stare blankly at the headlines stretching across your television screen and tighten the grip on your phone. The empty ring thrums in your ears, your heartbeat loud enough to drown it out. The lights flicker, catching your reflection—a gaunt face, pale and withered, fear pressed down but leaking through all the same.

“Fifteen-year-old boy found dead in the water. Cause of death remains undetermined, though the body shows clear signs of strangulation—”

Sunghoon’s messages lays stale—cold and open on your Lock Screen.

‘Don’t read the news and keep the TV off. Call me when you wake up.’

You knew the moment his message appeared—you weren’t going to listen. Still, Sunghoon tried. Your hand trembles, hovering over the call button beneath the contact: Adonis.

You don’t press it.

You’re not ready to know.

—

Heeseung doesn’t announce his arrival, only slips his slim fingers under the small bamboo plant next to your front door before grabbing your extra house key.

He kicks off his shoes with a haphazard tug, exhaling as he works the laces free. The lights are off, and a half-finished cup of coffee sits abandoned on the table—room washed in the soft melancholy of blue hour. It’s deceivingly quiet, even though he feels the tension radiating from your bedroom.

You stay silent as he strips off his clothes, slips beneath your blankets, and presses his cold body against your warmth—adoration and parasitic yearning seeping into your space like smoke.

A cold kiss softens over the skin where he bit your shoulder the other night. The clock on your nightstand ticks softly as he hums a nameless song low into your ear, rubbing slow circles on your hip bone.

He knows you’re not sleeping. But Heeseung waits for you to speak, just as he’s always done.

“Did you do it?” The words fall empty, blank shells clattering on the uncharted emotional space between you.

His humming stops, eyes fixated onto the back of your head. “Do you really want to know the answer?”His voice is sweet, calm, and casual. Light in the ways that felt like he knew you didn’t want to actually acknowledge his crimes. The bedsheets twist around your legs like snakes—like a pit you couldn’t crawl your way out of and you can’t will yourself to move.

You couldn’t runaway from the truth anymore.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling a shuddered breath. “Why?”

“Hard to say, really. Equally as hard to stop myself from doing it—so here we are.” He sounds tired—flippant. Alarmingly dry like there was nothing else to say about it—like there wasn’t a body of fifteen year old boy littered between you two, lying still as graves.

“He was fifteen.” You say it out loud—the tragedy of fleeting beauty fighting to overtake your need to put on a strong front.

“And you’re mine.” Is all he says.

You can’t bring yourself to tug his arms off

and the only reprieve comes in the momentary hollowness of sleep.

—

That night, you dream of a beautiful boy drifting on dark blue water, his finger pointed at you, lips moving in silence. In the distance, a boat horn echoes as the sweep of a lighthouse beam cuts across his silhouette.

You jolt awake the moment you register the word that fell from his lips like a mantra: Murderer.

—

Heeseung makes love to you again and again: an amalgamation of dizzying heat, bodily fluids, and wordless escapades. You can’t speak to him, but your hands still clutch him with a vice grip. Your camera sits alone on the dining room table—rotting under the humid heat permeating the stale apartment air.

The outside world blurs out from your viewfinder, not having left your apartment in days. He clings to you in the shower, washes himself off and out of you, just to douse you with him all over again.

On the days you want to bathe alone, he sits outside of the door. Waiting patiently—silently.

Like clockwork, you eventually open the door without fail, scooting towards the faucet so he can curl around you. Heeseung doesn’t like leaving you alone—doesn’t like the sensation of your skin not sticking to his like Velcro.

He leaves more marks now—until your body is no longer your own, every bruise a claim, every ache a reminder that you belong to him.

The sound of water softly pouring from the edges of your bathtub at your combined weight echoes. The silence is numbing and achingly intimate as Heeseung cups water into the palm of his hands and strokes away soap suds from your right arm.

You finally break the silence—your first words to him since his confession, not the unwilling sounds he dragged out of you when his hands slipped inside.

“Heeseung.”

He loves your voice but doesn’t want to hear it. So he does what he’s been doing the last few days—distracting you with hands that know your body well enough to navigate it blind.

You shiver once his arms slips around your waist from behind before reaching upward to cup your breast into his wide palms.

“We can’t keep doing this.” You plead tiredly. Gone are the hours you’ve tried to bury his crime under the bliss of his body hovering over yours.

He hums. “Keep doing what?” His chin slots into the space above your collarbone and hugs you a little tighter. “—this?”

You push at his wrists, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. “Stop it.”

He flinches a bit at your frigid tone and leans to curl into your body, as if trying to soften the incoming blows of your anger. “Please don’t be mad.”

“Don’t give me that. You killed someone.” You exasperate, mouth hanging open—aghast.

“Because you looked elsewhere.” He groans before grabbing your hips and shifting you around to face him. He cups your face, leaning to press his nose against yours, breath fanning against the small hairs on your cheek. “Don’t you get it?”

You don’t.

Possession? Yes. Obsession, even. But this? This is…horrible. Is this what you’d unknowingly asked for when you asked for Heeseung’s truth the day you met him?

“That doesn’t excuse anything.” You hear the weakness in your voice and hate yourself for it. Hate yourself for the soft spot you let him dig into you without even knowing it.

“I’m not trying to excuse anything. It’s just the way it is.” He hums softly, neck dipping so his doe eyes can search yours. “I’ll be good. But will you help me be good?” Tilting his head with a smile, he presses against your left cheek.

“How?” Your gaze drifts up to meet his, and Heeseung bites back a groan—goosebumps rising as he fights the shiver threatening to course through him.

You looked so sweet. So confused.

“By rewarding me.” Is all he replies before laying a chaste kiss on your lips. Your back straightens when his hand rolls down and cups around your warmth.

“Let me know when I’m being good. Show me when I’m being good.” He massages over your cunt, progressively applying pressure the more your body begins to respond. His other hand grabs yours before guiding your fingers to station themselves right by your entrance. “Like this.”

Your face flushes, a fever blooming in your body. The faint remnants of Heeseung’s cologne warms the room, in combination with the lukewarm bathwater, was the achingly perfect recipe for deviating the conversation.

—and your body always listens to Heeseung.

He almost laughs when you slip your fingers inside yourself, stroking around the reddened flesh—but the sound stutters in his throat when your other hand closes over his, guiding it to the thickest part of his cock.

“—ah!” He flinches and unconsciously fucks into your hand, hips stuttering at the tightness of your grip.

“Such a pretty body shouldn’t be left untouched, Adonis. Not in here.” You look at him through half-lidded eyes, frustration simmering beneath your gaze—another attempt to dodge the conversation.

The water ripples around your rhythmic movements, Heeseung’s fingers replacing yours once your hand moves to focus on stroking him. He throbs in your hand: sensitive and hungry, as he watches your right hand roll over his cock.

Heeseung let out a low groan, his hips bucking slightly as you began to move your hand up and down, mimicking the rhythm of his own strokes on you. The water sloshed gently around you, it’s swaying spilling over the edges of the tub.

The sound of your breathing filled the room, mingling with the soft, wet sounds of your hands moving against each other.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” He leans closer to drag his lips down your neckline, tugging the skin lightly with his teeth—veins pushing against his forearm at the force he’s using against you. “You own me.”

You unconsciously tighten around him at his words, arching your back and pushing your hips towards his hands—tugging his cock with more urgency.

“I’d kill for you. I have—and I’d do it again. Whatever it takes to keep what’s mine.”

It’s filthy. The whispering—the psychology of it all. But Heeseung was a person fueled by want. Always by want.

So were you.

And thus, the orgasm that followed after a cacophony of groans and whimpers, accompanied by quaking bodies and weak muscles—shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. Not when Heeseung’s palm flattened and pressed against your clit deliberately. Not when his fingers stretched you a devious amount by the third finger, and surely not when he looked that good when orgasming onto his own stomach.

Maybe disconnecting from the world made you feel…differently.

Less urgent about the monstrosity of it all.

You’ll get him next time.

Hopefully.

—

Heeseung hums and strips himself under the warm yellow-bellied lights. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He haphazardly plops his white cropped Heineken T-shirt next to a stray tripod, before settling onto the rough motel carpet with nothing else on but his blue jeans.

The vacancy sign outside buzzes and echoes through the otherwise empty parking lot. Thick wooded areas, damp from midnight fog dredges the hour in true New Americana fashion.

It was an impulse decision: buying a one way ticket overseas and dragging Heeseung along. You weren’t running away—you were buying time.

Time to think.

Time to navigate Heeseung’s crime and your wretched soft spot.

You wouldn’t call yourself a morally upright person. Not definitely. There were definitely a couple (or a lot) of screws loose and rattling in your brain. The only thing you’d ever fixated on and found sanctuary in was photography.

And even now, dead in the middle of something far larger and atrocious than your creative obsessions—all you want is to press the shutter.

Heeseung lights a Newport 100, having already taken note of the faulty smoke sensor. He looks tired, even as a fox-like grin stretches the skin of his features. Lean muscles and a veiny abdomen shine under the throbbing heat of your photo light set up, stomach caving in as he takes a hefty drag.

You drop the bomb casually.

“When we get back, I…have to photograph other people. I pushed it off for too long and I’m on contract. For the love of God, please don’t kill anyone.”

Heeseung pauses mid-inhale, eyes going dark. “Oh?”

You liked that expression.

Click.

His eyes flick over to you quietly, observing. “Who is it?”

“Sim Jaeyun,” you begin. “He was one of the first nude models I worked with as a student. I had an ongoing project with him and Park Jongseong—until I met you. Then… well, the rest is history.”

You mumble the words, fumbling with the aperture as the squint in your eye deepens once it aligns with the viewfinder. While you focus the lens on the honeyed embers of his cigarette, Heeseung’s eyes still fall on you. He mumbles the name, rolling it around his tongue indecisively. A faint smile traces his lips

“I make no promises.”

You couldn’t help it.

Click.

—

Sim Jaeyun was found gutted in his penthouse bathtub two weeks after your return. Young. Beautiful. Still as time—a god gone too soon.

A lone Polaroid floated on the now frigid water, taken from an opening in his bathroom door—unaware of another presence in his home.

Heeseung didn’t bother to wiping his body upon letting himself into your apartment, pulling off his zip-up to reveal bloodied handprints on his forearms.

You pause mid chew, the tip of your pen creaking under the weight of your incisors.

“You fucking didn’t.” You deadpan, glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose, eyebrows furrowing in exhaustion.

But then your eyes catch on his blood-matted hair and the hollowness of his eyes—and you move towards your camera without thinking.

Click.

—

You think you taste Jaeyun’s blood in your mouth when Heeseung kisses you. The metallic aftertaste never seems to wash away.

—

Jongseong goes missing, but you already know he’s gone for good.

It won’t be long before they trace it all back to you—to Heeseung.

He’s been more quiet lately. Contemplative—attached. The apartment’s become a dark abyss, an expansive void the two of you would drift to and from one another.

You don’t know how to explain it: how to explain that Heeseung’s obsession only softened you—only made your own obsessions feel seen by someone who finally understood what it meant to do anything for the things you wanted.

So you wait, cradling Heeseung’s head to your chest and only then does his body finally relax. Your camera sits alert on your nightstand.

You’ve never told him you loved him.

You almost do.

—

The camera’s rolling when Heeseung takes his seat on the stool, a lit cigarette burning low between his fingers. Smoke curls up, soft against the stark black backdrop that swallows him whole. You’d used a different one today—an old favorite from before you could afford the luxury of something better.

His eyes rest on you, waiting.

The grip on his hands tighten—he wants to hold you. Standing away from you made him anxious.

“Adonis. No—Heeseung. Why did you do it?” Your voice echoes off the walls of your apartment, furniture mixed around the expanse of the room—collaged and pushed away from their original place to make room for your impromptu set up.

He straightens his shoulders after a long drag.

“Hard to say. I don’t like the world around you.” He confesses. Even now, the lilt in his voice is melodic—charming. Charismatic.

“Have you ever murdered someone before?” Your eyes train on to him. He recognizes that look—the one you get whenever you found a vision to chase.

“Not a person. Before I made it big, my pops used to beat me. There was no one else in the house except for me, him, and a dog.” He begins. You take a sharp breath.

This.

This is what you’ve waited years to see on camera.

Heeseung unfiltered.

You wait for him to continue. He nods lightly, as if agreeing with himself that the memory’s allowed to leave him.

“I skipped school one day. A couple of friends wanted to go to the arcade and… I followed them. He found out and said he was gonna kill my dog as punishment when he got home.” His eyes grow dark as he twists in his seat, voice bordering on mechanical. “I knew his violence more than anyone. So I killed the dog myself. Quickly.”

Your palms sweat, heart banging in your chest like ricocheting metal. Heeseung.

“—I was a kid. If he found out that I’d let the dog out, he would’ve beaten me bad. So I did it and I don’t know if I regret it.” He simplifies and exhales, smoke wafting—embers almost hitting the filter. “I haven’t seen pops in over a decade. Once I was scouted, my face and body became my saving grace. It put food on the table in ways he never supplied, and he stopped bothering me. Never asked if or when I was coming home.”

Heeseung’s voice is metallic—like blood. Like iron. He tells the story like it’s a mundane thing.

But when he feels your stare, he softens—melts in front of the camera like he’d always been something fragile.

Maybe he was.

“I just wish I killed him and not the one thing that was mine. The one thing I wanted and got to have.” He admits after a moment. Contemplating and accepting whatever clicked into place within him. “I don’t need to read into why I did what I did. It’s already done. But we both know this, right?”

You stop the camera from rolling, but take one final shot of Heeseung. Simple, unmasked, and dark.

The night is spent developing and handpicking a series of photos from the last five years. Scrawled onto a small slip of paper are the words: The Genesis of Adonis: A tale born from blood. To the side, you lay out a singular dated cassette tape.

Before bed, Heeseung quietly takes your camera—eying the minuscule scrapes dancing around its bodice. A shutter blooms in the air as he takes photos of you brushing your hair in front of your old vanity, and another one of you under him—laughing at something he couldn’t quite pin down anymore.

And you make love for one final night,

bodies sweating away the morning you felt coming.

—

Sometime, just before dawn—when the sky is still indigo.

“I wish we were born in the same body.”

The two of you face each other, skin cold and bare, curling on top of the muted sheets. You play with the tips of Heeseung’s fingers as he brushes away damp strands of hair from your temple. Lips quirking, you close your eyes and respond tiredly.

“We’d be one fucked up person. Maybe it’s best that we’re split in two.”

He laughs quietly, eyes curling into half moons. “So be it.” He stares at you for a couple of moments, digesting the softness of the pads of your fingers. “You’re the only one I think understands. It’s not rational. None of this is. It never was.”

He takes your hand, lifting it to his lips. One by one, he kisses the tips of your fingers, then turns your palm over and presses his mouth to its center.

“Heeseung, I love you.” The words feel heavy, weighing the day with a late confession. It almost feels too late. It probably is.

He doesn’t reply,

And only breaks into the palm of your hand—shaking and crying into the quiet of the room.

He holds you close.

You know without a doubt he loves you too.

—

The mirror stares back at you defiantly. Elegant, poised, deceivingly acceptant and unshaken. Your favorite perfume permeates the air, earrings dancing as your neck turns to gaze at Heeseung dabbing your perfume onto his wrist. You donned your best dress, all red velvet and beaded glamour. Heeseung wears the suit he told you he planned to wear to the apocalypse if it ever happened. Ironed, sharp, still devilishly handsome as ever.

He shivers when you pad over and press a kiss to his pulse, eyes filled with an emotion neither of you have words to explain. Fear. Want. Regret that felt pointless to feel with the blunt knowledge that what’s done is done.

And he kisses you like he already misses you. Like he’d crawl out of the ground as a dead man just to be able to stand next to you like this for another day.

It’s electric, full of life sentences and damnation—a willing fall from grace that Heeseung’s always wanted but never quite like the way it’s come. He licks at your tongue and pushes you closer by the nape of your neck—turning his head to take you in deeper.

The day’s here. Neither of you know how you know. You just do.

When the banging on your door comes, you don’t answer. You sit curled onto his lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, as you brush his hair to soothe him. You don’t register the words—the yelling, the warnings.

Heeseung squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his grip around your waist, trying to memorize the texture of your skin and how your muscles felt whenever you moved. His lips move through a mantra and you finally hear the words: I’m yours, I’m yours.

The world stills when you cup his face, lifting it until he’s forced to meet your eyes. You know what happens to beautiful things in captivity—they either rot on their own or are deliberately ruined. And somehow, he knows what you’re saying.

What you’re planning.

What you’re accepting.

None of this was planned. This sort of oncoming tragedy could’ve easily been avoided, but you’re at the point of no return. He nods shakily, eyes watering as if to say—I’m going with you.

The door slams open, splintering against the wall—an explosion of sound swallowed by the sharp click of safeties disengaging. Guns rise, black barrels catching the light as they fix on you both. You turn anyway, slow and deliberate, defying the command that still hangs in the air, purposefully. You don’t intend on walking out of this room alive.

Maybe this is as close to repentance as you’d get.

You look at Heeseung one last time, mouthing his mantra back to him—a quiet echo meant only for him. Then you lean in, pressing your mouth to his, warm and unhurried, as if the world might grant you both another minute. Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you closer, holding you there like he could stop what’s coming. His other hand drifts toward his empty pocket—slow, deliberate, almost tender in its finality. A death sentence.

The last thing you feel is the shared grin curling across both your faces—then the metal tears through you, through him, until the monstrous ache of wanting fades with you both.

—

The burnt rubber of tires skidding onto the apartment lot squeal as both Jungwon and Sunghoon arrive at the scene. Sunghoon’s handsome face is distorted under the sudden calamity—hair tousled and worn from his own hands tugging. Jungwon’s ties is loosened, eyes bloodshot as he raises his hands to cradle his head.

Neither you nor Heeseung had relatives to call to properly “identify” or notify of your bodies. The pair both fight the urge to vomit at the sight of two bodies intermingled on your bedroom floor, covered in stark white sheets.

Jungwon curses, choking through his words. “What the fuck happened?” Tears fall without his permission, and he smudges away the moisture gruffly.

Sunghoon stands still—frozen at the epicenter, not allowed to come too close. He shuts his eyes at the faint slip of your dress bleeding out from under the sheet. You were wearing your favorite dress.

He turns away from the scene, moving into the hallway until he greets a familiar room: your photo studio—your beloved dark room.

On instinct, he slowly turns the knob—clicking open the door and unconsciously waits to hear your voice hiss at him for letting the light in and ruining the photo developing process. He shakily exhales at the photos that greeted him.

Heeseung, with blood clotted in his hair and drying across his hands—an image both intimate and horrific. Others are quieter but no less haunting: Heeseung staring straight into the camera, an unfamiliar expression caught between revelation and ruin.

He finds the cassette tape and the words you scrawled onto paper. The Genesis of Adonis: A tale born from blood.

…you made this your last project.

He almost scoffs, even in the middle of his struggle to keep upright.

And then three others—photos he knew you didn’t lay there at the end—were of you: grinning like a girl in love, beautiful and unraveling in front of your old vanity the way you always did at the end of the night.

Heeseung took these.

Sunghoon stood there, caught in the aftermath of something that defied explanation.

He couldn’t understand you.

He couldn’t understand Heeseung.

He supposes, maybe you only ever understood each other.

So he lingers for a few measured breaths before turning away, closing the door behind him—slowly, deliberately—sealing something sacred and unspeakable inside.

fin.

—

siren’s note:

aaaaand that’s a wrap! I wanted to write a story that played on the irrationality of some connections—like it’s intense in ways that can never really be communicated to other parties. it’s impulsive, life altering—electric. and sometimes, fatal.

Heeseung’s character is super layered. But I also didn’t want to necessarily justify his murders… yes, he’s traumatized but he’s not saying he murdered everyone because he has a backstory. He did it willingly—impulsively. And was willing to do it again.

Sometimes it’s that simple. Sometimes it’s instinct.

if it feels a little rushed, I’m sorry! life has been super hectic and i’ve been wanting to post this so this is what I have.

nonetheless, I hope whoever reads this enjoyed it! I might end up writing some little blips for this pair, especially since I didn’t write as much erotica for them as planned with my schedule…. But we’ll see.

[svvtvenom]

genuinely. how have I missed this release?? this was so beautifully written and I can't explain how much this was just like, felt in my soul. I felt like I could visualize everything that was happening like what the hecks

[lac4ygal]

𝑲𝒊𝒔𝒔 & 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 p.sh ┃ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆

Since freshman year, you’ve run the university’s anonymous gossip blog, Kiss & Tell. You’ve seen it all: cheating allegations, toxic situationships and at least forty-seven complaints about the cafeteria chicken. But nothing floods your inbox more than posts about PARK SUNGHOON — the university’s resident fuckboy and walking bad decision. So for the blog’s final exposé, you decide to write about him. Too bad Sunghoon’s already in the middle of a bet with his friends: to keep a girl for thirteen days. And somehow, the anonymous girl tearing him apart online becomes the only one he can’t stop thinking about.

pairings. fuckboy!sunghoon x female!reader ┃ wc. 13.2k

content warnings. dual pov · hidden motives · miscommunication · fake dating adjacent · emotional manipulation · pining (both sides, they’re so stupid) · explicit sexual content — oral f. receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, light possessiveness, marking · dramatic irony · this will hurt you and I’m not apologising for it

laceys note // the fic I’ve been most nervous to post… there is SO much happening in this one and I genuinely don’t know how yall are going to react 😋 yes this is heavily inspired by How To Lose A Guy and Gossip Girl x anyway hope yall enjoy and as always thank you for reading 🥰

🤍 kiss & tell

This year I’m giving you something special.

You’ve been asking for it since freshman year. The tips have been piling up in my inbox for three years running — do a piece on him, Kiss & Tell, someone needs to say something, Kiss & Tell, he did it again, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell.

Ask and you shall receive, darlings.

Introducing: 13 Ways To Lose Your Certified Campus Fuckboy.

Thirteen tips. Thirteen days. One subject who has absolutely no idea what’s coming.

We begin next week. You didn’t hear it from me though, because I don’t kiss & tell. x

[1,204 readers. 47 comments.]

FINALLY.

is it who I think it is.

kiss & tell if you’re reading this I have THREE submissions about this man please check ur inbox.

—

The thing about Park Sunghoon is that he is, by every available metric, exactly what the submissions said he was.

You’ve done your research. Three weeks of it, thorough and methodical, the kind of research you’d do for an actual piece — which this is, you’ve decided, this absolutely counts as journalism, your professor would probably disagree but your professor also gave you a C minus on your piece about the university’s dining hall monopoly which was genuinely your best work so his opinion is noted and filed in the bin.

You have a google doc. It has sections. There’s a tab called subjects and a tab called timeline and a tab called tips (working) and another one called notes which is mostly just screenshots of anonymous submissions that all say some version of the same thing: he’s charming, he’s beautiful, he made me feel like the only person in the room, and then he was gone, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t know my name by the end of it.

Seventeen submissions. Seventeen different girls. One name, consistent, at the centre of all of them.

Park Sunghoon. Figure skating scholarship. Second year Humanities, now final year. Shares a house off campus with Jay Park and Lee Heeseung, both of whom feature in the submissions as background characters — his friends were there, they seemed nice, Jay remembered my name even if Sunghoon didn’t appearing in three separate accounts with the specific poignancy of a detail nobody coordinated.

He has a type, according to the submissions. Which is to say he doesn’t have a type. He’ll talk to anyone, charm anyone, make anyone feel chosen — and then the choosing stops, and he moves on, and the girl is left standing in the aftermath wondering what she did wrong when the answer is nothing, the answer is that’s just what he does, the answer is you were never going to be the exception because Park Sunghoon doesn’t do exceptions.

He does this, you’ve established, approximately once every two to three weeks. He’s been doing it since freshman year. He has never, by any account you can find, caught feelings. He has never once, to anyone’s knowledge, repeated a girl.

He is, in short, a certified campus fuckboy, and he has been getting away with it for three years because he’s beautiful and charming and genuinely good company right up until the moment he isn’t, and by then it’s too late.

Not anymore.

You have a plan. The plan is elegant and slightly unhinged and Minji — your best friend, Kiss & Tell’s only reader who knows the writer — has called it both those things and also added extremely on brand for you which you take as the highest possible compliment.

Thirteen tips. The clingy, overwhelming, emotionally catastrophic playbook of everything a man like Sunghoon runs from. You’re going to deploy every single one, document it in real time, post it to the blog, and by day thirteen he’ll have run screaming and Kiss & Tell will have its most-read piece of the year and you’ll have actually done something with your journalism degree that matters.

The only thing you need is an in.

Which is, currently, the one gap in the plan.

You’ve been thinking about this for three days when Minji texts you at 9PM on a Friday: jisoo’s having people over. sunghoon will be there. i heard jay mention it.

You look at the message.

You look at your google doc.

You close your laptop, get up, and start getting dressed.

Jisoo’s apartment is the kind of place that fits thirty people comfortably and currently has approximately sixty, which means the music is too loud and the drinks are wherever you can find them and the air has that particular quality of a Friday night that’s fully committed to itself.

You arrive with Minji at ten, already knowing the layout — Jisoo’s place is a known quantity, you’ve been here before, the kitchen is to the left and the living room is straight ahead and the back patio is where people go when the inside gets too much.

You find a drink. You find a wall. You survey the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who has been reporting on this campus for three years.

You find him in four seconds.

He’s not hard to find. That’s the first thing — he doesn’t try to be found, he doesn’t need to, he simply exists in a room and the room orients around him without being asked. He’s tall, which you knew, and he’s wearing something simple, which you didn’t expect, dark jeans and a plain shirt and the specific ease of someone who has never once had to try very hard.

He’s laughing at something Jay said — Jay, beside him, is grinning with the energy of someone who said something very funny and knows it — and the laugh is real, you can tell from here, unperformed, and this is information you file away because it matters. The charm is one thing. The realness underneath it is something else.

You’ve been looking at him for approximately thirty seconds before Minji says, very quietly, “you’re staring.”

“I’m researching,” you say.

“You have a look on your face.”

“It’s my research face.”

“It’s not your research face,” Minji says, and takes a sip of her drink with the serenity of someone who is going to be right about this and knows it and is content to wait.

Three hours earlier, Jisoo’s apartment is already filling up when Jay Park has his idea.

This is, historically, how most problems begin.

He’s standing with Sunghoon near the back wall, both of them with drinks, watching the room do what rooms do on Friday nights — fill up, get louder, become the kind of atmosphere where things happen that people talk about on Monday.

Jay is on his second drink. Sunghoon is on his first. This ratio is relevant.

“Can I ask you something,” Jay says.

“No,” Sunghoon says.

“When’s the last time you actually—” Jay makes a vague gesture that encompasses a significant amount of meaning. “You know. Stayed.”

Sunghoon looks at him flatly. “What.”

“With someone. Longer than — you know. The usual.”

“I don’t have a usual.”

“You absolutely have a usual,” Jay says. “8 days maximum. You don’t learn their names by the end. You move on. It’s a whole thing.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you actually kept someone around?”

Sunghoon is quiet for a moment. He drinks his drink.

“Why,” he says, which is not an answer.

“I was just thinking,” Jay says, with the careful casualness of a man who has been thinking about this for longer than just now, “that it’s been a while. And I was thinking about whether you actually could. If you tried.”

“Could what?”

“Keep someone.” Jay looks at him. “Like. Actually keep her. Not the thing you do. The real version.”

“I keep people.”

“Sunghoon.”

“I do.”

“You kept Chaewon for seven days in second year and forgot her name on day four,” Jay says. “She was in three of my seminars. It was a whole thing.”

Sunghoon says nothing.

“Thirteen days,” Jay says, and the number arrives in the air between them with the particular weight of a challenge that’s been building to its own conclusion. “That’s what I’m saying. Thirteen days. One girl. You actually try. I don’t think you can do it.”

And there it is.

Sunghoon looks at him.

Jay looks back with the grin of someone who has just deployed the one thing that has never once failed to work on Park Sunghoon, which is I don’t think you can.

It goes all the way back to when they were seventeen and Jay said I don’t think you can land that triple and Sunghoon landed it, and then again at eighteen when Jay said I don’t think you can get into that programme and Sunghoon got into that programme, and now they are twenty-two and standing at a party on a Friday night and Jay has said I don’t think you can and the outcome is, as always, inevitable.

“Thirteen days,” Sunghoon says.

“Thirteen days.”

“Fine.”

Jay blinks. Even knowing it was coming, even having built to it, the speed of it catches him off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sunghoon finishes his drink. Sets the glass down. “Fine.”

Jay opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again with the expression of a man who has just heard the trap click shut and has only just registered that he was also standing in it.

“Great,” he says, slightly less certainly than he’d like. “That’s — yeah. Great.”

“Who loses,” Sunghoon says.

“What?”

“If I lose. What do I owe you.”

“I—” Jay hadn’t gotten this far. “I don’t know. Bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights,” Sunghoon repeats, unimpressed.

“And you do my laundry for a month.”

“And if I win?”

“You won’t.”

“Jay.”

“Fine. If you win I’ll do your laundry for a month and I’ll admit in front of Heeseung that you were right about the Ateez album.”

A pause.

“Deal,” Sunghoon says immediately.

They shake on it. Jay watches him scan the room with the quiet, unhurried focus of someone who has just been given a task and is already approaching it systematically, and feels, somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, the specific sensation of having made a decision he doesn’t fully understand yet.

He takes a long drink.

He tells himself it’ll be fine.

—

“He’s at the drinks table,” Minji says. “Corner of the kitchen. Jay’s with him but Jay just got pulled into something in the living room so Sunghoon’s alone.”

You look at her.

“You’ve been tracking him,” you say.

“I’ve been observing,” she says. “Go. And look like you’re going for a drink, not like you’re going for him.”

“I know how to walk into a kitchen, Minji.”

“You know how to walk into a kitchen like a journalist on an assignment,” she says. “Which is different. Relax your face.”

You relax your face.

“More,” she says.

You relax it more.

“Good. Go.”

You go.

The kitchen is quieter than the living room, the particular relief of a party room that isn’t the main event — a handful of people, the counter lined with bottles, the window cracked open letting in the cold October air.

He’s exactly where Minji said he’d be.

You clock him in your peripheral vision and do not look directly at him, which is a skill you have developed specifically for this kind of thing — the journalistic sidelong awareness, present without being obvious. You move toward the drinks table with the energy of someone who wants a drink and only a drink and has no awareness whatsoever of the person three feet to her left.

You reach for a bottle.

He reaches for the same one.

Your hands arrive at the neck of it at the same moment.

You look up.

He looks down.

Up close he is — and you’re going to note this for the record and then never think about it again — significantly more than his submissions prepared you for. Which is saying something, because the submissions were not understating it. But there is a difference between objectively good looking as a reported fact and objectively good looking as a thing happening to you personally at close range on a Friday night, and the difference is considerable and you are a journalist and this is a story and you absolutely clock it and file it away and move on.

“Sorry,” you both say, at the same time.

A beat.

He takes his hand off the bottle. “Go ahead.”

“No, it’s—” You gesture. “You were here first.”

“I wasn’t, actually.” Something in his expression is doing a thing — a quiet recalibration, the kind of look that assesses and concludes and moves forward. “I just got here.”

“Same time, then,” you say.

“Same time,” he agrees. He picks up the bottle. Pours two glasses without asking. Hands one to you.

You look at it.

“Bold,” you say.

“You were reaching for it,” he says simply. “Seemed like you wanted it.”

You take the glass. You drink. It’s good — he poured the right thing, which means he clocked what you were reaching for in the half second before you both arrived at it simultaneously, which means he notices things, which is information you file immediately in the subject tab of your mental google doc.

“Sunghoon,” he says.

“I know,” you say, and then catch it. “I think Jisoo mentioned you. She mentioned a few people.”

He looks at you with an expression that suggests he’s heard this kind of recovery before and found it charming rather than annoying, which is somehow worse than if he’d called you out directly.

“Y/N,” you say.

He says your name back, once, quietly. Just to himself. Like he’s storing it.

Something in your chest does something completely unauthorised and you attribute it to the drink.

“Final year?” he asks.

“Journalism,” you say. “You?”

“Literature.” He leans against the counter — not performing it, just settling, the ease of someone completely comfortable in any room he’s in. “And the rink. Early mornings.”

“Figure skating,” you say, as if you’re learning this for the first time, as if it isn’t highlighted in yellow in tab one of the google doc.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you were about to say.”

“I was going to say it sounds peaceful,” you say. “Early mornings. Quiet rink.”

He looks at you for a moment. Like he was braced for something and got something else instead. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is slightly different. “It is.”

The kitchen moves around you — people coming in, going out, the ambient noise of a party in full swing — and neither of you moves.

“Can I ask you something,” he says.

“You just did,” you say.

The corner of his mouth does something. Not a smile exactly — the precursor to one, the thing that happens before the decision is made. “Fair,” he says. “Can I ask you something else.”

“Depends what it is.”

“What are you doing tomorrow.”

You look at him. He’s looking back with the steady patience of someone who is used to waiting for things he’s decided he wants, and underneath it something that wasn’t in any of the seventeen submissions — a directness that isn’t performance. He’s not deploying the charm right now. He’s just asking.

You are a journalist. This is a story. Day one begins tomorrow and tip one requires a pet name and you need his number to deploy it.

“I might be free,” you say.

“Might be.”

“Probably am.”

“Can I have your number,” he says, no preamble, just the question, and you think about seventeen girls who probably said yes to this exact question in this exact tone of voice and you think about the google doc and the thirteen tips and the fact that you are not going to be number eighteen.

You are going to be something else entirely.

“Sure,” you say, and take his phone when he hands it over.

You type your number. You type your name. You hand it back.

He looks at the screen. “Just Y/N?”

“You don’t need my last name yet,” you say.

“Yet,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth commits this time, the full thing, and it gets out before he decides to let it and you think that this specific smile — the unguarded one, the one that isn’t the charm — is going to be the most dangerous part of this entire assignment.

You file it. You move on.

“Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you say, and you take your drink and you leave the kitchen and you do not look back.

In the living room, Minji is waiting with the expression of someone who has been watching through the kitchen doorway for the last four minutes and has formed approximately forty seven opinions.

“Well,” she says.

“I’m in,” you say.

“And?”

You look at your drink.

“He’s worse than the submissions,” you say.

Minji opens her mouth.

“Don’t,” you say.

She closes it. She has the expression of someone who is going to be right about something and has infinite patience.

You drink your drink.

Across the room, through the kitchen doorway, Sunghoon is looking at his phone. You watch him save your contact. Watch him type something. Delete it. Type something else.

Your phone buzzes.

unknown number: it was good to meet you tonight

You save the contact immediately. You stare at what you’ve typed for a moment, then change it.

hoonie 🤍

—

that night, 1:47AM:

hoonie 🤍: it was good to meet you tonight

you: who’s this

hoonie 🤍: you know who this is

you: I might need a reminder

hoonie 🤍: I owe you a drink

you: the one you poured me was actually really good so I think we’re even

A pause. Three dots. Gone. Back again.

hoonie 🤍: what are you doing tomorrow

you: why

hoonie 🤍: no reason. just asking.

you: I’m probably free

hoonie 🤍: I’ll pick you up at 12

you: bold of you to assume you have my address

hoonie 🤍: do I not?

you: …I’ll send it to you

hoonie 🤍: good

you: goodnight

hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 01: give him a pet name. immediately.

Here’s what nobody tells you about a man who runs on charm — he’s built his whole personality around the way his name sounds in other people’s mouths. He knows how it lands. He’s been watching it land for years.

So take it away.

Give him something else. Something soft and slightly ridiculous, something completely at odds with everything he’s spent three years carefully constructing. Don’t ask permission. Don’t explain it. Just deploy it, directly, and watch what happens to his face.

The goal isn’t to annoy him. The goal is to see who he is when the thing he relies on gets gently, cheerfully removed.

Results to follow

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[1,847 readers overnight. 63 comments.]

she’s actually doing it.

KISS AND TELL THE WAY I SCREAMED.

I know exactly who this is about and I have never felt more seen in my life.

—

He picks you up at twelve.

This is the first thing that surprises you, which you don’t let show — that he said twelve and it’s twelve, exactly, his car pulling up outside your building at eleven fifty-eight and him not texting to say here or outside or any of the things people say when they arrive, just waiting, engine running, until you come out.

You clock this on the way down the stairs. Filed under: he’s punctual. he waited. he didn’t announce himself.

The car is clean. This is the second thing. Not aggressively clean, not the sterile cleanliness of someone performing tidiness — just maintained, looked after, the cleanliness of someone who takes quiet care of things they own. There’s a jacket on the back seat and a reusable coffee cup in the holder and a small air freshener hanging from the mirror that smells like cedar and you are absolutely not going to find this endearing.

“Hey,” he says, when you get in.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

A pause.

He looks at you.

You look back.

“Hoonie,” he repeats.

“Mm.”

“That’s—” He stops. Starts again. “Where did that come from.”

“I don’t know,” you say cheerfully. “It just suits you.”

“It doesn’t suit me.”

“I think it really does.”

He looks at you for another moment with an expression that is trying to be flat and not fully succeeding — there’s something underneath it, something that might be the effort of not reacting, which means he is reacting and choosing not to show it, which is more interesting than if he’d just been annoyed.

He puts the car in drive.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“There’s a place,” he says. “Near the rink. Good food. You’ll like it.”

“How do you know what I’ll like.”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “But if you don’t, we’ll go somewhere else.”

You look at the side of his face.

Filed under: he has a contingency. he’s already thought about what happens if the first plan doesn’t work.

You face forward.

“Hoonie,” you say again, conversationally, and watch his jaw do something in your peripheral vision.

“Please,” he says.

“Please what?”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

He glances at you. You are the picture of innocence. He looks back at the road.

“You’re going to keep doing it,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Probably,” you say.

A pause.

“Fine,” he says, and there’s something in it — resigned, but underneath the resignation something else, something that sounds almost like he finds this funny and is refusing to admit it.

You face forward and smile at the windscreen where he can’t see it.

Tip one: deployed.

The place near the rink is small and warm and the food is exactly what he said it would be, which you note because it means he knows what good food is and he knew enough about you after one conversation to make an accurate prediction.

You eat across from each other at a small table by the window and it’s — easy. That’s the thing that keeps catching you off guard, the thing that wasn’t in the submissions. The submissions covered charm, the warmth, the way he makes you feel like the only person in the room. What they didn’t cover was this — the version of him that exists when he’s not performing anything. The version that eats his food without making it an event and asks questions that are short and real and actually listens to the answers.

He asks about journalism. Not oh cool what’s that like but specific things — what you want to do with it, what kind of writing you actually care about, whether you think print is dead or just resting.

“Resting,” you say, firmly.

“Resting,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether he agrees. “Why.”

“Because people still want stories. They just want them differently. The format changed, not the hunger.”

He looks at you across the table. “What do you write?”

“Pieces,” you say. “Long form, mostly. Campus stuff. Culture, people, the way things work underneath the way they look.”

“Anything published?”

“The university paper. Some external stuff.” You take a sip of water. “Nothing that’s set the world on fire yet.”

“Yet,” he says, giving you your own word back, and the corner of his mouth does the thing.

You look at your plate.

Filed under: he pays attention to the exact words you use. he remembers them. he deploys them back.

This is, you think, how he does it. Not the obvious charm — the specific attention. The making-you-feel-like-your-words-matter thing. You’ve been watching for the playbook and this is it, this is the whole thing, and knowing what it is should make it easier to withstand.

It does not make it easier to withstand.

“What about the skating,” you say, because you need to redirect. “How long?”

“Since I was seven,” he says.

“Competitions?”

“Through high school. Regionals, a few nationals.” He says it the way people say things they’re proud of but have learned not to lead with. “Scholarship for university. Now it’s just — mornings. Keeping it.”

“Do you miss competing?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Longer than the other answers.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Not the competing. The clarity of it. When you’re on the ice and there’s a programme to execute, everything else goes quiet.” He looks at his water glass. “I miss the quiet.”

You look at him.

He seems to realise he’s said something more than he meant to, because he looks up and recalibrates slightly — not retreating, just adjusting. “Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologise,” you say.

He looks at you.

“It was a real answer,” you say. “Those are better than the other kind.”

Something in his expression shifts. The recalibration stops. He holds your gaze for a moment with the look of someone encountering something unexpected in a place they thought they knew the map of.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess they are.” You are a journalist. This is a story. You eat your food.

He drives you back at two-thirty.

Outside your building he doesn’t turn the engine off, just parks, and you sit there for a moment in the particular quality of the end of a first — not a date, this is not a date, this is day one of thirteen and you have twelve tips left to deploy.

“I had a good time,” he says.

“Me too,” you say, which is true, which is fine, which is completely consistent with the plan.

“Tomorrow?” he says.

“What about it.”

“Are you free.”

You look at him. “Why, hoonie?”

The jaw thing again. “Because I’d like to see you again. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you repeat.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a probably,” you say, and get out of the car, and don’t look back, and get into the lift, and press your floor, and the second the doors close you take out your phone and open the google doc.

Day 1 — complete. Tip 1 deployed. He hates the nickname.

You pause.

He also doesn’t hate the nickname.

You close the google doc. You open the blog dashboard. You start writing.

In the car outside your building, Sunghoon sits for a moment after you go in.

He looks at the building entrance.

He thinks about real answers are better than the other kind said with the particular directness of someone who means exactly what they say and has no interest in softening it.

He thinks about hoonie delivered with complete sincerity and zero apology and the way he couldn’t find a single thing to do with it.

He picks up his phone. He opens the text thread.

tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.

He looks at what he’s typed. He sends it. He puts the car in drive.

Across town, your phone buzzes.

hoonie 🤍: tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.

You stare at the contact name.

You type back: okay. noon again.

You put the phone down.

You pick up your notebook.

You write: tip two. the move-in. start small. a candle.

—

He comes at noon the next day.

You’ve been up since nine preparing, which is not something you will ever admit to Minji, who would make a face that would live in your memory for years. You’ve done your reading and drafted a column and had two coffees and told yourself that the preparation is logistical, it’s for the piece, it has nothing to do with the fact that someone is coming over at noon and you’d like the flat to look — not different exactly. Considered. Like you live here intentionally.

He arrives at noon exactly. Same as yesterday. You are starting to understand that this is just who he is — the punctuality, the quiet reliability of it — and you are filing it accordingly and not finding it anything other than useful data.

He’s in a different hoodie today. Still simple, still worn-in, still somehow doing more than it should.

You let him in.

He looks around your flat with the attention he gives everything — quiet, unhurried, taking it in properly rather than performing interest. He looks at your books, your desk, the organised chaos of a final year journalism student who lives primarily in her own head.

“Nice,” he says, which from him means something because he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

“Thanks,” you say. “Make yourself at home.”

He sits on your sofa.

You go to the kitchen.

You come back with two coffees — his black, which you know from Minji’s intelligence and are absolutely not going to reveal that you know — and a candle, which you set on the coffee table with the ease of someone simply adding to their space, nothing deliberate about it, just a girl putting a candle in her own flat.

He looks at the candle.

“Cedarwood,” he says.

“Mm.”

“That’s—” He pauses. “That’s what my car smells like.”

You meet his eyes with complete innocence. “Is it? I’ve had this one for ages.”

He looks at you.

You hand him his coffee.

He takes it, still looking at you, with the expression of someone who is doing a calculation and arriving at a result he finds interesting.

“Hoonie,” you say, sitting beside him. “What do you want to do today?”

The jaw thing. “Stop calling me that.”

“I genuinely don’t know what you mean,” you say.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Sunghoon is a lot of syllables,” you say. “Hoonie is efficient.”

“It’s two syllables.”

“Exactly. Same as Sunghoon. But softer.” You look at him with perfect sincerity. “It suits you.”

“It doesn’t—” He stops. Closes his mouth. Opens it again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says, and his voice is different — not suspicious, more like genuinely curious, the specific tone of someone encountering a puzzle they actually want to solve. “But you’re doing something.”

“I’m drinking my coffee,” you say. “In my flat. That I’ve lived in for two years.”

He looks at the candle. Then at you.

Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the charm one. The real one, the unguarded one, the one that got out before he decided whether to let it. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you agree. You drink your coffees.

He stays for four hours.

This is not planned. The plan was two hours maximum — enough to establish presence, enough to deploy the beginning of tip two’s territorial creep, enough to leave him wanting more rather than enough. Four hours is not strategic.

Four hours happens because he mentions a book on your shelf — something you’ve had since first year, annotated to within an inch of its life — and you end up in an argument about whether the narrator is unreliable or just mistaken, which are different things, which he agrees they’re different things but disagrees on which one applies, and the argument is so genuinely enjoyable that you don’t notice the time until the light through your window has gone from afternoon to early evening and you’ve both moved from the sofa to the floor at some point without registering the transition.

“Unreliable implies intention,” you say, for the fourth time. “He’s not lying. He just doesn’t know.”

“Not knowing is a form of unreliability,” he says, also for the fourth time, from the other side of the coffee table. “Your perception shapes what you report. An unreliable perception makes an unreliable narrator regardless of intent.”

“That’s a really broad definition of unreliable.”

“It’s the correct definition.”

“According to who?”

“According to the text,” he says, and picks up the book and reads you a passage with the ease of someone who has it half-memorised, which means he’s read this book before, which means he recognised it on your shelf, which means—

You stop that thought.

“That passage supports my reading,” you say.

“It supports mine.”

“It doesn’t—”

“It—”

“Hoonie.”

He stops. Looks at you. Something in his expression does the thing — the almost, the precursor — and then he looks back at the book and says, very calmly, “I will concede the passage is ambiguous.”

“That’s not the same as conceding the argument.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

You look at him across the coffee table, the cedarwood candle burning between you, your annotated book in his hands, and you think about seventeen submissions and thirteen tips and the google doc with its four tabs and the fifth one you opened and immediately closed.

“It’s nearly six,” he says, checking his phone.

“Is it?”

“I should go.” But he doesn’t move. “Jay’s making dinner. He does this thing on Sundays where he decides he can cook and Heeseung and I have to either eat whatever it is or pretend we had plans.”

“Do you ever just tell him he can’t cook?”

“Every time.” He stands, finally, handing you back the book. “He does it anyway.”

You walk him to the door.

He picks up his jacket from the hook — he hung it up when he came in, you noticed, without being asked — and pauses.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“What about it.”

“I have the rink in the morning. But after.” He looks at you. “Come to ours. Jay will make too much food regardless.”

“You’re inviting me to dinner at your house,” you say.

“Jay’s inviting you to dinner at our house,” he says. “Jay just doesn’t know it yet.”

You look at him.

“So that’s a yes?” he says.

You think about tip two. Move your stuff in. Start small. Establish presence in his space.

“Sure,” you say. “What time?”

“Seven.” He opens the door. Pauses. “Bring the candle.”

He says it completely straight-faced and leaves before you can respond, and you stand in your doorway watching him go down the hall and thinking that Park Sunghoon just made a joke about the candle, which means he knows about the candle, which means he’s paying attention to everything, which means this is going to be significantly more complicated than the google doc accounted for.

You close the door.

You pick up your notebook.

tip two update: he invited me to the house. didn’t even have to engineer it. he did it himself.

You pause. Read it back.

this is either going really well or really badly and I can’t tell which.

That night, after Jay’s food — which was aggressively fine, not bad, not good, aggressively fine — and two hours on their sofa watching something none of you were really watching, you leave the candle on their kitchen counter.

You do it on the way out, smooth and casual, setting it down like you’re just putting something down while you put your jacket on.

Heeseung sees you do it.

He says nothing.

You say goodnight and leave.

In the kitchen, Jay looks at the candle.

“Is that—”

“Don’t,” Sunghoon says.

“I’m just asking—”

“I know what you’re asking.”

“It smells nice,” Jay says. “That’s all I was going to say. It smells nice.”

Heeseung, from the sofa, turns a page of whatever he’s reading.

“She left it on purpose,” he says, to the page.

“Obviously,” Sunghoon says.

Jay looks between them. “And that’s—”

“Fine,” Sunghoon says. “It’s fine.”

He goes to his room.

Jay looks at the candle. Looks at Heeseung. Looks at the candle again.

“He likes her,” Jay says.

“I know,” Heeseung says.

“It’s day two.”

“I know,” Heeseung says again.

Jay pulls out his phone. Looks at the bet, the text thread, the terms. Puts the phone back in his pocket.

“We’re fine,” he says, to nobody in particular. Heeseung turns another page.

hoonie 🤍: you left your candle

you: did I? I didn’t notice

hoonie 🤍: you noticed

you: I’ll pick it up next time

hoonie 🤍: or I could bring it when I see you tomorrow

you: you’re seeing me tomorrow?

hoonie 🤍: apparently

you: bold assumption

hoonie 🤍: is it wrong

A pause. You look at the ceiling of your room. You look at your notebook, open on the bed beside you, tip two update written in your handwriting.

you: no

hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N

you: goodnight hoonie

Three dots. Gone.

Then:

hoonie 🤍: I’m not calling you anything back

you: I know. goodnight.

hoonie 🤍: …goodnight.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 02: start moving your stuff in. casually. let him notice slowly.

Don’t announce it. Don’t make it an event. Just — leave things. Small things first. A candle. A jacket over a chair. Let the object do the work while you do nothing at all.

The goal isn’t possession. The goal is presence. The goal is to become a feature of his space so gradually that by the time he notices, you’re already there.

Did it work? He texted me about the candle.

Draw your own conclusions.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[2,341 readers. 81 comments.]

the CANDLE.

she’s an evil genius and I mean that with full respect.

anonymous: I recognise this man’s entire behavioural pattern and Kiss & Tell you are doing the lord’s work.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 03: cry. in front of him about something small.

Not a breakdown. Not a scene. Something small and genuine and completely disproportionate to the situation — a sad video, a dog, a song that comes on at the wrong moment.

The objective is simple. Men like this have spent years perfecting the art of emotional unavailability. They’ve built entire personalities around not being the one who feels things in public. So you introduce feelings — small, manageable, completely non-threatening feelings — and you watch what they do with them.

Do they run? Do they freeze? Do they do the stiff-shoulder-pat of a man who has never once been asked to sit with someone else’s emotions?

Results to follow.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

—

Day three arrives with the particular energy of something that has already decided what it’s going to be.

You know this before you’re fully awake — the specific quality of the morning, October light coming through your curtains in the thin gold way it does when the weather can’t commit to itself, and your phone already buzzing on the nightstand with a text that came in at seven forty-two AM from a contact saved as hoonie 🤍 which is, you think, perhaps a sign that day three has opinions.

hoonie 🤍: rink was good this morning. you’re up?

You stare at this message for a moment.

He texted you at seven forty-two in the morning, voluntarily, to tell you the rink was good.

You file this.

you: I am now

hoonie 🤍: sorry

you: don’t be. what made it good

A pause. Longer than his usual response time, which you’ve already clocked is short — he’s not a leave-it-on-read person, he responds when he sees it, which means he has his phone nearby most of the time, which means the deliberate pauses are deliberate.

hoonie 🤍: landed something I’ve been working on for two weeks

you: the triple?

hoonie 🤍: you know about the triple

You freeze.

you: you mentioned it. yesterday. when you were talking about the programme.

This is a lie. He did not mention it yesterday. It is in tab one of the google doc, sourced from a submission sent in by a girl who went to one of his morning sessions three months ago and described watching him attempt a triple axel for forty minutes with the specific admiration of someone who has been thoroughly won over against their will.

Three dots. Then:

hoonie 🤍: I don’t think I mentioned it

you: you definitely did

hoonie 🤍: …okay

He doesn’t push it. You exhale.

you: so you landed it?

hoonie 🤍: yeah

you: how does it feel

hoonie 🤍: like the ice gave me permission

You read this three times. You put your phone face down on the pillow. You pick it up again.

you: that’s a really good way to put it

hoonie 🤍: I’m a literature student

you: is that your excuse for everything

hoonie 🤍: it’s not an excuse it’s a qualification

You laugh, alone in your room at seven fifty AM, at a joke made by a boy you are assigned to lose over thirteen days, and you file this too — he’s funny. not performed funny. actually funny. — and you do not examine the filing too closely.

you: come over later?

You send it before you can think about whether it’s too eager, too fast, inconsistent with the planned arc of tip deployment. It doesn’t matter. It’s day three. The scrapbook is day four. Today is the crying, which requires proximity, which requires him to be here.

That’s why you sent it.

hoonie 🤍: what time

you: whenever. I’ll be in all day.

hoonie 🤍: two?

you: two works

hoonie 🤍: see you at two Y/N

You put the phone down. You open the google doc. You open a new document — not a tab, a separate one, private, not part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:

he said the ice gave me permission. I don’t know what to do with that.

You close it without saving.

He arrives at two with food.

Not a lot — just things, from the place near the rink, the good one, without being asked, without announcing it. He comes through the door and sets a paper bag on your counter and shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the hook, which he does automatically now, second time and already automatic, and you think about establish presence from your own tip and feel the specific irony of him doing it back to you without knowing.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, nodding at the bag.

“You had food here last time,” he says. “Fair’s fair.”

“I had coffee.”

“And a candle.”

“The candle was already here.”

He gives you a look that says he absolutely knows the candle was not already there and is choosing not to press it, which is its own kind of move — letting you have the small fictions, not calling them out, keeping the game friendly.

You are a journalist. This is a story. You find this extremely interesting and nothing else.

You eat the food he brought at your kitchen counter, standing, which turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the sofa because your flat is small and the counter doesn’t have stools and somehow the floor is just where you both end up, plates balanced, talking about — nothing. The specific nothing of two people who are finding out that they can fill time with each other without effort, which is either the most ordinary thing in the world or the most significant, depending on who you are.

He’s telling you about Jay’s latest cooking disaster — something involving rice and a confidence level that was not supported by the actual skill — when your phone, face up on the coffee table, plays a video.

Autoplay. Something from your feed. You’d been scrolling before he arrived and left it open.

You both look at the screen.

It’s a dog. A golden retriever, elderly, being reunited with a soldier coming home. The dog sees the soldier and its whole back half starts wagging and it makes a sound — a specific, desperate, you’re back you’re back you’re back sound — and the soldier gets down on his knees on the tarmac and the dog practically climbs into him.

You watch it for four seconds.

Your eyes fill up.

This is not entirely the plan. The plan was to deploy the crying strategically, with a video you’d pre-selected, at a moment you’d engineered. What is happening instead is that the video arrived without warning and you are apparently the kind of person who cries at dog videos at two forty-five in the afternoon in front of someone you are professionally obligated to remain detached from.

You blink. Hard. Once.

Too late.

Sunghoon looks at you.

He looks at the phone. Looks back at you. Looks at the tear that has made it approximately halfway down your cheek before you get a hand up to intercept it.

“Are you,” he starts.

“I’m fine,” you say. “It’s a dog.”

“I can see it’s a dog.”

“He was so happy,” you say, which is not a sentence you planned to say, which arrives from somewhere entirely outside the tip deployment framework. “He didn’t even — the sound he made—”

“Okay,” Sunghoon says.

“I’m not crying,” you say.

“You’re definitely crying.”

“It’s a dog,” you say again, as if this is a complete explanation, which to you it is.

He is quiet for a moment.

Then he does something you did not put in the google doc, which is that he reaches over and hands you a napkin from the food bag — not with ceremony, not with the performance of someone doing a kind thing, just hands it over, plain and practical, the way you’d hand someone a napkin — and goes back to his food.

He doesn’t say anything else about it.

He doesn’t make it weird.

He doesn’t do the stiff-shoulder-pat. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t make a joke or look uncomfortable or redirect the conversation with the energy of someone escaping a situation they don’t know how to be in.

He hands you a napkin and goes back to his food and lets the moment be exactly what it is — small, genuine, completely disproportionate — without making it anything more.

You wipe your face.

You go back to your food.

“He was really happy,” Sunghoon says, after a moment, to his plate.

You look at him.

He is very focused on his food. The tips of his ears are faintly pink.

“Yeah,” you say. “He was.”

You do not put this in the blog post.

You write the tip. You write the strategic version, the one about emotional unavailability and the shoulder-pat and watching what he does with feelings he didn’t expect to encounter. You write it with the detachment of a journalist who has the story under control.

You do not write about the napkin.

You do not write about his ears.

You open the private document — the separate one, the one that isn’t part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:

he handed me a napkin and didn’t make it weird. that’s it. that’s the whole thing. I don’t know why I’m writing this down.

You stare at it.

You close it without saving. Again.

—

Day four arrives and you have a scrapbook to make.

You’ve been thinking about the scrapbook since you planned the tips. It’s the most unhinged one — the most deliberately, strategically overwhelming — and it requires actual effort. You need photos, which means you need photos from the last three days, which means you’ve been taking them.

You have, it turns out, taken more photos than you planned.

The food from the place near the rink, the brown paper bag with its logo. A screenshot of a text exchange that made you laugh. The view from his car window on day one, which you took while he wasn’t looking because the light was doing something through the glass that you wanted to keep. His jacket on your hook — just the jacket, the empty shape of it against the door, which you took on day two after he left and have not examined why.

You print them at the campus print shop on Wednesday morning. You buy a scrapbook from the art supplies place next door — not a nice one, not a proper one, the kind with a flimsy cover and pages that are slightly too thick, which is exactly right. You buy stickers, because of course you do, and some tape, and a marker, and you sit at your kitchen table for an hour and make something that is objectively both ridiculous and, somewhere underneath the ridiculousness, completely genuine.

Because the photos are real. You actually took them. The light through his car window is actually beautiful. The jacket on the hook is actually — it looks like it belongs there, which is the thing you noticed when you took the photo, the way it looked like it had always been there, and that’s why you took it, and you are a journalist and this is a story.

You close the scrapbook.

You put it in your bag.

He comes over at noon. He’s in the hoodie again — different one this time, grey, slightly older, and you’ve started to understand that the hoodies are his version of comfortable, that he dresses for other people sometimes and for himself other times and the hoodie version is the himself version.

“Hoonie,” you say, letting him in.

“Y/N,” he says, with the patience of someone who has accepted this is simply going to happen.

You make coffee. You bring it to the sofa. You sit beside him with your bag and he’s looking at his phone, something about the rink schedule, and you pull the scrapbook out and set it on the coffee table.

He looks at it.

Then at you.

“What’s that,” he says.

“A scrapbook,” you say.

“Of.”

“Us,” you say. “Mostly. The last few days.”

He is very still.

“We’ve known each other for four days,” he says.

“Three and a half,” you correct. “But a lot happened.”

He looks at the scrapbook. At the cover, which has a sticker on it — a small gold star, because you had the stickers and it felt right — and his name written in marker in your handwriting, hoonie, which you did partly for the tip and partly because by the time you were making it you’d stopped thinking about the tip.

“Can I—” he starts.

“Go ahead,” you say.

He picks it up.

He opens it.

You watch him.

He goes through it slowly, which you didn’t expect — you expected a quick flip, the polite skim of someone who doesn’t know how to receive something like this and is looking for the exit. Instead he takes his time. Each page. The food bag photo. The text screenshot. The light through the car window.

He stops on that one.

“When did you take this,” he says.

“Day one. On the way to lunch.”

“I didn’t see you take it.”

“You were driving.”

He looks at the photo. At the light through the glass, the way it caught and scattered, the particular quality of it that made you reach for your phone without thinking.

“It’s good,” he says, quietly. Not performing it.

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I took it.”

He turns the page.

He finds the jacket photo.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you stop watching him and look at the coffee table instead, the cedarwood candle — his candle now, in their kitchen, you brought a new one for yours — and the two coffees going slowly cold.

“You took a photo of my jacket,” he says.

“It looked nice on the hook,” you say.

“On your hook.”

“On my hook. Yes.”

He closes the scrapbook. Sets it on the table. Picks up his coffee.

You wait.

“You’ve known me for four days,” he says again.

“Three and a half.”

“Y/N.”

“Sunghoon.”

He looks at you. And here is the thing — here is the thing you didn’t put in the google doc and couldn’t have — he doesn’t look unsettled. He doesn’t look like a man encountering an overwhelming situation and calculating his exit. He looks like a man encountering something he doesn’t have a category for and finding, to his own apparent surprise, that he’s not looking for one.

“You’re something,” he says.

“I’ve been told,” you say.

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“How do you mean it.”

He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At the gold star sticker on the cover. At hoonie in your handwriting.

“I don’t know yet,” he says honestly. “I’ll tell you when I do.”

You look at him for a long moment.

Filed under —

You don’t file it.

For the first time since the google doc, since the seventeen submissions, since the plan that is elegant and slightly unhinged, you look at Park Sunghoon sitting on your sofa holding his coffee with the scrapbook of three and a half days on the table between you and you don’t file it.

You just look at him.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay,” he says.

You drink your coffees.

He leaves at four. He picks up the scrapbook on the way out, without asking, and you watch him tuck it under his arm like it’s something he’s taking home, which it is, which means it worked, which means tip four is complete.

You should feel like you won something. You mostly feel like you did something real.

“Tomorrow,” he says, at the door.

“Tomorrow,” you agree.

He goes.

You close the door.

You go to your desk. You open your laptop. You open the blog dashboard and you write the tip post — the strategic version, the scrapbook-as-weapon version, the this-is-how-you-overwhelm-a-man-who-runs-from-feelings version.

Then you open the private document.

You stare at the blank page.

You type: he took it home.

Four words. You look at them.

he took it home and I don’t know if that’s the tip working or something else and I think the problem is I’m not sure it matters anymore which one it is.

You close it.

This time you save it.

In the house off campus, Jay finds the scrapbook.

Not snooping — it’s on the kitchen counter, which is where Sunghoon put it when he came in, and Jay sees it because he goes to the kitchen for water and it’s just there, and he picks it up because it has a gold star sticker on it and he’s curious.

He opens it.

He looks at the photos. The food bag. The text screenshot. The light through the car window. The jacket on the hook.

He closes it.

He goes to the living room where Heeseung is reading.

“Heeseung,” he says.

“Mm.”

“We have a problem.”

Heeseung turns a page. “I know.”

“She made him a scrapbook.”

“I know.”

“It’s day four.”

“I know, Jay.”

Jay sits down heavily on the sofa. He looks at the ceiling. He thinks about the bet — the text thread, the terms, thirteen days, one girl, you actually try — and he thinks about Sunghoon’s face when he came home, which was not the face of a man who is running a bet.

It was the face of a man who took a scrapbook home and is not entirely sure why and is not entirely bothered by not being sure.

“We should say something,” Jay says.

“Should we,” Heeseung says, not looking up.

“One of us should—”

“Which one of us,” Heeseung says, “is going to walk into Sunghoon’s room and tell him that the girl who made him a scrapbook on day four is doing it on purpose, and also that you made a bet, and also that we’ve both been watching this happen and said nothing?”

Jay opens his mouth.

“Which one of us,” Heeseung continues, turning another page, “is going to do that.”

Jay closes his mouth.

He looks at the ceiling.

“We’ll give it a few more days,” he says.

Heeseung says nothing.

Which is, Jay is beginning to understand, Heeseung’s way of saying you have made a catastrophic error and I am going to let you arrive at that conclusion yourself.

Jay goes back to the kitchen.

He looks at the scrapbook on the counter.

He gets his water.

He goes to bed.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 04: make a scrapbook. day four. show him.

Physical evidence of a relationship that is three and a half days old.

Print the photos. Buy the stickers. Write his name on the cover in your own handwriting. Make it real enough that he can’t dismiss it and ridiculous enough that he should want to.

The goal is overwhelm. The goal is to be too much, too fast, too sincere — to deploy the kind of gesture that sends men like this running for the nearest exit.

Here’s what happened instead… he took it home.

I don’t have a tip for that. I’ll get back to you.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[3,102 readers. 114 comments.]

SHE DOESN’T HAVE A TIP FOR THAT I’M LOSING MY MIND.

kiss & tell are you okay.

anonymous: I know who this is and I need everyone to understand that this man has never once taken anything home in three years.

⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …noted.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 05: name it. (as in his penis ;))

Give it a full name. Something formal. Something that requires introduction. Deploy it with complete sincerity and maintain eye contact with him while you do it.

The objective here is simple — men who have built entire personalities around being untouchable tend to have one specific vulnerability, which is being caught completely off guard in a situation where charm is not a useful tool.

This is that situation.

Results to follow.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

—

Day five starts with a text at seven AM.

hoonie 🤍: rink. triple again. landed it cleaner.

You read this lying on your back in the dark of your room, phone screen bright in the early morning, and you think about like the ice gave me permission and the private document you’ve been saving things to and the fact that he texts you about the rink now, voluntarily, without prompting, like you’re the person he tells things to.

You’ve been the person he tells things to for five days.

you: cleaner how

hoonie 🤍: the landing. rotation was right last time but the landing was off. today it was right.

you: what does a right landing feel like

The pause is longer this time. The deliberate kind.

hoonie 🤍: like the ground caught you on purpose

You stare at this message.

You type: that’s a really good sentence

hoonie 🤍: I told you. literature student.

you: qualification not excuse

hoonie 🤍: exactly

you: come over tonight?

You send it before you think about it, which is becoming a pattern you haven’t fully addressed. The plan accounts for frequency of contact — it’s in the timeline tab, maintain consistent but not overwhelming presence, let him initiate where possible. You have been initiating more than the timeline accounts for.

You file this under logistical adjustment and move on.

hoonie 🤍: yeah. eight?

you: eight works

hoonie 🤍: I’ll bring food

you: you don’t have to keep doing that

hoonie 🤍: I know

You put your phone down.

You open the google doc.

You open the private document instead.

he said like the ground caught you on purpose. I’ve been thinking about it for twenty minutes. I should probably stop thinking about it. I’m not going to stop thinking about it.

You close it.

He arrives at eight with food from a different place this time — further from campus, somewhere you don’t recognise the bag from, which means he went out of his way, which you note and do not remark on.

He’s in the grey hoodie again. The himself one.

You’re in your flat in your own version of the himself thing — an old university shirt, jeans, hair that’s been up since this morning and is making its own decisions at this point — and when you open the door he looks at you with the expression he gets sometimes, the brief unguarded one, before he recalibrates into easy and casual.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

“Hi,” he says, with the patient resignation of a man who has stopped arguing about the nickname and is choosing to interpret this as winning.

You eat on the floor again. This is simply where you eat now, apparently — sofa abandoned in favour of the rug, backs against the coffee table, food between you. You’ve stopped thinking about whether this is strategic. It’s just comfortable.

He tells you about the rink. About the programme he’s been working on for three months, the one the triple is part of, the way the whole thing builds toward a specific feeling he’s been chasing.

“What feeling,” you ask.

“Like it’s inevitable,” he says. “Like every element was always going to be in that order. Like the programme is just — uncovering something that was already there.”

You look at him.

“That’s what good writing feels like,” you say. “When it works. Like you’re not inventing it, just finding it.”

He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly like that.”

The room is quiet for a moment. The good kind, the kind that doesn’t require filling.

You are a journalist. This is a story.

“So,” you say, and something in your voice shifts, and he hears it — you see him hear it, the slight attention change, the orientation. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About.”

“About the fact that it’s day five,” you say, “and we’ve been spending a significant amount of time together.”

“We have,” he agrees, carefully.

“And I think—” You look at him with complete sincerity. “I think it’s time we took the next step.”

He goes very still.

“The next—”

“I want to,” you say, and you hold his gaze, “if you want to.”

A pause.

He looks at you. You look at him. The space between you on the rug is not very large and the lamp is doing something warm with the light and he’s in his grey hoodie and his hair is doing the unstyled thing and his expression is—

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Okay.”

The thing about Park Sunghoon, which was in the submissions but which the submissions did not adequately convey, is that he is extremely good at this.

Not in the way you expected.

You expected the practiced version — efficient, warm in a generalised way, the kind of good that comes from having done something enough times that it stops requiring thought. You expected charm applied to a physical situation. You expected to feel, somewhere underneath everything, the low hum of being processed. Another girl. Another night. Another name he wouldn’t remember by the end.

What you get is the opposite of all of that.

He notices things.

He gets your shirt off and looks at you with that expression — the brief unguarded one, the one you’ve been cataloguing — and it doesn’t recalibrate this time. He just looks. Openly, unhurriedly, like you’re something he hasn’t finished figuring out and is in no rush to.

His eyes move over you slowly. Your face. Your throat. Lower.

“Hi,” he says quietly, and it sounds like something else entirely.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say, because you can’t help it, and he makes a sound that is almost a laugh and presses his mouth to your collarbone.

And then he takes you apart.

He gets your bra off and looks at your tits with the focused attention of someone making a decision, and then his hands are on them — cupping, thumbs brushing your nipples — and you inhale sharply and he does it again, watching your face while he does it, filing away the reaction.

“Sensitive,” he says. Not a question.

“Shut up,” you say.

The corner of his mouth does the thing. He lowers his head and closes his mouth over your nipple and your hand goes into his hair immediately, gripping, and the sound you make is embarrassingly immediate. He works them with his mouth and hands — unhurried, thorough, learning what makes you twitch versus what makes you actually make noise — and by the time he starts moving down your body you are already significantly less composed than you planned to be.

He gets your jeans off and looks at you and says “fuck” quietly, to himself, like it got out before he decided to let it, and that single unguarded profanity is what tips you from oriented into something else. Because it’s real. Because he means it. Because Park Sunghoon, looking at you in the lamplight of his room, forgot for one second to manage his expression.

You were not prepared for him to mean it.

He gets your underwear off and puts his mouth on your pussy and you stop being a journalist completely.

He eats you out the way he does everything — with complete attention, unhurried, like there’s a right answer here and he’s going to find it. His tongue works through your folds slowly and then finds your clit and stays there and you grip his hair and he takes that as information and presses closer. Two fingers push into your pussy and curl and you arch off the bed.

“Sunghoon —”

“Mm,” he says against you, which is not words, which is just sound, and somehow that’s worse.

He learns you methodically — finding the specific pressure on your clit that makes your thighs shake, the angle of his fingers against your walls that makes you lose language, and then staying there, patient and relentless, not moving on until he’s got exactly the response he was looking for. You have both hands in his hair and you’re not being careful about how hard you’re pulling and he seems to actively prefer this, his fingers curling deeper when you do.

The first orgasm hits harder than you expected. You cry out properly — loud enough to echo off the walls of his quiet house — and he works you through every second of it and then keeps going and you try to pull him up by the hair.

He ignores you.

“More,” he says against your pussy, simply, like it’s obvious.

“Sunghoon —”

“More.” He looks up at you over your body and his eyes are completely dark and the composed literary student is entirely gone and something about the specific way he’s looking at you — focused, certain, like you are a problem he is enjoying solving — makes heat bloom all the way up your chest. “I want to hear it again.”

You give it to him. The second one builds slower and hits differently — deeper, rolling through you in long waves — and you’re shaking by the end of it, thighs clamped around his head, and he pulls back and looks at you and his mouth is slick and his expression is thoroughly satisfied.

He moves up your body. Looks at you. Checks — actually checks, the same care underneath everything.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you say. “Obviously yeah —”

He kisses you and you taste yourself on his mouth and pull him closer and he makes a low sound and reaches over to the nightstand and then he’s back and lining up and pushing into your pussy slow and —

You understand immediately why seventeen girls kept coming back.

It’s not just the size, though that’s — relevant information, significant information, information you are filing carefully. It’s the way he’s completely there. No part of him is somewhere else. His forehead drops to yours and he gives you a moment, feeling your walls adjust around his cock, and when he starts to move the sound he makes against your neck is low and genuine and nothing like performance.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hips drive forward and you arch up and he groans. “You feel so good.” He pulls back and pushes in deeper and you make a sound that has no consonants in it. “Yeah.” His mouth finds your ear. “Just like that.”

“Sunghoon —”

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Relax.”

He sets a pace that is deep and thorough and completely unhurried — long strokes that drag against your walls perfectly, his cock filling you on every thrust in a way that keeps short-circuiting coherent thought. His hands move over you while he moves — your waist, your hips, sliding up to your tits and gripping before moving back down — like he wants to touch all of you and is working through the logistics of it.

You are loud. You were not planning to be loud. You are very loud.

“There,” he says, when you make a specific sound, and adjusts his angle and does it again. “Right there?”

“Yes —” Your hands grab his shoulders. “Yes, right —”

“Good girl.” He stays at that angle. His thumb finds your clit and you cry out. “So good for me.”

The words land somewhere that surprises you with how directly they land. Your whole body responds to them — clenching around his cock — and he groans at the feeling and his composure slips a fraction.

“Tight,” he says against your throat. “Tight fucking pussy —” His hips snap forward and you cry out again. “You feel that?”

“Yes —”

“Yeah.” His thumb keeps working your clit, small and precise, and his cock is deep and his mouth is at your jaw and your ear and your throat. “Take it.” He drives in harder. “Just like that. Take it.”

You come on his cock with your nails in his shoulders and your head thrown back and a sound that you will think about with some embarrassment tomorrow and he works you through every second of it — hips maintaining that deep steady rhythm, thumb relentless on your clit — until you’re grabbing his wrist and making incoherent noises.

“Too much —” you manage. “Too —”

“One more,” he says. Not unkind. Just certain, the way he’s certain about everything. “Give me one more.”

“Sunghoon I literally —”

“One more,” he says, and shifts his angle, and you sob, and give him one more.

He comes shortly after, buried deep, his forehead to your shoulder, groaning low against your skin with his hips pressed flush against yours and his cock pulsing and staying buried while he rides it out. His hand at your hip is tight enough to leave something tomorrow and neither of you are thinking about tomorrow.

He stays there after. Breathing. Not rushing the aftermath.

You are not going to put all this in your blog. What you are going to put in the blog is what happens approximately forty minutes in, when you are in his bed — you ended up at his, Heeseung and Jay both absent, the house quiet and warm — and things have arrived at a natural pause, and you look at him and the tip, the one you’ve been planning since the google doc, arrives.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks at you. “Hi.”

You look down. Then back up. Very seriously.

“Hi, Gerald,” you say.

The silence is immediate and total.

Sunghoon stares at you.

You maintain eye contact.

“What,” he says.

“Gerald,” you say. “I think it suits him.”

“You—” He stops. “You just—”

“Formally,” you say. “I wanted to do it formally.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Something is happening in his face — a sequence of things, moving through quickly, surprise and bafflement and something else underneath both of them, something that is fighting very hard not to become what it wants to become.

It loses the fight.

He laughs.

Not a small laugh, not the quiet almost-laugh you’ve catalogued — a real one, full, the kind that takes him by surprise, that gets out before he can decide whether to let it, that turns into another one before the first one’s finished, and he puts a hand over his face and laughs into his palm and you watch this happen and feel something in your chest that is completely outside the scope of the assignment.

“Gerald,” he says, from behind his hand.

“Strong name,” you say. “Classic.”

“You planned that,” he says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You one hundred percent planned that.”

“I acted on instinct.”

He looks at you from behind his hand, eyes visible above his fingers, still doing the aftermath of the laugh — the residual warmth of it, the particular quality of someone who has just laughed properly and the room is different because of it. “Instinct,” he repeats.

“It felt right,” you say.

He drops his hand. Looks at you properly.

And here is the thing that doesn’t go in the blog, that goes in the private document, that you will think about at seven AM tomorrow when he texts you about the rink: he looks at you like you are the most interesting thing that has happened to him in years. Not in the charming way, not the way he probably looks at everyone. In a specific way. The way you look at something that keeps being different from what you expected and you’ve stopped expecting it to stop.

“Gerald,” he says again, quieter.

“Do you hate it?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Good,” you say.

He laughs again, smaller this time, and pulls you back in, and the rest of the night is — the rest of the night goes in the private document, not the blog.

What goes in the blog is the tip. The strategic version. The maintained-eye-contact version.

What goes in the private document, at one forty-seven AM, lying in his bed while he’s asleep, phone screen dim so it doesn’t wake him:

he laughed. the real one, the full one, not the almost. I’ve been cataloguing the almost-laughs for five days and tonight I got the real one and it happened because of Gerald and I think I need to be honest with myself about something.

I think I need to be honest with myself about something and then a long blank space where you couldn’t find the words, and then:

the ground caught you on purpose. that’s what he said this morning. and I keep thinking about it and I think I’m starting to understand what he means and I don’t know what to do with that.

You save it.

You put the phone down.

Beside you, Sunghoon sleeps with the specific quality of someone who is completely comfortable, one hand near yours on the pillow, not touching but close, and the lamp is still on because neither of you got up to turn it off and the room is warm and the scrapbook is on his desk, the gold star sticker catching the light, and outside the window the campus goes about its late night and inside this room everything is—

You don’t finish the sentence.

You close your eyes.

In the morning you wake up before him.

This surprises you — you expected him to be the early one, the rink-at-five-AM one, and he will be tomorrow and the day after, but today is not a rink morning and so he’s asleep when the light comes through the curtains and you lie there for a moment in the particular disorientation of waking somewhere that isn’t your room.

Then it lands.

Right. Yes.

You turn your head.

He’s asleep on his back, one arm at his side, hair doing something completely unmanaged, and he looks — he looks like himself. The version underneath everything else. Without the careful ease, without the recalibration, just him, and you lie there and look at him and think about seventeen submissions and the google doc and the private document and Gerald and the laugh and the ground caught you on purpose.

He opens his eyes.

Finds you immediately, without looking — just turns his head and you’re there and he looks at you with the specific expression of someone waking up and finding exactly what they were hoping to find and not trying to manage that expression at all.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

He closes his eyes again, briefly. “You’re doing that in the morning now.”

“I do it all the time.”

“It’s worse in the morning.”

“Because you’re less defended.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at you. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Maybe.”

The room is morning-quiet. The lamp is still on, pale now against the daylight. His desk has the scrapbook on it, gold star, hoonie in your handwriting.

“Rink tomorrow,” he says.

“I know.”

“Early.”

“I know.”

“You could—” He stops.

“Could what,” you say.

“Come,” he says. “If you wanted. It’s early. You probably don’t want to.”

You look at him.

“What time,” you say.

Something in his face does the thing. “Five-thirty.”

“I’ll be there at five-twenty,” you say. “To be annoying.”

He looks at the ceiling. But his mouth is doing the thing and he doesn’t try to stop it, not this morning, not in this room.

“Obviously,” he says.

Jay is in the kitchen when Sunghoon comes downstairs at nine.

He’s making coffee with the focused energy of someone who has been awake for a while and has been thinking about things and has decided to make coffee because it’s better than the alternative. He looks up when Sunghoon comes in. Clocks his expression. Looks at the scrapbook, which has migrated from the counter to the kitchen table at some point. Looks back at Sunghoon.

“Good night?” Jay says, with the careful neutrality of a man defusing a situation.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon says. He opens the fridge. Gets juice. “You?”

“Fine.” Jay pours two coffees without being asked and sets one on the counter. “She go home?”

“Earlier.”

“Right.” A pause. “She’s—” Jay stops.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Jay says. “She seems good. She’s good.”

Sunghoon looks at him.

Jay picks up his coffee.

“What,” Sunghoon says again.

“Nothing,” Jay says. “I just—” He stops again. He has the expression of a man standing at the entrance to a conversation he should have two days ago and is finding the door very heavy. “I just think she’s good. That’s all. I like her.”

“Okay,” Sunghoon says slowly.

“Okay,” Jay says.

Sunghoon picks up his coffee. Looks at Jay for a moment with the particular look of someone who knows a conversation is being avoided and is choosing, for now, not to push it.

He takes his coffee upstairs.

Jay stands in the kitchen alone.

He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At hoonie in someone else’s handwriting. At the gold star sticker.

He takes out his phone. He opens the bet thread. He stares at it. He puts his phone back in his pocket. He drinks his coffee.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 05: name it.

Full name. Formal introduction. Complete sincerity. Maintained eye contact.

Here’s what I can tell you: it worked. The overwhelm landed. He was, briefly, completely caught off guard in a situation where charm was not a useful tool.

Here’s what I can’t tell you: what happened after.

Not because it isn’t relevant. Because some things are happening in this story that I didn’t plan for and I’m a journalist and I know when a story is going somewhere I didn’t map out and I need a minute to figure out what that means before I report on it.

Tip six is boys night. I’ll be there Thursday.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[4,891 readers. 203 comments.]

KISS AND TELL WHAT DO YOU MEAN SOME THINGS ARE HAPPENING THAT YOU DIDN’T PLAN FOR.

she’s in trouble.

⤷ we’re all in trouble.

the name reveal is going to be in the comments for the rest of time.

anonymous: I go to this campus. I know who this is about. I need everyone to understand that this man smiled at someone in the humanities building yesterday and it was not his normal smile.

⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …I’m going to need you to expand on that.

laceys note // if you guys made it to the end thank u! and yes before yall ask i do have part 2 in the making 😉

perm taglist. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @engenewilstaykon @seungiesdoll @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02 @kiwicup @jakebitez @mystgene @baek-some-cake @betagalactose @kookiesnkim @honeyvelvetinez @violetteaismyfavourite @meowza1 @abbyssful @yandere-stories @imminentcodexcore @mlink64 @k4y-sh @rubadubdubinthetub @jungwno @k3nza @simjakeyjake @heeseungdada @bbrianawhatt @onlyifusayyesxx @mintchocoddeonut @sillycactus143 @heexyzy @wonkiipiilled

[svvtvenom]

holy wow. this is awesome. I am absolutely starstruck. I literally just fell in love with this series AND your writing!!

[swiftjay23]

CALL ME MAYBE? -> lee heeseung's favourite enemy!

.ᐟ.ᐟˎˊ˗ teaser!

You came back for summer. You got him instead. Sun, salt, and scandal, Jeju’s elite playground is back in session, and so is your favorite mistake: Lee Heeseung. Your enemy. Your almost. Your what-if. One house apart. One argument away. One drink too many from disaster.

pairing: enemy!heeseung x reader !

warnings: yearning slow burn strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol banter secrecy angst parties rich people (yes, that's a separate warning) loads of sexual tension porn with plot

warnings (smut): multiple sex scenes titplay nipple play handjob grinding fingering penentration unprotected sex (no!) friends with benefits enemies to lovers cumplay overstimulation... (more to be added)

playlist: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen [] Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift [] Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [] Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows []

likes and reblogs for a cookie!

☆ WORD COUNT: est. 25-30k! ☆ TEASER WORD COUNT: 1.6k! ☆

(Masterlist)

HELL HAD A VERY SPECIFIC SMELL.

Not sulfur. Not smoke. Not whatever dramatic nonsense poets liked to compare suffering to, or any of the bullshit propaganda movies liked to spread. 

No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.

Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.

You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.

Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.” 

You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”

From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”

“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”

Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.

You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought. 

You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.

She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”

You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”

“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”

You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”

Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”

“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.

Next door. Living, unfortunately.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.

Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.

There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.

Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.

Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”

Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.

“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.

“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”

Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”

You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”

From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”

No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.

“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.

You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor.

Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.

His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.

And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.

Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.

Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.

How was the drive? How long are you staying? You’ve gotten so grown up. We must have dinner together soon.

The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this.

You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”

--

perm taglist:@hellomynameis-jessica @svvtvenom @saeivra @chaebbys @wonswrl @rianzysworld @bxldak @liloaeu @seungsoftly @enstarzzi @slut4heespam @freakseung2001 @strawberrykkkl @hoonsocks @rikifishh @onlynkfans @gardenwonn @saccharinezennie @yjwpout @kpopishgirlie @minamores @chario1397 @astronomicalastro-blog1

[svvtvenom]

I'm so freaking excited to read this holy smokes

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 1

Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: footjob, swearing, oral (fem!rec), fingering WC: 17k Note: This one is a long one guys (just so you know), I really wanted to try putting more efforts in my writing and do something longer than I usually do, I don't know if people tend to read the shorter or longer fics but well... I'm really proud of myself for writing more detailed and polished fics, especially knowing that I'm a lazy person who usually do the bare minimum.

"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

Heeseung's smile widens. "Great. Let's go."

[lac4ygal]

WHAT THE MOON REMEMBERS

— y.jw

‎ꫂ᭪݁ PAIRINGS. Yang Jungwon x Female Reader

‎ꫂ᭪݁ GENRE. Reincarnation AU | Soulmates | Historical Fiction | Angst with Happy Ending | Romance | Tragedy | Multiple Timelines

‎ꫂ᭪݁ SUMMARY. Across seven lifetimes you and Jungwon find each other again and again. Every time, the pull is undeniable. Every time, he promises that he’ll find you in the next life. But the moon has watched you love and lose each other over and over for centuries. This time, can you finally break the cycle? Or is your love destined to be eternal and heartbreaking in equal measure in every sense of the world?

‎ꫂ᭪݁ WORD COUNT. 30.6k

‎ꫂ᭪݁ WARNINGS. explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), penetrative sex, oral sex (m and f), praise, first time, loss of virginity (m and f), major character death multiple times, war and military themes, depictions of violence, descriptions of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, tuberculosis, cancer, drowning, war, building collapse, themes of grief, car accident and hospitalization, terminal illness, strong language, emotional distress, references historical traumas

‎ꫂ᭪݁ PLAYLIST. What The Moon Remembers

‎ꫂ᭪݁ LAC4YGAL NOTE. this broke me to write them loosing each other over and over but the final life is so precious. it took me ages to figure out how I wanted to go about this idea but I think I maybe nailed it??!! listen to the playlist as you read; it adds so much more! reblogs, likes, comments and feedback are always appreciated and keep me writing. I hope you love this as much as I did writing it, enjoy!🤍

‎ꫂ᭪݁ TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips (just ask to be added to perm taglist lovelies)

‎ꫂ᭪݁ MY MASTERLIST.

1770 — Jungwon’s POV

The pain is what wakes him. It’s everywhere— his chest, his side, his leg— a white-hot burning that makes breathing feel like dragging shards of glass through his lungs. Jungwon tries to move and immediately regrets it, a groan escaping through clenched teeth.

“Easy.” A voice cuts through the haze, soft but firm. “Don’t try to sit up yet.” He forces his eyes open, squinting against the dim candlelight. The ceiling above him is canvas, stained and sagging. A medical tent, he realizes slowly. The smell hits him next— blood, infection, unwashed bodies, death. He’s in a field hospital.

The battle. Right. There was a battle. He remembers musket fire, smoke so thick he couldn’t see three feet ahead, the screaming of men and horses. He remembers pain exploding in his chest, the ground rushing up to meet him, thinking this is it as the world went dark. But he’s not dead. Apparently.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, soldier.” Jungwon turns his head— slowly, because even that hurts— and sees her for the first time.

She’s young, probably close to his age, with tired eyes and capable hands currently wringing out a cloth in a basin of water. Her dress is simple, stained with blood that he hopes isn’t all his, and her hair is pulled back in a practical bun with loose strands escaping around her face. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “How bad is it?” he manages, his voice rough and unfamiliar.

She glances at him, and something flickers in her expression— pity, maybe, or resignation. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. Musket ball to the chest, missed your heart by maybe an inch. Another in your leg. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“But I’ll live?” He tries for a smile. “You’re not just keeping me comfortable while I die, are you?”

“That depends entirely on whether infection sets in.” She wrings out the cloth and moves closer, pressing it gently to his forehead. It’s blessedly cool. “And on whether you follow my instructions and rest instead of trying to be charming.”

“I can’t help being charming,” Jungwon says. “It’s a curse.”

Despite herself, she almost smiles. Almost. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it.”

Over the next few days, Jungwon learns three things. One: Getting shot hurts significantly worse than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined it would be pretty terrible.

Two: Field hospitals are hell on earth— the sounds of men dying, the smell of rot and gunpowder, the constant stream of new wounded being carried in on stretchers.

Three: The nurse— he learns her name eventually, after asking three times because she keeps deflecting— is the only good thing about being here.

She tends to his wounds twice a day, changing bandages with gentle efficiency, checking for signs of infection. She brings him water when he asks, broth when he can stomach it, and occasionally reads to him from a battered copy of poetry she keeps in her apron pocket when the nights are long and he can’t sleep through the pain. “You don’t have to do that,” he says one night, when she’s been reading for nearly an hour.

She looks up from the book, candlelight catching in her eyes. “Do what?”

“Stay with me. I know you have other patients.”

“The others are sleeping.” She marks her place with one finger. “And you’re the only one who actually appreciates poetry. Most of the men just want me to write letters to their wives.”

“Do you do that?”

“When they ask.” Her voice softens. “When they can still speak clearly enough to dictate.” The implication hangs heavy between them. When they’re not too far gone.

“Will you write a letter for me?” Jungwon asks. “If it comes to that?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “It won’t come to that. You’re going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’ve been doing this for two years. I know who makes it and who doesn’t.” She meets his eyes, fierce and certain. “You’re going to make it.”

He wants to believe her. God, he wants to believe her. “When I do,” he says, emboldened by fever or stupidity or both, “I’m going to take you on a date. Dinner, dancing, the whole thing.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now— a real smile that transforms her whole face. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.” He reaches for her hand, and after a brief hesitation, she lets him take it. Her fingers are cool and steady against his. “I’d like to know everything about you.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Maybe. But I still mean it.” She squeezes his hand gently before pulling away to return to her rounds. But the next night, she comes back. And the night after that.

They talk, in those stolen moments between her duties. He learns that she’s a farmer’s daughter, that she learned nursing from her mother, that she came to the war because her brother was fighting and she wanted to help. He tells her about his life before— the apprenticeship he left behind, the family he hasn’t seen in months, the future he’d planned that seems impossibly distant now. “What will you do?” she asks one night. “After the war?”

“If we win? I don’t know. Go home, I suppose. Try to remember what peace feels like.” He shifts carefully, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “What about you?”

“The same, I think. Go home. Try to forget all of this.” She gestures vaguely at the tent, the rows of wounded men, the ever-present specter of death.

“I won’t forget you,” Jungwon says quietly.

She looks at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. “You should. It would be easier.”

“I don’t want easier. I want—” He stops, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“What do you want?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

You, he thinks but doesn’t say. I want you. I want to survive this. I want to take you dancing like I promised. I want a future where we’re not surrounded by death and blood and the smell of gunpowder.

“I want to see you smile again,” he says instead. “Like you did the other night. A real smile, not the one you give the patients.”

She does smile then, soft and sad. “You’re a foolish man, soldier.”

“Jungwon,” he corrects. “My name is Jungwon.”

“I know.” She stands, smoothing her apron. “Get some rest, Jungwon. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Close enough.”

The days blur together. Jungwon’s strength slowly returns— he can sit up without help now, can eat solid food, can even stand for a few minutes at a time with support. The wounds are healing, she tells him, better than expected. No infection. He’s lucky. He doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he’s been given a second chance and doesn’t know what to do with it. “When can I leave?” he asks one morning.

She’s changing his bandages, her touch gentle but impersonal. “When you can walk unassisted. When the doctor clears you. When there’s somewhere for you to go.”

“Will you miss me?” He’s only half-joking.

“Terribly,” she says, but there’s something true underneath the sarcasm. “Who else will I read poetry to at midnight?”

“You could read to the other patients.”

“They don’t listen like you do.” She finishes with the bandage and sits back. “There. You’re healing well. Another week, maybe two, and you’ll be back to fighting shape.” The thought of going back to battle makes his stomach turn. Going back to the killing, the chaos, the constant fear. But what choice does he have? The war isn’t over. His unit will want him back.

“What if I don’t go back?” he asks quietly.

She looks at him sharply. “They’d call that desertion.”

“What if I don’t care?”

“Jungwon—”

“I could stay here. Help with the wounded. I’m no good as a soldier anyway— I got myself shot in the first real battle.”

“You’re talking nonsense.” But her voice is gentler now. “The fever—”

“I’m not feverish. I’m just…” He trails off, struggling to articulate the feeling. “I’m tired. I’m tired of war. I’m tired of watching boys die. I’m tired of pretending I’m brave when all I want is to go home.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and takes his hand, holding it between both of hers. “You are brave,” she says firmly. “Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you human.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“No one ever does.” She squeezes his hand. “But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That takes courage.”

He looks down at their joined hands, her fingers small and delicate against his calloused palms. He wants to tell her that she’s the reason he’s still fighting, that the thought of seeing her each day is the only thing that makes the pain bearable, that he’s started imagining a future that includes her in it. But before he can find the words, she pulls away and stands.

“Rest,” she says. “I’ll check on you later.” He watches her move through the tent, stopping at each bedside, offering water or adjusting bandages or simply sitting with the men who have no one else. She’s good at this, he realizes. Good at offering comfort in a place where there’s so little of it to be found. He wonders if she knows how extraordinary she is.

That night, she comes to his bedside with her book of poetry, like she has every night for the past two weeks. “Can’t sleep?” she asks, settling into the chair beside him.

“Hurts less when I’m distracted,” he admits. “And your voice helps.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It got you to stay, didn’t it?”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she opens the book. “Where did we leave off?”

“The one about the soldier and his love,” Jungwon says. “The sad one.”

“They’re all sad.”

“Read it anyway.” She does, her voice low and melodic in the quiet tent. Around them, men sleep or moan in pain or whisper prayers to gods who seem very far away. But in this small circle of candlelight, it’s just the two of them.

When she finishes, Jungwon doesn’t want her to leave. “Stay,” he says. “Just a little longer.” She should say no. She should check on the other patients, get some sleep herself, maintain the professional distance she’s supposed to keep. Instead, she stays.

“Tell me something,” he says. “Something real. Not about the war or medicine or any of this. Tell me about you.”

She’s quiet for a moment, considering. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Anything. What makes you happy?”

“Small things,” she says eventually. “The first warm day of spring. Fresh bread. The sound of rain on the roof.” She pauses. “My mother’s garden. She grows roses, and in summer the whole house smells like them.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“It is. Was.” Her voice catches slightly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again.”

“You will,” Jungwon says with more confidence than he feels. “This war will end. You’ll go home to your mother’s roses. You’ll—” He stops, because he doesn’t know what her future holds. He barely knows what his own does.

“What about you?” she asks. “What makes you happy?”

He thinks about it. “Music. My sister plays the pianoforte, and sometimes in the evenings we’d sing together. And stargazing. There’s something about looking up at the stars that makes everything else feel smaller, more manageable.”

“I like that,” she murmurs. “The idea that we’re small. That all of this—” she gestures vaguely “—is small in the grand scheme of things.”

“Do you think the stars care about our little human wars?”

“I doubt it.” She tilts her head, considering. “But maybe the moon does. It’s closer, more personal. Maybe it watches us and remembers.”

Something about those words sends a shiver through him, though he couldn’t say why. “The moon remembers,” he repeats softly. “I like that.”

She stands then, and he feels the loss of her presence acutely. “Where are you going?”

“Just to the window,” she says. “I want to show you something.” She crosses to the side of the tent and opens the canvas flap that serves as a window, tying it back to let in the night air. Cool autumn wind rushes in, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and distant rain.

And there, hanging low in the sky, is the moon. Full and bright and impossibly beautiful. “Oh,” Jungwon breathes. She returns to his bedside, and together they look out at the moon in silence. “It’s lovely,” he says finally.

“It is.” She’s still gazing at it, her face soft in the silvery light. “When I was young, my mother used to tell me that the moon was a guardian. That it watched over travelers and lovers and anyone who needed guidance in the dark.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know. But I like the idea of it. That something up there is watching. That we’re not alone.”

Jungwon reaches for her hand again, and this time she doesn’t pull away. They sit like that for a long moment, hands clasped, looking at the moon. “Do you think the moon remembers us?” he asks suddenly.

She turns to look at him, confused. “What?”

“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who have looked up at it, throughout all of history?”

“That’s…” She trails off, searching for words. “That’s a strange question.”

“I know. But do you think it does?”

She considers it seriously. “Maybe. Maybe it keeps track of all the stories. All the lovers and soldiers and lost souls who’ve ever gazed up at it.”

“Then it will remember this,” Jungwon says quietly. “Remember us. This moment.”

“Why would this moment matter?”

“Because I want it to.” He squeezes her hand gently. “Because someday, when this is all over, I want to believe that something in the universe will remember that we were here. That we mattered.”

She’s looking at him with such tenderness that his breath catches. “You matter,” she whispers. “To me, you matter.”

And then she leans down and kisses him. It’s soft, gentle, over almost before it begins. But when she pulls back, they’re both trembling. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says.

“I’m glad you did.”

“Jungwon—”

“When I’m better,” he interrupts, “I’m going to take you dancing. Like I promised. And I’m going to kiss you properly, somewhere that isn’t a hospital tent that smells like death.”

She laughs, and it sounds like tears. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m in love with you.” The words hang in the air between them, bold and terrifying and true. She doesn’t say it back. But she doesn’t let go of his hand either.

“Rest,” she says eventually, her voice unsteady. “You need to rest.”

“Will you stay?”

“For a little while.” She stays until he falls asleep, her hand in his, the moon watching through the open window.

For three more days, things are good. Better than good. She still maintains her professional distance during the day, but at night she comes to him with her book and her gentle hands and occasionally, when they’re alone, her lips.

He’s getting stronger. Can walk the length of the tent with only minimal pain. The doctor says another week, maybe two, and he’ll be fit enough to rejoin his unit. Neither of them talks about what happens then.

On the fourth night, something changes. Jungwon wakes in the middle of the night to find her beside him, like always. But something’s different. He feels… off. Feverish, maybe, though his skin is cool to the touch. “You should be sleeping,” she murmurs, noticing he’s awake.

“Couldn’t.” He shifts, and pain lances through his chest. “Feels different tonight.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere. I don’t know.” He tries to sit up and finds he can’t. “I think… I think I’m more tired than I realized.”

Concern flashes across her face. She places her hand on his forehead, checking for fever. “You’re not warm.”

“I know. I just…” He trails off, struggling to explain the feeling. Like something inside him is winding down. Like a clock running out of time. “Stay with me?”

“I’m here.” She takes his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. That’s good.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “Can you open the window? I want to see the moon.” She does, and the silvery light spills across his bed.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just like before.”

“Just like before,” she agrees, but her voice is strained.

“I want you to know,” Jungwon says slowly, each word taking effort, “that these past few weeks have been the happiest of my life.”

“Don’t.” Her voice breaks. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I mean it. Getting shot was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it brought me to you.”

Tears are streaming down her face now. “Jungwon, please—”

“Listen.” He squeezes her hand with what strength he has left. “If I don’t make it—”

“You’re going to make it. You have to make it. You promised me a dance, remember?”

“I remember.” He smiles, and it costs him. “But if I don’t… if something happens…”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“But if it does.” He’s fading, he can feel it, like sand slipping through fingers. “I need you to know that I’ll find you in the next life.”

She’s sobbing now. “What are you talking about? There is no next life, there’s only this one, and you’re going to be fine—”

“I’ll find you,” he says again, and he means it with every fiber of his being. “However long it takes. Whatever it costs. I’ll find you.”

“Jungwon—”

“Promise me you’ll remember. Promise me you’ll look for me too.”

“I promise,” she chokes out, even though she doesn’t understand, even though she thinks he’s delirious. “I promise.”

“Good.” His eyes are getting heavy. “That’s good. I’m just going to rest for a minute. Just… just a minute…”

“No, stay awake. Please stay awake. I need to get the doctor—“ But she can’t bring herself to let go of his hand. Can’t bring herself to leave him, even to get help.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid.”

“I’m terrified,” she admits.

“Don’t be. I’ll see you again. I know I will.” He looks at her one more time, trying to memorize her face. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Did I tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well, you are. And I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” she sobs. “I love you, please don’t go—” But his eyes are already closing, his hand going slack in hers. “Jungwon? Jungwon!” She’s screaming for the doctor, for anyone, but she knows it’s too late. She can see it in the stillness of his chest, the absence of breath. He’s gone.

She collapses over him, sobbing, and outside the moon continues its silent vigil, remembering everything, bearing witness to yet another story of love and loss.

In the morning, they’ll take his body away. They’ll bury him in an unmarked grave with dozens of other soldiers whose names will be forgotten.

But she’ll remember. She’ll remember his smile, his promises, the way he looked at the moon and asked if it remembered them. She’ll remember for the rest of her life. And somewhere, somehow, the moon remembers too.

1850 — Your POV

The wedding is beautiful in the way that expensive things often are— beautiful and cold and utterly devoid of warmth.

You stand at the altar in a dress that cost more than most people earn in a year, ivory silk and French lace that weighs you down like chains. The church is full of people you barely know, friends of your father’s mostly, society figures who’ve come to witness the union of two respectable families. You don’t look at the man beside you. Your husband. The word feels foreign, wrong.

The ceremony passes in a blur. You say the words when prompted, mechanical and hollow. I do. I will. Till death do us part. Death seems very far away.

When it’s over, when you’ve signed the papers that make you his property in the eyes of God and the law, you’re ushered into a carriage for the journey to his— your— estate. And you still haven’t looked at him properly.

“Are you well?” he asks quietly as the carriage lurches into motion.It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to you all day. His voice is pleasant enough, polite, carefully neutral.

“Quite well, thank you.” Your own voice sounds distant to your ears. “And you?”

“Well enough.” Silence descends again. You stare out the window at the countryside rolling past, green and lush and utterly indifferent to your misery.

This is your life now. Mrs. Yang Jungwon. Wife to a man you’ve met exactly three times before today— once at the engagement announcement, once at a chaperoned dinner, and once in passing at a social function where you’d exchanged perhaps a dozen words.

You know almost nothing about him except what your father told you: good family, substantial fortune, respectable reputation. A suitable match. No one asked if you wanted to be suitably matched.

The estate, when you arrive, is massive and imposing. Gray stone, manicured gardens, the kind of old money grandeur that’s meant to intimidate. It works. “Welcome home,” Jungwon says as he helps you down from the carriage. Home. The word rings hollow.

The staff is assembled to greet you— housekeeper, butler, lady’s maid, cook, and various others whose names you immediately forget. They curtsy and bow, welcoming the new lady of the house, and you smile because it’s expected.

“Mrs. Choi will show you to your rooms,” Jungwon says. “I imagine you’ll want to rest after the journey.” Your rooms. Separate rooms. Of course.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Mrs. Choi, the housekeeper, is a stern-faced woman in her fifties who leads you up a grand staircase and down a long hallway to a suite of rooms that will be yours. Bedroom, dressing room, private sitting room. All decorated in shades of cream and gold, elegant and expensive and utterly impersonal.

“Dinner is at eight,” Mrs. Choi informs you. “Ring if you need anything.”

And then you’re alone. You sink onto the bed— your bed— and stare at the ceiling. This is it. This is your life now. You’ll live in this house with this stranger, produce heirs if you can manage it, and grow old in separate bedrooms. You don’t cry. You’re too numb for tears.

The first weeks of marriage establish a pattern. You see Jungwon at breakfast and dinner. The meals are formal, served in a dining room far too large for two people. Conversation is stilted and polite. He asks about your day. You ask about his. Neither of you says anything of substance.

At night, you retire to your separate rooms. He’s made no move to consummate the marriage, and you’re grateful for it. The thought of that kind of intimacy with a stranger makes your skin crawl.

You fill your days with the expected activities of a lady of the house— consulting with the cook about menus, reviewing household accounts, receiving calls from neighbors who want to inspect the new bride. It’s all terribly boring.

Jungwon seems equally miserable, though he’s better at hiding it. He spends most of his time in his study, managing the estate or whatever it is men do in their studies. Sometimes you hear him playing the pianoforte in the music room late at night, melancholy pieces that drift through the halls like ghosts. You don’t disturb him.

A month passes. Then two. You’re reading in the library one afternoon when he finds you there. “I’m sorry,” he says, hovering in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s your library.” You close the book. “You can hardly intrude.”

“I suppose.” But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he moves closer, looking at the spines on the shelves with genuine interest. “What are you reading?”

You show him the cover. “Byron.”

His eyebrows rise. “Not the usual choice for a lady.”

“I’m not the usual lady.”

“Clearly.” And for the first time since the wedding, he almost smiles. “I like Byron too. Though I prefer Wordsworth.”

“Wordsworth is lovely, but Byron has more passion.”

“Passion is overrated. Give me quiet reflection any day.”

“That sounds desperately boring.”

“Perhaps I am desperately boring.”You study him properly for the first time. He’s handsome, you suppose, in a classical way. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of refined features that look good in portraits. But there’s something sad about him too, a resigned quality that mirrors your own feelings.

“Why did you agree to this?” you ask suddenly. “The marriage. If you didn’t want it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “How do you know I didn’t want it?”

“Because you’re as miserable as I am.”

He doesn’t deny it. “My father arranged it. Said it was time I settled down, secured the family line. I’m the only son, so…” He trails off with a shrug.

“So you had no more choice than I did.”

“No.” He meets your eyes. “I’m sorry. For both of us.” It’s the most honest conversation you’ve had.

“We’re rather pathetic, aren’t we?” you say. “Two people with everything anyone could want, absolutely miserable.”

“Quite pathetic,” he agrees. And then he does smile, small and wry. “But at least we have good taste in poetry.” It’s not much. But it’s something.

After that, things shift slightly. You start having breakfast together in the smaller morning room instead of the formal dining room. The conversation is still careful, but less strained. You discover he has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard. He discovers you have opinions about things women aren’t supposed to have opinions about— politics, philosophy, the appalling state of labor conditions in the factories. “You’re very radical,” he observes one morning over tea.

“And you’re very traditional.”

“Not by choice.”

“None of us are anything by choice, apparently.” He laughs at that, and the sound surprises both of you.

You start spending time together outside of meals. Reading in the library simultaneously, taking walks around the grounds, playing cards in the evening. It’s not romance, but it’s companionship. Friendship, almost.

You learn things about him. That he wanted to be a physician but his father forbade it, said it was beneath their station. That he plays the pianoforte to calm his mind when he can’t sleep. That he has nightmares sometimes, though he won’t say about what.

He learns things about you too. That you wanted to attend university but of course that was impossible. That you’re terrified of thunderstorms. That you once punched a boy who tried to kiss you without permission, and your father was furious but your mother was secretly proud. “I would have liked to meet your mother,” Jungwon says one evening.

“She would have liked you.” You pause. “I think she would have been glad I ended up with someone kind, at least.”

“Kind seems like damning with faint praise.”

“It’s more than most women get.” He can’t argue with that.

Three months into the marriage, something changes. You’re coming back from a walk in the gardens when a thunderstorm rolls in suddenly, violent and loud. You make it to the house but you’re soaked through, trembling not from cold but from fear.

Jungwon finds you in the entrance hall, dripping water onto the marble. “Are you alright?” He’s at your side immediately, concerned.

“Fine. Just— the storm—” Thunder cracks overhead and you flinch badly. Without thinking, he pulls you against him, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s just noise.” You bury your face against his shoulder, embarrassed by your fear but unable to help it. He’s warm and solid and he smells like sandalwood and old books.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his waistcoat.

“Don’t be.” His hand moves in soothing circles on your back. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

You stay like that until the worst of the storm passes, wrapped in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steady against your cheek. When you finally pull back, you’re both acutely aware of how close you are. His hands are still on your waist. Your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “I should change,” you say quietly. “Before I catch cold.”

“Yes. Of course.” But he doesn’t let go immediately.

“Jungwon—”

“I know.” He steps back, dropping his hands. “I’ll have Mrs. Choi draw you a bath.”

That night, you can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be held by him. How natural it seemed. How much you didn’t want him to let go. This is dangerous territory even though you’re married to him. But you can feel yourself falling.

After the storm, you can’t seem to go back to polite distance. You start sitting closer together when you read. Hands brushing when you pass the teapot. Long looks across the dinner table that make your pulse race.

One evening, you’re playing the pianoforte— badly, you’re the first to admit— and he comes to sit beside you on the bench. “May I?” he asks.

You slide over to make room. He begins to play, something soft and lovely that you don’t recognize. His hands move over the keys with practiced ease. “That’s beautiful,” you murmur.

“It’s Chopin. Nocturne in E-flat major.”

“Play it again?” He does, and this time you watch his hands instead of the keys. Beautiful hands, long fingers, careful and precise.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move away. “You’re staring,” he says softly.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He turns to look at you, and his face is very close to yours. “I stare at you all the time.”

Your breath catches. “You do?”

“Constantly. I thought you’d noticed.”

“I… no. I didn’t.”

“Well. Now you know.”

The air between you feels electric. You’re very aware of his thigh pressed against yours on the bench, the warmth of his body, the way his eyes drop to your lips. “We should—” you start.

“Yes,” he agrees. Neither of you moves.

“This is madness,” you whisper.

“Probably.”

“We barely know each other.”

“I know.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “But I’d like to. Know you, I mean. If you’ll let me.”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “Yes, I—”

He kisses you. It’s soft at first, tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, and the kiss deepens. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I should go,” you say, even though you don’t want to.

“Stay.” His forehead rests against yours. “Please stay. I know we didn’t choose this. I know we started as strangers. But I…” He pulls back to look at you. “I’m falling in love with you. Is that insane?”

Your heart is pounding. “If it is, then I’m insane too.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel something unlock in your chest. Permission to feel this. Permission to want. “Come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Where?”

“To my room. If you want. We don’t have to— I just want to be near you.” You should say no. This is too fast, too sudden, even though you’re married and have every right. But you take his hand.

His bedroom is larger than yours, decorated in deep greens and dark wood. Masculine and elegant. The bed is massive, four-poster, imposing. “Second thoughts?” he asks, seeing you hesitate.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” You laugh nervously. “I’ve never… that is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to…”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah. Your mother didn’t—”

“She died before we could have that conversation.”

“I see.” He moves closer, taking both your hands. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to.” And you do. God help you, you do. “I just… don’t know how.”

“Neither do I, really.” At your surprised look, he shrugs. “I’ve had opportunities, but I never… it didn’t feel right. With anyone else.”

“And this feels right? With me?”

“Everything feels right with you.” He kisses you again, slow and sweet, walking you backwards until your legs hit the bed. You sit, and he kneels in front of you, looking up with such tenderness it makes you ache. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises. “And if you want to stop at any point—”

“I won’t.” You cup his face. “I trust you.”

What follows is gentle and awkward and lovely. He helps you out of your dress with shaking hands, fumbling with buttons and laces until you’re both laughing. You help him with his waistcoat, his shirt, until you’re both down to undergarments and the laughter has faded into something heavier. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes, looking at you in your chemise.

“So are you.” He’s all lean muscle and smooth skin when he strips off his undershirt. You reach out to touch his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm.

“Nervous?” you ask.

“Terrified.” But he’s smiling. “You?”

“Same.”

He lays you back on the bed, covering your body with his, and for a moment you just look at each other. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.”

The first touch of his skin against yours makes you gasp. He’s warm and solid and careful, so careful with you. “Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then we’ll find out.” His hands are gentle as they explore your body over the thin chemise. Learning the shape of you, the places that make you shiver. When he brushes over your breast, you arch into the touch.

“There?” he asks.

“Yes. There.” He does it again, more deliberately this time, and pleasure sparks through you. His mouth follows his hands, kissing across your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts still covered by fabric.

“Can I…?” He tugs at the hem of your chemise. You sit up enough to let him pull it over your head, and then you’re bare before him. For a moment, he just looks.

“Stop staring,” you mumble, fighting the urge to cover yourself.

“Can’t help it.” His voice is rough. “You’re perfect.” His mouth finds your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple, and you cry out at the sensation. He takes his time, lavishing attention on both breasts until you’re squirming beneath him.

“Please,” you gasp, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.

“I’ve got you.” His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest on your thigh. He pauses there, giving you time to object. You spread your legs instead. “God,” he breathes. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

His fingers find you, exploring carefully. You’re wet, embarrassingly so, and he makes a sound low in his throat. “Is this alright?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He strokes through your folds, learning what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, you nearly come off the bed. “There,” you pant. “Right there, please—”

He circles your clit with careful pressure, watching your face as pleasure builds. His other hand is braced beside your head, supporting his weight, and you can see how much this is affecting him too— the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils have blown wide.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “So responsive.”

One finger slides inside you and you clench around the intrusion. It’s strange but not unpleasant, a fullness you’ve never felt before. “Okay?” he asks.

“More. Please, more.”

He adds a second finger, working them in and out while his thumb continues its maddening circles on your clit. The pleasure builds and builds, tension coiling low in your belly. “I think—” you gasp. “I think something’s happening—”

“Let it happen. I’ve got you.”

His fingers curl inside you, hitting some spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you shatter. Your back arches, a cry torn from your throat as your cunt pulses around his fingers. He works you through it, gentle and steady, until you collapse back against the bed.

“That was—” You can’t find words. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” He’s grinning now, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Did you like it?”

“I think I might die if we never do that again.” He laughs and kisses you, and you can taste your own arousal on his lips.

“Your turn,” you say when you can speak again.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You reach for the fastenings of his trousers. “Show me?” He helps you strip him of the last of his clothing, and then he’s bare before you. His cock is hard, flushed and leaking, and you’re struck by how vulnerable he looks like this. You wrap your hand around him experimentally, and he hisses. “Too much?”

“No. Perfect. You’re perfect.”

You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him in your hand, the way his hips buck when you twist your wrist just so.

“I want—” He breaks off, breathing hard. “Can I be inside you?”

“Yes.” You’ve never wanted anything more. “Please.”

He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He’s shaking. “This might hurt,” he warns. “I’ll go slow.”

He pushes in gradually, giving you time to adjust. There’s a pinch of pain as he breaches you, and you grip his shoulders.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.” He goes deeper, inch by careful inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, bordering on too much, but underneath the discomfort is something else. Something that feels right.

“Okay?” he grits out, clearly struggling to hold still.

“Okay. You can move.”

He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The pain fades with each stroke, replaced by a building pleasure. You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he hits something inside you that makes you moan.

“There,” you gasp. “Just like that.”

He finds a rhythm, steady and deep, his hips rolling against yours. One hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again, and the combined sensations are almost too much. “You feel so good,” he pants. “So perfect. Like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was.” You’re babbling now, lost in pleasure. “Maybe we were made for each other.”

“Yes. God, yes.” His thrusts become more urgent, less controlled. You can feel him getting close, his cock swelling inside you, and you clench down deliberately. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m—I’m going to—”

“Do it. Inside me.”

He does with a broken moan, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you. The feeling of his cock pulsing, the warmth flooding you, pushes you over the edge again. Your cunt clenches around him as you come, milking him through his orgasm. He collapses beside you, pulling out carefully, and gathers you into his arms.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “That was—” he starts.

“Incredible,” you finish.

“I was going to say ‘better than I imagined’ but incredible works too.”

You laugh and press a kiss to his chest. “You imagined it?”

“Constantly. For weeks. I was going mad with wanting you.”

“You could have said something.”

“And risk you thinking I was some beast who only wanted you for that?” He strokes your hair. “I wanted you to choose me. To want me back.”

“I do.” You look up at him. “Want you, I mean. All of you. Not just the physical parts, though those are very nice.”

He grins. “Very nice?”

“Exceptional. Earth-shattering. Is that better?”

“Much.”

You settle against him, content in a way you’ve never been before. This wasn’t what you expected when you walked down that aisle three months ago. You thought you’d be trapped in a loveless marriage, going through the motions for the rest of your life. Instead, you’ve found this. Found him.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.” He kisses the top of your head. “My wife.” The word doesn’t sound wrong anymore.

The next few months are the happiest of your life.

You and Jungwon are inseparable. You spend your days together— riding, reading, walking the grounds. The nights are for other things, learning each other’s bodies with increasing confidence and creativity. You make love in his bed, in your bed, once daringly in the library. He learns all the ways to make you fall apart, and you learn what makes him lose control. It’s intoxicating, this intimacy. This partnership.

“I can’t believe I thought I’d be miserable,” you tell him one morning, wrapped in his arms after a particularly energetic session.

“I can’t believe I almost let you sleep in separate bedrooms for the rest of our lives.”

“What changed your mind?”

“That storm. Holding you.” He pulls you closer. “I couldn’t pretend anymore that I didn’t want this. Want you.”

“I’m glad you stopped pretending.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you think we would have found this eventually? If not for the storm?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe we would have stayed strangers forever.” You trace patterns on his chest. “I’m grateful we didn’t have to find out.”

Winter arrives, bringing cold rain and early darkness. Jungwon has been coughing more lately, but you don’t think much of it. Everyone gets sick in winter. But it doesn’t get better.

One morning in late December, you wake to find blood on his handkerchief. “It’s nothing,” he insists when you confront him. “Just a cough.”

“That’s not just a cough.”

“I’ll see the physician if it makes you feel better.” It doesn’t make you feel better. Especially when the physician comes and takes one look at Jungwon and his face goes carefully blank.

“Tuberculosis,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” The word hits like a physical blow.

“How long?” you ask, because Jungwon seems incapable of speech.

“Impossible to say. Months, perhaps. Maybe a year with rest and good care.” A year. Maybe.

After the physician leaves, you find Jungwon in the library, staring out the window at nothing. “We’ll get through this,” you say, taking his hand.

“Don’t.” His voice is hollow. “Don’t pretend this is something we can fix.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m fighting.”

“There’s nothing to fight.” He turns to look at you, and there are tears on his face. “I’m dying. And I finally—” His voice breaks. “I finally found something worth living for.” You pull him into your arms and let him cry.

The next months are a cruel inversion of your happiness. You care for him as he weakens, watching helplessly as the vibrant man you love fades into someone pale and frail.

He tries to stay strong for you. Jokes when he can manage it, reads to you when he has the breath, makes love to you when his body allows it though you tell him he doesn’t have to.

“I want to,” he insists. “While I still can. While I can still make you feel good.” Those moments are bittersweet. Tender and desperate, both of you trying to memorize every touch, every sound.

By spring, he’s confined to bed most days. You spend hours sitting with him, reading or just holding his hand. One night in April, you open the window to let in the fresh air. The moon is full and bright, hanging low in the sky. “Beautiful,” Jungwon murmurs from the bed.

You return to his side. “The moon?”

“Everything.” He’s looking at you, not the sky. “You’re beautiful. This life we built, however brief. Beautiful.” You take his hand, fighting back tears.

He turns his gaze to the moon, a small smile on his lips. “Do you think the moon remembers us?”

The question is strange, out of place. “What?”

“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”

You don’t understand why he’s asking this, but you answer honestly. “I’d like to think so. That all our stories, all our love, is remembered somewhere.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand weakly. “Then it will remember this. Remember us. How much I love you.”

“Don’t.” Your voice breaks. “Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I have to.” He’s struggling to breathe now, each word an effort. “Have to tell you. In case… in case there’s something after this.”

“Jungwon—”

“I’ll find you.” He says it with utter conviction. “In the next life, if there is one. I’ll find you. However long it takes.”

Tears are streaming down your face. “Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”

You climb into the bed beside him, careful of his fragile body, and hold him as gently as you can. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” His breathing is getting shallower. “Thank you. For making me happy. For letting me love you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” He’s fading, you can feel it. “You saved me. From a life of duty and emptiness. You gave me joy.”

“You gave me the same.”

He smiles, peaceful despite the pain. “Then we’re even.” His eyes close.

“Jungwon?” Panic claws at your throat. “Jungwon, don’t—”

“Just resting,” he murmurs. “So tired.”

“I know. But stay with me. Please stay with me.”

“Always.” His grip on your hand is so weak now. “Every life. Every lifetime. I’ll find you.” Those are the last words he speaks.

He dies as the sun rises, the moon fading into daylight, and you’re left holding an empty shell of the man who taught you what love could be. You don’t leave his side for hours. Can’t bring yourself to let go.

When they finally take him away, you return to the window. The moon is gone now, but you look up at the sky anyway.

“Remember us,” you whisper. “Please remember us.” Somewhere in the vast indifference of the universe, maybe it does.

1912 — Jungwon’s POV

The ship is bigger than anything Jungwon has ever seen. He stands on the dock in Southampton, neck craned back to take in the sheer scale of the RMS Titanic, and feels impossibly small. Four massive funnels reach toward the sky, the hull gleaming white and black in the April sun. Unsinkable, they’re calling it. The ship that even God himself couldn’t sink.

Jungwon doesn’t believe in unsinkable ships, but he believes in new beginnings. America. That’s where this floating palace is headed, and Jungwon along with it. He’s got a third-class ticket, everything he owns in a single worn suitcase, and hopes for a job in New York that might actually pay enough to live on.

England has nothing left for him— no family, no prospects, no future worth staying for. So: America. And the Titanic to get him there.

The third-class gangway is crowded with people like him— immigrants, workers, dreamers. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco mingles with salt air. Jungwon shoulders his suitcase and joins the queue, shuffling forward slowly.

“Papers,” the officer barks when Jungwon reaches the front. He hands them over— passport, ticket, health certificate. Everything in order. The officer barely glances at them before waving him through. And then he’s aboard.

The third-class accommodations are exactly what he expected— cramped quarters, narrow bunks stacked three high, thin blankets that smell of mothballs. He’s sharing the cabin with five other men, none of whom speak English. They communicate in gestures and broken phrases, sorting out who gets which bunk. Jungwon ends up with a middle one. It’ll do. It’s only four days to New York.

He leaves his suitcase on the bunk and goes exploring. Third-class passengers aren’t supposed to wander into the upper decks, but the ship is massive and the crew can’t be everywhere. Jungwon has never been good at following rules.

He climbs stairs, follows hallways, nods politely at stewards who eye him suspiciously but don’t actually stop him. The ship is a maze of opulence and machinery— plush carpets giving way to metal floors, crystal chandeliers to bare electric bulbs.

He finds his way to the Boat Deck, where the lifeboats hang in their davits and the ocean stretches endless in every direction. The ship has pulled away from port now, Southampton shrinking behind them. The coast of England is a gray line on the horizon. Goodbye, he thinks. Good riddance.

He’s leaning against the railing, breathing in cold salt air, when he sees her. She’s first class— that much is obvious from the dress alone. Pale blue silk, cinched waist, a hat that probably cost more than his ticket. She’s standing near the stern with a man in an expensive suit, and even from a distance Jungwon can tell she doesn’t want to be there.

Her posture is stiff, uncomfortable. The man— her husband? fiancé?— has his hand possessively on her elbow, gesturing at the horizon like he owns it. She nods along, dutiful and detached.

And then she turns her head, just slightly, and her eyes meet Jungwon’s across the deck. The world stops. It’s not love at first sight— Jungwon doesn’t believe in that. But it’s something. Recognition, maybe, though he’s never seen her before in his life. A pull, deep in his chest, like a hook catching and refusing to let go.

She holds his gaze for three heartbeats. Four. Five. Then the man says something and she looks away, the moment broken. Jungwon should leave. Should go back to third class where he belongs, forget about the beautiful woman in the blue dress. He doesn’t.

He sees her again that evening in the third-class general room. Which is impossible, because first-class passengers don’t come down to third class. Ever. It’s practically a law.

But there she is, hovering in the doorway, looking around with wide eyes at the crowded, noisy space. Someone’s playing an accordion, children are running underfoot, people are drinking and laughing and speaking in a dozen different languages. She looks completely out of place and utterly enchanted. Jungwon makes his way through the crowd toward her.

“Lost?” he asks. She startles, turning to look at him. Up close, she’s even more beautiful— dark eyes, delicate features, a strand of hair escaping from beneath her hat.

“I—” She glances behind her, nervous. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not. Want to stay anyway?”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Maybe. Just for a moment.”

“Come on.” He offers his hand. “I’ll give you the grand tour. It’ll take about thirty seconds.” She laughs and takes his hand.

He shows her the general room, the modest dining area, the stairs leading down to the berths. She asks questions— where is he from, where is he going, what does he hope to find in America. He answers honestly, charmed by her genuine interest. “What about you?” he asks. “What brings you to third class?”

“Curiosity. And…” She hesitates. “Escape, I suppose.”

“From what?”

“A man with too much money and not enough imagination.” She says it lightly, but there’s bitterness underneath. “My fiancé. He thinks he owns me.”

“Does he?”

“Not yet. The wedding isn’t until we reach New York.”

Something cold settles in Jungwon’s stomach. “You don’t want to marry him.”

“No. But I don’t have much choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not for women like me.” She pulls her hand from his, wrapping her arms around herself. “I should go. He’ll notice I’m gone.”

“Wait.” Jungwon doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he can’t let her leave yet. “What’s your name?” She shouldn’t tell him. It’s improper, dangerous even. But she does anyway. And Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.

They keep running into each other. Or rather, she keeps finding excuses to slip away from her fiancé and come find Jungwon. It’s reckless and stupid and neither of them can stop.

She comes down to third class when she can, staying for stolen minutes in hallways and quiet corners. They talk about everything— books, dreams, the lives they wish they could have. She tells him about growing up in a gilded cage, groomed from birth to marry well and look pretty. He tells her about growing up with nothing, fighting for every scrap.

“I envy you,” she says one night. They’re on the aft deck, hidden from view behind a lifeboat. It’s late, most passengers asleep. The stars are brilliant overhead.

“Envy me?” Jungwon laughs. “I have nothing.”

“You have freedom. You can go anywhere, be anyone. I’ve never had that.”

“You could. Come to America with me. Really with me, not with him.”

“Don’t.” But she doesn’t move away when he steps closer. “Don’t give me hope for things that can’t happen.”

“Why can’t they?”

“Because I’m engaged. Because he’d ruin you if he found out. Because—” Jungwon kisses her. It’s impulsive and foolish and she should push him away, should slap him, should run back to her fiancé and forget this ever happened. She kisses him back instead.

It’s desperate and messy and perfect. His hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt. Four days they’ve been on this ship and it feels like a lifetime, feels like they’ve known each other forever.

When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard. “Come to my cabin,” he says. “Please.”

“I can’t—”

“I know. But please. Just tonight. Let me have tonight.”

She should say no. She should walk away while she still can. “Yes,” she whispers instead. “Yes.”

His cabin is empty— his bunkmates still in the general room, drinking and playing cards. Jungwon locks the door behind them, and for a moment they just stand there, looking at each other. “We don’t have to,” he says. “If you don’t want—”

“I want.” She’s already working at the buttons of her dress. “Help me?”

His hands shake as he helps her undress, revealing layers of silk and lace and finally, skin. She’s beautiful, all soft curves and pale flesh, and he can’t believe this is real.

She undresses him too, fingers fumbling with buttons and buckles until they’re both bare. The cabin is cramped and cold, but neither of them cares. “Have you—” he starts.

“No. Have you?”

“No.” They laugh, nervous and giddy, and then he’s guiding her to the narrow bunk, covering her body with his.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmurs, kissing her neck.

“You won’t.”

He takes his time, exploring her body with hands and mouth. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her arch into his touch. When he slides his hand between her thighs and finds her wet, she moans. “Jungwon—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He strokes her clit, watching her face as pleasure builds. She’s gorgeous like this— flushed and wanting, all artifice stripped away. When she comes apart under his fingers, he feels like he’s witnessing something holy.

“Inside me,” she pants. “Please, I need—”

He positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her wetness. “This might hurt,” he warns.

“I don’t care.” He pushes in slowly, feeling her stretch around him. She winces and he freezes.

“Don’t stop,” she grits out. “Keep going.” He does, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside her. The feeling is overwhelming— tight and hot and perfect. He has to hold still for a moment, fighting the urge to move.

“Okay?” he manages.

“Okay. More than okay. Move, please—” He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. Finding a rhythm, careful and deep. Her legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that, just like that—”

The bunk creaks beneath them, the sound embarrassingly loud in the small cabin. But Jungwon can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is this— her body beneath his, the way she’s looking at him like he’s everything.

“I’m close,” he warns. “I need to—”

“Inside me. Don’t pull out.”

“But—”

“I don’t care. I want to feel you.” That’s all it takes. He buries himself deep and comes with a groan, spilling inside her. The feeling of his cock pulsing, of his release filling her, pushes her over the edge. She comes around him with a cry, her cunt clenching and fluttering. They collapse together in the narrow bunk, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “I love you,” she whispers against his chest.

“I love you too.” He kisses the top of her head. “Come with me. To New York. Leave him and come with me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. We’ll—”

“Shh.” She presses a finger to his lips. “Let’s not think about tomorrow yet. Let’s just have tonight.”

So they do. They make love again, slower this time. Learning each other, memorizing every touch. And afterward, they lie tangled together, talking in whispers about impossible futures.

Through the porthole, the moon hangs low over the water, full and bright. “Look,” she says, pointing. “The moon.”

Jungwon follows her gaze. “It’s beautiful.”

“Do you think the moon remembers us?” she asks suddenly. “All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”

The question is strange, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I just… I want something to remember this. Remember us. In case—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. I’m being foolish.”

“You’re not.” He pulls her closer. “And yes. I think the moon remembers. I think it’s watched a million love stories just like ours.”

“This isn’t a love story. Love stories have happy endings.”

“Ours will too.” He says it with conviction he doesn’t quite feel. “We’ll make it work. We’ll—”

She kisses him, cutting off the words. They make love once more, desperate and clinging, like they’re trying to fight off the dawn.

When she finally leaves, slipping back to first class before sunrise, Jungwon lies in the bunk that still smells like her and tries not to think about losing her.

The next day, April 14th, dawns cold and clear. Jungwon doesn’t see her all morning, all afternoon. He walks the decks, hoping for a glimpse, but third class and first class might as well be different worlds.

By evening, he’s restless and frustrated. He shouldn’t have let her go. Should have convinced her to stay, to run away with him right then.

He’s in the general room after dinner, nursing a beer and trying not to think about her, when the ship shudders. It’s subtle— a grinding sensation, a slight lurch. Most people don’t even notice. But Jungwon feels it in his bones, a wrongness that makes his skin prickle. Around him, the conversation continues. The accordion plays. Children laugh. But something is wrong.

It’s another twenty minutes before the crew starts coming through, telling everyone to put on life belts and head to the Boat Deck. Their voices are calm, almost casual. Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Jungwon doesn’t believe them.

He grabs his coat and joins the stream of people heading upstairs. The corridors are crowded, confused. Why are they doing this? It’s freezing outside. The ship is fine. But when Jungwon reaches the deck, he sees the ice. Chunks of it, scattered across the forward deck like broken glass. And the ship— the unsinkable ship— is listing. Tilting forward, just barely, but

Crew members are uncovering lifeboats, their movements quick and efficient. Women and children are being loaded first, separating families, causing chaos. Jungwon scans the crowd frantically, looking for her. There are hundreds of people on deck now, maybe thousands. First class mixing with second and third, all the careful social hierarchies breaking down in the face of disaster.

He pushes through the crowd, searching. She has to be here somewhere. She has to— there. She’s near one of the lifeboats, her fiancé gripping her arm. She’s arguing with him, trying to pull away, and Jungwon’s heart seizes. He fights his way toward her.

“—not getting in without you!” she’s saying, tears streaming down her face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her fiancé snaps. “The ship is sinking. Get in the boat.”

“I won’t leave you—”

“You will if I tell you to—”

“Let her go.” Jungwon doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hard, angry, nothing like the gentle tone he used with her last night.

The fiancé turns, sees him, and his face twists with contempt. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who actually cares about her. Let. Her. Go.”

“You’re that third-class rat she’s been sneaking off to see.” The fiancé’s grip tightens on her arm and she winces. “I should have known. Guards!”

“Stop it!” She wrenches free, stumbling toward Jungwon. “Stop it, both of you!”

Jungwon catches her, steadying her. Up close, he can see the terror in her eyes. “The ship,” she whispers. “It’s really sinking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we need to— we have to—“ She looks around wildly at the chaos, the lifeboats being lowered, the growing tilt of the deck.

“Get on a boat,” Jungwon says. “Now. While there’s still room.”

“Not without you.”

“There’s no room for me. Women and children only.” He cups her face, memorizing her features. “Please. Get on the boat.”

“No. No, I won’t—” Her fiancé grabs her again, and this time he’s stronger, more forceful. He drags her toward the lifeboat despite her struggles.

“Jungwon!” she screams. He tries to follow but a crew member blocks his way.

“Back, sir. Women and children only.”

“That’s my—” But what is she? Not his wife. Not even really his lover, except for one stolen night. “Please, she needs me—”

“Step back or I’ll have you removed.”

Through the crowd, Jungwon watches helplessly as her fiancé forces her into the lifeboat. She’s fighting, crying, calling Jungwon’s name. Their eyes meet across the distance. I love you, he mouths. The lifeboat starts to lower.

“NO!” She’s leaning over the edge, reaching for him. “Jungwon, please! PLEASE!” But the boat drops away, down toward the black water, and she’s gone.

Jungwon stands frozen, watching the lifeboat pull away from the dying ship. She’s safe. That’s what matters. She’s safe.

The Titanic groans beneath his feet, the bow sinking lower. Around him, people are screaming now, the reality of the situation setting in. Not enough boats. Not enough time. He’s going to die here. The thought is strangely calm.

He makes his way to the stern, which is rising now as the bow sinks. The deck is tilting at a dangerous angle, people clinging to railings, crying and praying. Jungwon finds a spot near the back and looks up at the sky. The stars are brilliant, the moon nearly full. Beautiful.

He thinks about last night. Her body beneath his, the way she said his name. The plans they made that will never happen now. “I’ll find you in the next life,” he whispers to the moon, to the stars, to whatever might be listening.

The ship shudders violently. Somewhere below, something breaks with a sound like thunder. The stern is rising higher now, nearly vertical.

People are jumping, falling, screaming as they plummet into the icy water. Jungwon holds on, watching it all with strange detachment.

This is how he dies. Not in a fight, not of old age, but here on a ship that was supposed to be unsinkable, thinking about a woman he knew for four days. The ship breaks. He feels it— the hull splitting, metal screaming as the bow tears away and sinks. The stern bobs for a moment, and Jungwon thinks maybe, maybe—

Then it goes down. The water is so cold it stops his heart. He tries to swim but his limbs won’t cooperate, the freezing temperature shutting down his body piece by piece. Around him, people are screaming, thrashing, dying. He stops fighting.

As the water closes over his head, his last thought is of her. Of dark eyes and soft skin and a single night that felt like forever. I’ll find you, he thinks again. I promise. I’ll find you. The moon watches as he drowns.

In the lifeboat, she’s still screaming his name. Her fiancé tries to restrain her, tries to calm her down, but she’s hysterical. She saw the ship break. Saw it go down. Saw hundreds of people disappear into the black water. Including Jungwon. “He’s gone,” her fiancé says, not unkindly. “I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”

“No.” She’s shaking her head, denial and grief warring in her chest. “No, he can’t be. He promised. He said—” But she can’t remember what he said. Only that it felt important. That it felt true.

They’re rescued hours later by the Carpathia. She and her fiancé are wrapped in blankets, given hot soup, processed like cargo. She goes through the motions, numb and hollow.

Her fiancé tries to comfort her, tries to pretend the last four days didn’t happen. They’ll still marry when they reach New York, he says. Put this tragedy behind them. Move forward. She nods because she doesn’t have the energy to argue. But she knows the truth. She died on that ship too. The woman she was, the woman Jungwon made her feel like she could be— that woman drowned in the Atlantic. What’s left is just a shell.

On the Carpathia’s deck that night, she looks up at the moon. The same moon that watched them make love, that heard her ask if it would remember.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please remember him. Remember us.” The moon offers no answer. But somewhere, somehow, she thinks it heard.

1969 — Your POV

June 15, 1969 Dear Diary, I hate that I’m starting this like some teenage girl, but Mom gave me this journal and said writing might help. Help with what, I’m not sure. The fear? The waiting? The bone-deep terror that comes with loving someone who’s about to go to war? Jungwon got his draft notice today. He came home from the post office with this look on his face— not surprised, exactly, but resigned. Like he’d been waiting for this moment and now it’s finally here. First son. That’s what the letter said, like that explains everything. Like being born first means you’re obligated to die first too. We’ve been together for two years. Two perfect, beautiful years. We met at a protest, of all places— both of us marching against this stupid war, and now he has to go fight in it. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. He leaves in eight weeks. Sixty days. That’s all we have left. I don’t know how to do this. How to count down the days until I lose him. How to smile and be strong when all I want to do is scream. But I’ll try. For him, I’ll try.

You remember the day you met him with perfect clarity. August 1967. Washington D.C. The March on the Pentagon. You’d gone with friends from college, piled into someone’s beat-up Volkswagen van with hand-painted peace signs on the sides. The whole drive down you’d sung protest songs and shared joints and felt like you were part of something important.

The crowd was massive— thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands. You’d never seen anything like it. Everyone young and angry and alive, waving signs and chanting. “Hell no, we won’t go!” “Make love, not war!” The energy was electric.

You’d lost your friends somewhere in the chaos. Didn’t matter— you were swept up in the crowd, moving with the mass of bodies toward the Pentagon. The police were there in riot gear, a wall of shields and batons, and the crowd pressed forward anyway.

That’s when you saw him. He was near the front, dark hair falling in his eyes, wearing a denim jacket covered in pins and patches. He was shouting something at the police line, passionate and fearless, and you thought: I want to know him.

When the police charged, everything descended into chaos. People running, screaming, tear gas filling the air. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Someone grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the worst of it. It was him.

“Come on!” he shouted over the noise, tugging you through the crowd. You ran together, lungs burning, until you were several blocks away. Safe. You collapsed against a building, coughing and laughing and high on adrenaline.

“You okay?” he asked, looking you over with genuine concern.

“I think so. Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely back toward the chaos.

“Couldn’t leave a fellow revolutionary to get trampled.” He grinned, and it transformed his whole face. “I’m Jungwon.” You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was memorizing it.

You spent the rest of the day together. Found your respective friends eventually, but kept gravitating back to each other. Talking about the war, about politics, about music and books and dreams for a better world. He was smart and funny and so passionate about everything he believed in. By the time you had to leave, you’d given him your number. He called three days later.

Your first date was at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, the kind of place with poetry readings and folk music and cigarette smoke thick in the air. You talked for six hours straight, until the owner kicked you out at closing.

Your second date was a concert in Central Park. Simon and Garfunkel. You sat on a blanket and he held your hand and you thought you might be falling in love.

Your third date ended in his tiny apartment in the East Village, with his hands in your hair and your legs wrapped around his waist and the certainty that this was it. This was everything.

Two years later, you’ve built a life together. It’s not much— a small apartment, mismatched furniture, more books than shelf space— but it’s yours. You work at a bookstore. He’s in his second year of college, studying literature because he loves it even though his parents think it’s impractical.

You go to protests together, make love to Motown records, cook dinners that are more ambition than skill. You talk about the future— maybe moving to San Francisco, maybe joining a commune, maybe just existing in this little bubble of happiness forever.

And then the draft notice came.

June 20, 1969. We went to the recruitment office today to see if there was any way out of this. Deferment, conscientious objector status, anything. There isn’t. The officer— this smug asshole with a crew cut and a flag pin— looked at Jungwon like he was dirt. Said being a first son means he has a duty to serve. Said if he tries to dodge, they’ll find him. Said a lot of boys would be grateful for the opportunity to serve their country. Jungwon didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the papers and walked out. I wanted to scream at that officer. Wanted to tell him that this isn’t service, it’s murder. That we’re sending boys to die in a jungle halfway around the world for a war nobody even understands anymore. That Jungwon has already served— served the cause of peace, served humanity by refusing to hate people he’s never met. But I didn’t say anything either. On the way home, Jungwon finally spoke. He said he was scared. That’s all. Just those two words. And then he started crying, right there on the subway, and I held him while strangers pretended not to notice. I’m scared too. Terrified. But I can’t let him see that. Only fifty-two days left.

July 4, 1969 Independence Day. The irony isn’t lost on us. We went to a protest in the park instead of watching fireworks. Smaller crowd than usual— a lot of people are getting tired, I think. Tired of marching and shouting and nothing changing. The war keeps grinding on. Boys keep dying. But we went anyway. Held our signs. Chanted until our throats were raw. Afterward, we walked home through the city. It was late, past midnight, and the streets were mostly empty. Jungwon stopped suddenly and pulled me into an alley. He said he wants to remember this. Us. Me. Before everything changes. And then he kissed me, deep and desperate, and we made love right there against a brick wall. It was reckless and uncomfortable and perfect. When we got home, we stayed up until dawn making love again, slower this time. Memorizing each other. Thirty-eight days.

The countdown is torture. Every morning you wake up and think: one day less. One day closer to losing him.

You try to make the most of the time you have left. You go to all your favorite places— the coffee shop where you had your first date, the record store where you spent hours flipping through albums, the park where you’ve had a hundred picnics. You take pictures, filling up two whole rolls of film. You cook elaborate dinners and stay up late talking about everything and nothing.

And you make love constantly. In your bed, on the couch, in the shower. Sometimes slow and tender, sometimes urgent and desperate. Like you’re trying to fit a lifetime of intimacy into a handful of weeks.

Jungwon is quieter now. More withdrawn. You catch him staring at nothing sometimes, lost in thoughts he won’t share. “Talk to me,” you beg one night after he’s been silent through dinner.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I keep thinking about all the things I’m going to miss. Stupid things, like… the way you hum when you’re cooking. Or how you always steal my coffee even though you have your own. Or the sound of rain on the window when we’re in bed.”

“You’ll come back.” You say it fiercely, like conviction can make it true. “You’ll come back and we’ll have all of that again.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Don’t say that—”

“We have to talk about it.” His voice is gentle but firm. “We have to acknowledge that I might not come home.”

“I can’t.” Tears are streaming down your face now. “I can’t think about that. If I think about that, I’ll fall apart.”

He pulls you into his arms, holding you while you sob. “Then don’t think about it. Just… remember that I love you. That I’ll always love you. No matter what happens.”

“I love you too. So much.” You make love that night with tears on both your faces, holding each other like you can physically stop time if you just hold tight enough.

July 28, 1969 Two weeks. That’s all we have left. Jungwon is trying to act normal. Going to classes, seeing friends, pretending like everything is fine. But I see the cracks. The way his hands shake sometimes. The nightmares that wake him up gasping. I asked him last night what he’s afraid of. He said dying but also coming back as someone else. If he comes back at all. I said you don’t die, you’ll come back and you’ll be exactly who you are now. But honestly, I don’t know if that’s true. How could anyone go through war and come back unchanged? We had sex three times today. I’m getting sore but I don’t care. Every time feels like it might be the last time, so we keep reaching for each other. This morning he went down on me for what felt like hours, making me come twice before he even took his cock out. Then he fucked me slow and deep, whispering how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how he’s going to remember every second of this. I rode him after, taking my time, watching his face as he fell apart beneath me. He came inside me and I thought: let me get pregnant. Let there be some piece of him that stays even if he doesn’t come back. I didn’t say that out loud. It would terrify him. Fourteen days.

August 7, 1969 Five days. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think about anything except the calendar counting down. We went to Woodstock yesterday. Or tried to— the traffic was so bad we only made it halfway before turning back. But we could hear the music in the distance, see the crowds. It felt important somehow. All these people gathering to celebrate peace and love while the world burns down around us. Tonight we’re staying in. Just the two of us. I don’t want to share him with anyone else. Not now.

You spend the last five days in bed. Not the whole time, obviously— you have to eat, use the bathroom, occasionally answer the door when friends come by to say goodbye. But mostly, you stay in bed. Making love. Talking. Sleeping tangled together. Trying to memorize the feeling of his body against yours.

“Tell me about after,” Jungwon says on the third-to-last night. “When I come back. What are we going to do?”

“Everything.” You trace patterns on his bare chest. “We’re going to do everything we’ve always talked about. Move to California. Live in a commune. Grow our own food. Make art and music and love every single day.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“We’ll get married. Nothing fancy— just us and a few friends and maybe some wildflowers. I’ll wear a white dress and you’ll wear your denim jacket with all the pins.”

He laughs. “Very traditional.”

“We’ll have kids someday. Two or three. We’ll teach them to question everything and fight for what’s right and love fiercely.”

“I want that.” His voice cracks. “I want all of that with you.”

“Then come back to me. Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise I’ll try.” It’s not the same as promising to come back, but it’s all he can give.

You make love again, slow and reverent. He worships your body with his hands and mouth, making you come on his tongue before sliding inside you. You move together in perfect rhythm, years of practice making you instinctively know what the other needs. When you both finish, you lie there in the afterglow, holding each other. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too. Come back to me.”

“I will. I swear I will.”

August 11, 1969 Tomorrow. He leaves tomorrow. I don’t know how to write this. Don’t know what to say that won’t sound trite or desperate or completely inadequate. We spent today doing normal things. Had breakfast at our favorite diner. Walked through the park. Went to the record store and bought the new Dylan album even though we can’t really afford it. Tonight we went up to the roof of our building. It’s illegal but no one cares. We brought a blanket and a bottle of wine and lay there looking at the stars. The moon was almost full. So bright I could see every detail of his face. Do you think the moon remembers us? Is what he’d asked me. I didn’t fully understand the question. He continued with how all the people who’ve looked at it, do you think the moons remember them and their stories? I said I didn’t know. He said how he wants it to remember us, remember this moment incase he doesn’t come back. I told him that it will, and I will, how could I forget him? We made love on that roof under the moonlight. It was cold and uncomfortable and the most beautiful thing we’ve ever done. Afterward, lying in his arms, he said it: if he doesn’t make it back that I should know that he’ll find me in the next life, no matter how long it take, no matter the cost. I told him he’s coming back to me in this one. He kissed me instead of arguing. And we made love again, desperate and clinging. We didn’t sleep. Stayed up all night holding each other, watching the moon travel across the sky. He leaves in six hours. I don’t know how to let him go.

The morning is gray and cold, unseasonably cool for August. You help him pack, though there’s not much to take. A small duffel bag with some clothes, toiletries, a few photos. He tucks the pictures carefully into the side pocket— one of the two of you at that first protest, one from a party last year where you’re both laughing at something, one from last week where you’re just looking at each other. “So I don’t forget,” he says quietly.

“You won’t forget.”

“No. But just in case.”

The bus station is crowded with other boys shipping out, their families crying and saying goodbye. You see mothers clutching sons, girlfriends sobbing into boyfriends’ shoulders. Everyone trying to be brave and failing. Jungwon holds you until the very last second. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Come back to me.”

“I will. I promise.” He pulls back to look at you, memorizing your face. “Wait for me?”

“Always. Forever. I’ll wait forever if I have to.” One last kiss. Deep and desperate and tasting of salt from tears— yours, his, both. And then he’s boarding the bus with all the other boys in their too-new uniforms, and you’re standing on the platform watching it pull away.

He’s at the window. You can see him pressed against the glass, one hand flat against it like he’s reaching for you. You raise your hand in a wave. And then the bus turns the corner and he’s gone. You stand there for a long time after, staring at the empty street.

Someone touches your shoulder— another girl who just said goodbye to her boyfriend. She’s crying too. “They’ll come back,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. “They have to come back.” You nod because you can’t speak. But you’re not sure you believe it.

August 15, 1969 I’m at Woodstock. Finally made it. I came alone. Couldn’t stand being in the apartment without him. Everything there reminds me of Jungwon— his books still on the shelf, his jacket hanging by the door, the sheets that still smell like him. The festival is chaos. Mud everywhere, people as far as I can see, music blasting from the stage. It’s overwhelming and beautiful and exactly what I need. I’m not really here, though. Part of me is still on that bus station platform. Part of me is wherever Jungwon is right now— boot camp, probably. Learning how to kill people. I hate this. I hate all of it. But I’m here, in the mud and the music, because he would want me to be. Because this is what we believe in— peace, love, community. All the things we’re trying to build while the government tears them down. I’m going to survive this. I’m going to wait for him, and when he comes home, we’re going to build the life we talked about. I have to believe that.

September 3, 1969 First letter from Jungwon arrived today. I was so excited I almost ripped it opening the envelope. ‘My love, Boot camp is hell. They wake us up at 4 AM and work us until we drop. Everything is shouting and pushups and running until I want to puke. They’re trying to break us down, turn us into soldiers. Turn us into killers. I don’t know if I can do this. But I think about you every night. About your smile, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up. About making love on our roof under the moon. Those memories are the only thing keeping me sane. I miss you so much it physically hurts. Miss your voice, your touch, the way you steal my coffee. Miss everything. I’ll write as often as I can. Tell me about your life. What you’re reading, where you’re going, who you’re seeing. I need to know that the world I’m fighting for (even though I don’t believe in this war) still exists. I love you. More than words can say. Forever yours, Jungwon’ I read it five times. Then I went into the bedroom and cried into his pillow.

September 20, 1969 I’m writing letters every day. Sometimes twice a day. I tell him about everything— the bookstore, protests I go to, albums I buy, books I read. Stupid mundane things that probably bore him, but he asked for them so I write. His letters come sporadically. Sometimes I get three in one week, sometimes nothing for two weeks. When they arrive, I devour them. He’s trying to stay positive, I can tell. But I read between the lines. The exhaustion. The fear. The slow erosion of the person he was. He finishes boot camp next month. Then he ships out. To Vietnam. I can’t think about it. If I think about it, I’ll lose my mind.

October 12, 1969 He called today. Five minutes on a pay phone before shipping out. His voice sounded different. Harder. Older. He told me he loves me, and that no matter what happens I need to remember that. I said I love him too and to be safe, to please be safe. And then the line went dead. That was eight hours ago and I can’t stop crying.

October 30, 1969 Letter from Vietnam. ‘My love, I’m here. In the jungle. In the war. I can’t tell you where exactly (they censor that) or what we’re doing (they censor that too). I can tell you it’s hot and wet and everything smells like rot and fear. I can tell you I think about you constantly. That your letters are the only good thing in this place. That I keep your photo in my pocket over my heart. I can tell you I’m terrified. Not of dying— though I am scared of that— but of becoming someone you won’t recognize when I come home. If I come home. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t write things like that. You need hope, not my fear. I love you. I love you. I love you. Stay safe. Live your life. Don’t put it on hold waiting for me. All my love, Jungwon’ I wrote back immediately: My love, I will always wait for you. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what you’ve seen or done or become. You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing changes that. Come home to me. All my love, forever.

The letters continue. Back and forth across an ocean, across a war. Sometimes they’re full of mundane details— what he ate, what you did that day. Sometimes they’re deeper— fears, hopes, dreams for the future. You live for those letters. They’re proof he’s still alive, still him, still yours.

November 15, 1969 Haven’t heard from him in three weeks. I tell myself it’s fine. Mail is slow. He’s busy. He’s in the jungle where there’s no way to send letters. But the silence is deafening.

December 1, 1969 Five weeks now. I called his parents. They haven’t heard anything either. I’m trying not to panic.

December 10, 1969 Letter arrived today. Thank god. Thank god. ‘My love, I’m sorry for the silence. We were in the field— weeks in the jungle, no communication with the outside world. I wrote you letters every night but couldn’t send them. I’ll mail them all now so you’ll get a flood at once. I saw combat. Real combat. I can’t describe it. Won’t describe it. Just know that I’m okay. Physically okay, at least. The guys in my unit are good men. We take care of each other. That helps. I miss you so much I dream about you every night. Dream about being home, about holding you, about a life where there’s no war. Soon. I’ll be home soon. I love you endlessly, Jungwon’ Six more letters arrived over the next week. All written in the jungle, some barely legible, all filled with love and longing. I’m holding onto them like lifelines.

January 1, 1970 New year. New decade. I spent it alone in our apartment, drinking cheap wine and reading his letters. This year, he comes home. He has to.

The months blur together. Winter turns to spring. Letters arrive sporadically, sometimes cheerful, sometimes dark. You write back religiously, filling page after page with your life, your love, your hope.

You go to protests but your heart’s not in it anymore. You work at the bookstore. You see friends. You exist in a state of suspended animation, waiting.

The nightmares start in March. You dream of jungles and gunfire and blood. You dream of Jungwon dying in a thousand different ways. You wake up screaming, reaching for him, finding only empty sheets. You stop sleeping well.

April 20, 1970 Eight months since he left. I saw a news report today about casualties. The numbers are staggering. Thousands dead. Thousands more wounded. I couldn’t watch. His last letter said his unit was moving to a new position. He couldn’t say where. Couldn’t say what they’d be doing. I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been two weeks.

May 5, 1970 Three weeks. I’m trying not to think about what that might mean.

May 12, 1970 Four weeks. I called his parents again. Still nothing. I’m losing my mind.

May 20, 1970 Letter arrived today. But it’s not from him. It’s from his commanding officer. ‘Dear Miss, It is my duty to inform you that Private Yang Jungwon was killed in action on April 28, 1970, during combat operations in [REDACTED]. Private Yang died bravely, serving his country with honor. He was well-liked by his unit and will be deeply missed. Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. Respectfully, Captain Haruma, United States Army’ I don’t remember the rest of that day. I don’t remember screaming. Don’t remember collapsing. Don’t remember the neighbors breaking down the door because they heard me and thought someone was being murdered. I remember waking up in a hospital. Sedated. Numb. I remember his mother crying on the phone saying that he’s coming home. But he’s not coming home. Not really. Just a body in a box.

May 25, 1970 They buried him today. Military funeral. Flag-draped coffin. Gun salute. The whole terrible ceremony. I couldn’t look at the coffin. Couldn’t accept that he was in there. That the man I loved, love— vibrant and alive and so full of passion— was reduced to a body in a box in the ground. They gave me the flag. Folded into a perfect triangle. I wanted to scream at them. Wanted to throw the flag back in their faces and demand they give me Jungwon instead. But I just stood there, numb, while they lowered him into the ground. After, I went home and found a letter. Tucked into my mailbox. From him. Dated April 27. The day before he died. ‘My love, If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I wrote this just in case. Just in case the worst happens and I don’t get to say goodbye. First: I love you. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love another person. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. The brightest light in my life. Every moment with you was a gift. Second: This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. We had no control over this. Third: Live. Please, live your life. Don’t spend it mourning me. Find love again if you can. Be happy. Make art. Change the world. Do all the things we talked about doing together. And finally: I’ll find you in the next life. I don’t know if there is a next life, but if there is, I’ll find you. I’ll find you in every lifetime. This isn’t the end. It can’t be. I love you forever, Jungwon P.S. - Remember the moon? How I asked if it remembers us? I hope it does. I hope something in this universe remembers that we existed, that we loved each other. That our love was real and true and worth something, even if it was brief.’

I can’t write anymore. Can’t see through the tears. He’s gone. The love of my life is gone. And I don’t know how to survive this.

The journal entries stop after that. The pages remain blank for months, then years. You keep the journal, but you can’t bring yourself to write in it. Can’t put into words the emptiness, the grief that never quite fades.

You do what he asked. You live. You finish school, get a job, move to San Francisco like you always planned. You go to protests, make art, try to change the world in small ways. You even date again, eventually. Nice men who try to understand why you sometimes go quiet and distant, why you can’t quite let them all the way in. None of them are him.

On the anniversary of his death, you go to the cemetery. Place flowers on his grave. Tell him about your year. “I’m trying,” you whisper to the headstone. “I’m trying to live like you asked. But god, I miss you. Every single day, I miss you.”

The wind rustles the leaves overhead. The sun shines. The world keeps turning. And you keep living. Because that’s what he wanted.

But part of you— the best part— died in a jungle halfway around the world on April 28, 1970. And you’ll never get it back.

2001 — Your POV

September 11, 8:32 AM

Jungwon kisses you goodbye at the elevator, quick and chaste because you’re at work and even though everyone knows you’re married, PDA in the office is frowned upon. “See you at lunch?” you ask, adjusting his tie even though it’s perfectly straight. It’s just an excuse to touch him.

“Can’t. Meeting with the Lehman team goes until two.”

“Dinner then. I’ll cook.”

He grins. “You mean you’ll order takeout and pretend you cooked.”

“I resent that. I’m an excellent chef.”

“You burned water last week.”

“That was one time!” You swat his arm, laughing. “Okay, fine. I’ll order from that Thai place you like.”

“Perfect.” He kisses you again, properly this time, not caring who sees. “I love you.”

“Love you too. Don’t work too hard.” The elevator dings and you step inside, waving as the doors close. Jungwon watches you disappear, then heads back to his desk on the 101st floor of the North Tower.

You and Jungwon have been married for three years, together for five. You met at Cantor Fitzgerald— both of you ambitious young traders trying to make a name for yourselves in the cutthroat world of finance.

The attraction was immediate. The love took a bit longer, but not much. He proposed after a year and a half, on the roof of your apartment building under a full moon. You were married three months later in a small ceremony in Central Park, just family and close friends.

Working together has its challenges— you’re competitive by nature, and sometimes that bleeds into your relationship. But mostly it’s good. You understand the demands of each other’s jobs. You can decompress together about difficult clients. You commute together, have lunch together when schedules allow, go home together. Your entire lives are intertwined. You love it.

You step out of the elevator on the 96th floor— your department is a few floors below his— and head to your desk. The morning is already chaotic, phones ringing, traders shouting, the energy that makes you love this job. You’re reviewing overnight reports when your phone rings. “Trading desk.”

“Mrs. Yang, it’s David from IT. We’re having some issues with your workstation remotely. Would you mind coming down to the 78th floor so we can take a look?”

You glance at your computer. It seems fine, but IT knows better than you. “Sure. Give me five minutes?”

“Perfect. Thanks.” You grab your phone and ID badge, tell your supervisor you’ll be back in fifteen, and head for the elevators.

The elevator ride down takes less than a minute. You step out onto the 78th floor— it’s quieter here, mostly administrative offices and IT. David meets you in the lobby. “Thanks for coming down. This should only take a minute. Just need to check something in the server room.”

You follow him down the hall, chatting about weekend plans, completely unaware that you have eight minutes left in the world as you know it.

8:46 AM

Jungwon is on a conference call when the building shakes. No— not shakes. Lurches. Like the entire structure has been hit by something massive. The lights flicker. Someone screams. The windows on the north side explode inward in a spray of glass and fire.

The conference call drops. Alarms start blaring. People are shouting, running, diving under desks. Jungwon’s brain struggles to catch up. What the hell just happened?

“Everyone stay calm!” His manager is shouting to be heard over the chaos. “Proceed to the stairwells! Don’t use the elevators!”

Jungwon grabs his phone and jacket on autopilot, joining the stream of people heading for the stairs. The office is in chaos— papers everywhere, computers sparked and smoking, the smell of jet fuel and burning. Jet fuel. Oh god.

He dials your number as he’s moving, pressed against a hundred other bodies trying to evacuate. It rings once. Twice. Three times. “Jungwon?” You sound confused. “What’s happening? We felt something down here—”

“Where are you?” His voice is urgent. “What floor?”

“78th. I’m with IT, they needed to—”

“Get out. Right now. Don’t go back to your desk, don’t grab anything, just get to the stairs and get out of the building.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Something hit the building. High up. There’s fire and—” He’s being pushed into the stairwell now, the crowd surging around him. “Just get out. Please.”

“I will. Where are you?”

“101st floor. I’m in the stairwell. I’m coming down.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll meet you outside.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful.” The line cuts out as he enters the stairwell. No signal.

The descent is a nightmare. Hundreds of people packed into a narrow concrete shaft, everyone trying to move at once. It’s hot and dark and the smoke is getting thicker with every floor.

Jungwon tries to stay calm. Tries to breathe through his shirt. Tries not to think about what happened, about the fire above him, about the fact that he’s 101 floors up and the only way out is down. He tries your number again when he hits the 95th floor and gets signal for a moment. No answer. Again at the 90th floor. No answer.

The stairwell is moving so slowly. People are crying, praying, helping those who can’t move as fast. The woman in front of Jungwon is heavily pregnant and struggling. He helps support her weight as they descend. “My baby,” she keeps saying. “I can’t—my baby—”

“You’re going to be fine,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re all going to be fine. Just keep moving.” He doesn’t know if he believes it.

At the 85th floor, his phone rings.“Jungwon!” You’re crying. “Oh god, Jungwon—”

“I’m here. I’m okay. Where are you?”

“I’m outside. I got out. But Jungwon, they’re saying—” Your voice breaks. “They’re saying a plane hit the building. A passenger plane. It flew right into the tower.”

His blood runs cold. “What?”

“It’s on the news. It’s everywhere. And—” You’re sobbing now. “Another plane just hit the South Tower. Jungwon, this isn’t an accident. This is—”

“I know. I know. Listen to me—I need you to get away from here. As far away as you can. Go to Brooklyn. Go to your sister’s. Just get away from Manhattan.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“You have to—”

“NO.” Your voice is fierce through the tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m staying right here until you come out.”

“Baby, please—”

“Don’t. Don’t ask me to leave you. I won’t do it.” He wants to argue but he knows it’s pointless. You’re the most stubborn person he’s ever met. It’s one of the things he loves about you.

“Okay. Okay. I’m at the 85th floor. I’m coming down as fast as I can.”

“How fast is that?”

“Slow. There’s a lot of people. But I’m moving. I’m going to make it out.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” He stays on the phone with you as he descends. 80th floor. 75th. 70th. You talk to him the whole time. Telling him about what you’re seeing outside— the smoke, the emergency responders, the crowds. Telling him you love him. Begging him to hurry.

“I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying.”65th floor. The building shudders. Different from before. More structural. The stairwell sways and people scream.

“What was that?” You sound terrified. “Jungwon, what was that?”

“I don’t know. The building just— it felt wrong.”

“You need to move faster.”

“I am. We all are. It’s just— there’s so many people—” 60th floor. The smoke is getting worse. People are coughing, struggling to breathe. Some are collapsing. Other people are helping them, but it’s slowing everything down.

Jungwon’s legs are burning. His lungs hurt. But he keeps moving. “Talk to me,” he says to you. “Tell me about something good. Distract me.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Our honeymoon. Our first date. Anything that isn’t this.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is steadier. “Remember our honeymoon? In Italy, that night in Venice? We got lost trying to find the hotel and ended up at that little square with the fountain?” He does remember. The moon reflecting off the water. Your hand in his. The way the whole city felt like a dream.

“And you asked me if I thought the moon remembered us,” you continue. “All the lovers who’d stood in that square over the centuries.”

“Did I say that?”

“You did. You said you wanted the moon to remember us. To remember our love story.”

55th floor. Jungwon is crying now, though he’s not sure when that started. “I still want that.”

“It will. The moon will remember us. I know it will.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that—”

“Listen. Please. If I don’t make it, I need you to promise me you’ll keep living. You’ll find happiness again. You won’t spend the rest of your life mourning me.”

“Jungwon—”

“Promise me.”

“I can’t. I can’t promise that. You’re my whole life. You’re everything.”

“Then promise me you’ll try. That you’ll at least try.”

You’re sobbing. “Okay. Okay, I promise. But you ARE going to make it. You have to make it.”

50th floor. He’s halfway. He’s actually halfway. Maybe he will make it out. “I love you,” he says. “More than anything in this world. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too. So much. So much.”

45th floor. The woman in front of him collapses. Jungwon and another man help her up, support her weight between them. She’s gasping for air, barely conscious. “Keep going,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re almost there.” 40th floor.

“I’m at 40,” he tells you. “Less than halfway now.”

“You’re doing so good. You’re almost out.”

“How’s it look out there?”

“Bad. Both towers are burning. There’s debris everywhere. But the firefighters are here. They’re going in to help people.”

“Good. That’s good.” 35th floor.

His phone is dying. Battery at 15%. “My phone’s almost dead,” he tells you.

“No. No, you have to keep talking to me.”

“I will. As long as I can. But if we get cut off—”

“We won’t.”

“But if we do, I need you to know—”

“I already know. I know you love me. I know we’re going to grow old together. I know we’re going to have babies and a house in the suburbs and a dog. I know all of it because you promised me.”

“I did promise you that.”

“So you have to keep that promise. You have to get out of there and come home to me.”

30th floor. Battery at 10%. “Do you remember our wedding vows?” he asks. “I meant every word. Every promise. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

“Me too.”

25th floor. “I can see the end,” he says. “I can actually see the bottom of the stairwell. Maybe ten more floors.”

“Oh thank god. Thank god.”

20th floor. Battery at 5%. The building shudders again. Violently this time. The stairwell groans.

“Jungwon? JUNGWON?”

“I’m here. I’m still here. Something’s wrong. The building—it doesn’t feel stable.”

“You need to run. Right now. Run as fast as you can.”

“I am. We all are.”

15th floor. The lights go out. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in red. People are screaming, pushing, panicking.

“Stay calm!” Someone is shouting. “Everyone stay calm!” But no one is calm. Everyone can feel it— the building is dying. 10th floor.

“I’m at ten,” Jungwon gasps into the phone. “Almost there. Almost—” The building lurches. Metal screaming. Concrete cracking.

“JUNGWON!”

“I’m okay. I’m still moving. Five more floors.”

5th floor. “I can see the lobby. I can see the exit. I’m going to make it. I’m actually going to make it.”

“Run. Don’t stop. Just run.” He does. The last few floors are a blur— feet pounding stairs, people streaming into the lobby, firefighters directing everyone outside.

Jungwon bursts out onto the street and the sight is apocalyptic. Both towers burning. Debris everywhere. Ash falling like snow. But he’s out. He’s alive. “I’m outside,” he gasps into the phone. “I made it. I’m out.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“West side, I think. Near—” The sound drowns out everything else. A roar like the end of the world. Jungwon turns and looks up. The South Tower is collapsing. “Oh my god,” he breathes.

“What? What’s happening?”

“The South Tower. It’s— it’s coming down.”

And then the cloud hits. Debris and dust and smoke racing down the street like a tsunami. People screaming, running, diving into buildings. Jungwon runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just away from the cloud, away from the collapse. His phone is still clutched in his hand, your voice tinny and distant.“Jungwon! JUNGWON!”

“I’m here! I’m still here!” He ducks into a building— a store, doors standing open. The cloud follows him in, filling the space with choking dust.

He can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except hold the phone and hope. And then, gradually, the worst passes. He’s alive. Covered in dust, coughing up gray ash, but alive. “I’m okay,” he says into the phone. “I’m okay. The South Tower collapsed but I’m okay.”

“Oh thank god. Thank god. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Some store. I can’t see anything. There’s dust everywhere.”

“Stay there. Stay inside until the dust clears. I’m coming to find you.”

“No. Don’t. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care. Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t KNOW where I am—” His phone dies. “No. No no no—” He tries to turn it back on but it’s dead. Completely dead. He has no way to reach you. No way to tell you he’s alive. All he can do is wait for the dust to clear and try to find you.

You’re running. Your phone went dead ten seconds after his did, and now you’re sprinting through the chaos toward where you last heard him— west side of the North Tower. The South Tower is gone. Just gone. A pile of rubble and smoke where a building used to be.

And the North Tower is still burning. Jungwon’s tower. He made it out. He told you he made it out. He’s alive somewhere in this nightmare and you’re going to find him.

You’re pushing through crowds, screaming his name, looking for his face in a sea of ash-covered people who all look the same. “JUNGWON!” No answer. “JUNGWON!” The dust is thick. You can barely see ten feet ahead. But you keep moving, keep searching.

You’re maybe three blocks from the tower when you hear it. That sound again. Metal and concrete and the world ending. You look up. The North Tower is collapsing. “No,” you whisper. And then you’re screaming. “JUNGWON! JUNGWON!”

The tower comes down in a cascade of destruction, floor after floor pancaking, the cloud of debris exploding outward. You’re too far away. The cloud won’t reach you here. You’re safe. But Jungwon. He said he was on the west side. Near the tower. He was right there.

“No. No no no no no—” You’re calling his phone but it’s going straight to voicemail. Again and again and again. “JUNGWON! PLEASE! JUNGWON!”

People are grabbing you, trying to pull you back, away from the disaster. You fight them. “My husband! My husband was there! I need to— I have to—”

But there’s nowhere to go. The entire area where the towers stood is gone. Just smoke and rubble and death. You collapse on the pavement, screaming into your dead phone. He was right there. He made it out and he was right there and now— now the building is gone. And so is he.

They find Jungwon’s body three days later. He’d made it out of the building. Made it almost two blocks away. But when the tower collapsed, the debris cloud caught him. A piece of falling concrete, the medical examiner says. He died instantly. You identify him at the morgue. His face is peaceful, covered in dust. Like he’s sleeping. You don’t cry. You can’t. You’re too empty.

At the funeral, they play the voicemail you left him after the towers fell. The one where you’re screaming into the phone, begging him to answer, telling him you love him. You don’t remember leaving it.

You don’t remember much of anything from those first few days. The city buries thousands. You bury your husband. And then you have to figure out how to keep living.

Ten years pass. You never remarry. Never even date. How could you? Jungwon was your whole life. Your whole heart. You move out of New York. Can’t stand to be in the city where you lost him. You end up in a small town in Vermont, working at a library, living a quiet life.

Every year on September 11th, you visit the memorial. Stand at the reflecting pool where the North Tower used to be, looking at his name etched in bronze. YANG JUNGWON. You trace the letters with your fingers and remember.

Remember his laugh. His smile. The way he kissed you goodbye that last morning. Remember the phone call. His voice getting weaker as he descended. The way he said “I love you” one last time before his phone died. Remember standing in the street, watching the tower collapse, knowing he was gone.

At night, you look at the moon and think about what he said. About the moon remembering love stories. “Do you remember us?” you whisper to the sky.

The moon doesn’t answer. But you hope it does. Hope that somewhere in the universe, someone remembers that you loved him. That he loved you. That what you had was real and beautiful and worth something, even though it ended too soon.

You survive twenty more years. Never stop missing him. Never stop loving him. When you die at 65— heart attack, quick and painless— your last thought is of him. I’m coming, you think. Finally, I’m coming to find you. And maybe, somewhere, the moon remembers.

2026 — split POV

Jungwons POV

Jungwon is running late. He overslept— stayed up too late studying for his anatomy exam, his alarm didn’t go off, and now he’s sprinting across campus with his backpack half-open and his shirt probably on inside out.

Pre-med is killing him. Everyone said it would be hard, but no one mentioned it would be “survive on three hours of sleep and questionable dining hall coffee” hard. He rounds the corner by the library at a full run, checking his phone to see just how late he is to his 9 AM lecture—

And crashes directly into someone. The impact is total. Books go flying. Papers scatter. And Jungwon’s coffee— his precious, desperately-needed coffee— explodes all over the person he just barreled into. “Oh my god,” he gasps, stumbling back. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” He looks up and his brain short-circuits.

It’s a girl. A beautiful girl in a white shirt that is now completely drenched in his coffee. Dark hair falling around her face, wide eyes, an expression of pure shock. And the second their eyes meet, something in Jungwon’s chest cracks open. He knows her.

He doesn’t know her— he’s never seen her before in his life— but he knows her. Knows her the way he knows his own heartbeat. Knows her in a way that makes no logical sense but feels more real than anything he’s ever experienced. “I—” His voice doesn’t work. He tries again. “I’m so sorry. Your shirt—”

She’s just staring at him. Not angry, not upset. Just staring like she’s seeing a ghost. “It’s okay,” she says finally, but her voice is shaky. “It’s fine. I just—”

They’re both still frozen, standing in the middle of the path while other students flow around them. Jungwon forces himself to move. He shrugs out of his hoodie— thankfully he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath— and holds it out to her. “Here. Please. I’m so sorry. Take this.”

She looks at the hoodie, then back at him. “I can’t—”

“Please. I ruined your shirt. It’s the least I can do.” Slowly, she takes it. Their fingers brush and Jungwon feels electricity shoot up his arm. What the hell is happening?

She pulls on the hoodie— it’s too big on her, sleeves hanging past her hands— and something about seeing her in his clothes makes his heart do a weird flip. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m— uh. I have a class. I should—”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “Can I get your number? So I can pay for dry cleaning. Or replace the shirt. Or—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Please. I feel terrible.”She hesitates, then rattles off her number. He types it in with shaking hands. “I’m Jungwon, by the way.”

“I know.” Then her eyes widen. “I mean— I don’t know. You just— you look like a Jungwon.”

That doesn’t make any sense, but he smiles anyway. “And you are?”She tells him her name, and Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.

“I really am sorry,” he says again. “About the coffee.”

“It’s okay. Really.” She’s backing away now, but she keeps looking at him. Like she can’t quite make herself leave. “I should go. I’m late.”

“Me too. But—” He doesn’t want her to go. Can’t explain why, but the thought of her walking away makes him feel panicky. “Can I text you? About the shirt?”

“Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll— I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” She finally turns and walks away, and Jungwon stands there watching her go, his heart pounding for reasons he can’t explain. He’s never believed in love at first sight. Thought it was bullshit, something made up for movies and romance novels. But something just happened. Something big and important and completely inexplicable.

He doesn’t know what. But he knows, with absolute certainty, that he just met someone who’s going to change his life.

Your POV

You make it to class five minutes late, wearing a stranger’s hoodie, your heart racing. What the hell was that? You’ve never believed in fate or destiny or any of that romantic nonsense. You’re a history major, you deal in facts and evidence and things that can be proven.

But when you locked eyes with that boy— Jungwon— something shifted in the universe. You knew him. Know him. Even though you’ve never seen him before in your life. And the way he looked at you— like he knew you too. Like he’d been waiting for you.

You slide into your seat in the lecture hall and your best friend Mina immediately notices the hoodie. “Whose is that?” she whispers.

“Some guy’s. He spilled coffee on me.”

“And gave you his hoodie? That’s very chivalrous. Is he cute?”

You think about dark eyes and messy hair and the way his hands shook when he typed your number into his phone. “Yeah,” you admit. “Really cute.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number: Hi, this is Jungwon. The coffee disaster guy. Just wanted to make sure I got your number right. And to apologize again. I really am sorry about your shirt.

You smile despite yourself and type back: It’s fine. Really. The hoodie is very comfortable.

Keep it. It looks better on you anyway.

Your heart does a stupid flutter: I should probably return it at some point.

How about tomorrow? I could buy you coffee. To replace the shirt.

You shouldn’t. You don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. But you’re already typing back: Tomorrow sounds good.

Perfect. I’ll text you details. And again— really sorry.

Stop apologizing. It was an accident.

Still feel bad.

Don’t. I’m fine. Great, even. I got a free hoodie out of it.

Ha. Fair point. See you tomorrow?

See you tomorrow.

You put your phone away and try to focus on the lecture. But all you can think about is tomorrow. About seeing him again. About why the thought of it makes you feel like you’re coming home.

Jungwon’s POV

Jungwon changes his outfit three times before leaving his dorm. “You’re being ridiculous,” his roommate Jake says, sprawled on his bed playing video games. “It’s just coffee.”

“It’s not just coffee.”

“It’s literally just coffee. You’re meeting a girl you spilled coffee on to buy her coffee to apologize for the coffee. It’s coffee inception.”

“Shut up.”

Jake grins. “You like her.”

“I don’t know her.”

“But you like her.”

Jungwon doesn’t answer because the truth is yes, he does like her. Has been thinking about her non-stop since yesterday. Can’t explain it, can’t rationalize it, but it’s true. He settles on jeans and a simple black shirt, checks his hair one more time, and heads out.

They agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop— ironic, given the circumstances— at 2 PM. Jungwon arrives ten minutes early and immediately regrets it because now he has to stand around looking awkward.

He’s checking his phone for the third time when he sees her walking up. She’s wearing casual clothes— jeans and a sweater— and she’s carrying his hoodie, neatly folded. Her hair is down today, falling past her shoulders, and Jungwon’s brain goes momentarily offline. “Hi,” she says, smiling.

“Hi.” He sounds like an idiot. “You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Get it together, Yang. “Should we go in?”

They order coffee— she gets a vanilla latte, he gets an americano— and find a table by the window. For a moment, they just sit there, both suddenly shy. “So,” you say finally. “Pre-med, right? I saw your anatomy textbook when you dropped everything.”

“Yeah. First year. It’s brutal.”

“I can imagine. I’m history. Much less brutal.”

“History’s cool. What kind of history?”

“All kinds. But I’m focusing on American history right now. Specifically the 20th century.”

Something flickers in Jungwon’s chest at that. He doesn’t know why. “That’s really interesting,” he says. “Any particular reason?”

You shrug. “I like understanding how we got here. How the past shapes the present. Plus the 20th century was just… a lot. Wars, social movements, technological revolution. It’s fascinating.”

“Do you think the past matters? Like, do you think we’re shaped by history or do we shape ourselves?” The question comes out more philosophical than he intended, but you don’t seem to mind.

“Both, probably. We’re products of our time, but we also have agency. We can make choices that change the trajectory.” You pause. “Why? Do you think the past matters?”

“I think…” He’s not sure how to articulate this. “I think sometimes the past isn’t really past. I think sometimes it echoes forward. Into the present.”

You’re looking at him with this intense focus, like he’s said something profound instead of just vaguely poetic nonsense. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I think that too.”

The conversation flows easily after that. You talk about classes, about campus life, about your respective hometowns. Jungwon tells you about wanting to be a doctor since he was a kid, about the pressure from his parents but also his genuine love for medicine. You tell him about your love of research, about wanting to be a professor someday, maybe write books.

Two hours pass without either of you noticing. “I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, checking your phone. “I have a study group at five.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Jungwon stands when you do, not ready for this to end. “Can I walk you?”

“Sure.” You walk across campus together, the conversation never stopping. It’s easy with you. Comfortable. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

When you reach your building, you turn to face him. “Thanks for the coffee. And for not being a serial killer.”

He laughs. “Thanks for giving a clumsy pre-med student a chance to apologize.”

“It was a good apology.” There’s a moment where you’re just looking at each other, and Jungwon feels that pull again. That inexplicable sense of knowing you.

“Can I see you again?” he asks. “Not as an apology. Just… because I want to.”

You smile. “I’d like that.”

“Friday? There’s a film festival on campus. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people but—”

“I love foreign films.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His heart is going to beat out of his chest. “It’s a date then?”

“It’s a date.”

He walks away grinning like an idiot, and when he checks his phone later, there’s a text from you: Had fun today. See you Friday :)

He stares at the smiley face for an embarrassingly long time before responding: Me too. Can’t wait. And he means it. He genuinely can’t wait to see you again. Which is crazy. He barely knows you. But it doesn’t feel like barely knowing you. It feels like coming home.

Your POV

You and Jungwon are dating. It’s not official-official— you haven’t had the “what are we” conversation— but you’re together constantly. Study dates that turn into actual dates. Late-night conversations that stretch until 3 AM. Stolen kisses between classes. It’s fast. You know it’s fast. Mina keeps asking if you’re sure about this, if you’re not rushing into things. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels exactly right.

You learn things about him: that he’s terrible at cooking but makes excellent coffee. That he stress-cleans before exams. That he has nightmares sometimes and won’t talk about them. That he looks at the moon when he’s thinking.

He learns things about you: that you hum when you’re concentrating. That you steal his coffee even though you have your own. That you’re afraid of thunderstorms. That you’ve always felt like you’re searching for something you can’t name.

Tonight, you’re in his dorm room— Jake is conveniently gone for the weekend— sprawled on his bed while he attempts to study for biochemistry. “This is impossible,” he groans, throwing his highlighter at the textbook. “Why do I need to know the Krebs cycle? When will I ever use this as a doctor?”

“When you’re explaining cellular respiration to a patient, obviously.”

“That will definitely happen. Constantly.” You laugh and roll onto your stomach, watching him.

He’s wearing glasses tonight— he usually wears contacts but he ran out— and they make him look unfairly adorable. “You’re staring,” he says without looking up from his notes.

“You’re pretty.”

“I’m not pretty. I’m ruggedly handsome.”

“You’re pretty.”

He looks up, grinning, and tackles you onto the bed. You shriek with laughter as he pins you down, his weight warm and solid above you. “Take it back,” he demands.

“Never. You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Terrible. The worst.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and then he’s kissing you, and your brain shuts off. You’ve kissed before— many times over the past six weeks— but it still feels new every time. Still makes your heart race and your stomach flip.

His hand slides under your shirt, fingers skimming your ribs, and you arch into the touch. “Is this okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah. Yes. More than okay.”

Things heat up quickly after that. Clothes coming off, hands exploring, breathless whispers in the dark. You’ve fooled around before— heavy petting, getting each other off— but you haven’t gone all the way yet. Tonight feels different. “Do you want to?” Jungwon asks, pulling back to look at you. “We don’t have to. There’s no pressure. I just—”

“I want to.” You cup his face. “I want you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He kisses you deeply and reaches for his nightstand, pulling out a condom. “I’ve, uh. I’ve never actually done this before.”

“Me neither.”

“So we’ll figure it out together?”

“Together,” you agree. What follows is awkward and sweet and perfect. He’s gentle, careful, constantly checking if you’re okay. There’s fumbling and nervous laughter and moments where you have to adjust and try again.

But when he finally slides inside you, when you’re joined completely, it feels right. It feels like coming home. “God,” he breathes, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel amazing.”

He moves slowly at first, finding a rhythm, and the pleasure builds gradually. It’s not earth-shattering— first times rarely are— but it’s intimate and meaningful and when you both finish (you first, then him shortly after), you feel closer to him than you’ve ever felt to anyone.

After, you lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied and happy. “That was…” Jungwon trails off.

“Yeah.”

“We should probably do that again sometime.”

“Definitely.” He laughs and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling utterly content.

“Hey,” he says after a while. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Always.”

“Do you ever feel like… like we’ve done this before? Not the sex,” he clarifies quickly. “Just… this. Us. Being together. Like we’ve been here before.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can’t explain it. But from the moment we met, I felt like I knew you. Like we were supposed to find each other.”

“Me too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “My roommate thinks I’m crazy.”

“My roommate thinks I’m rushing into things.”

“Are we? Rushing?”

You think about it. Six weeks is fast. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels inevitable. “I don’t think so,” you say. “I think… I think sometimes you just know. When something’s right.”

“Yeah.” He tightens his arms around you. “I think you’re right.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and you dream of things you can’t quite remember when you wake. Battles and hospitals and sinking ships. A jungle. A burning building. And through it all, his face. Always his face.

You’re officially together by December. Boyfriend and girlfriend. You changed your relationship status on social media and everything.

Mina has stopped asking if you’re sure and started asking when you’re getting married, which is ridiculous because you’re only twenty-one, but sometimes you look at Jungwon and think yes, that one, forever. Which is insane. You’ve only known him for three months. But it doesn’t feel like three months. It feels like always.

It’s winter break now. Most students have gone home, but you and Jungwon both stayed on campus— you have a research project, he has lab work. Which means you basically have the whole university to yourselves.

Tonight, you’re at his apartment (he moved off-campus this semester) cooking dinner together. Or rather, you’re cooking while he sits on the counter and provides commentary. “You’re going to burn the chicken,” he observes.

“I’m not going to burn the chicken.”

“The pan is smoking.”

“That’s just—” You check the pan. It’s definitely smoking. “Okay, fine. You do it.” He laughs and hops down, gently moving you aside to take over. Within minutes, he’s rescued the chicken and gotten everything under control.

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” you accuse.

“I said I’m terrible at cooking. Doesn’t mean I can’t do basic stuff. I just prefer not to.”

“So you’ve been letting me struggle this whole time?”

“I like watching you try.”

You swat him with a dish towel and he catches your wrist, pulling you against him. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi yourself.” He kisses you, slow and sweet, and you melt into him. Three months in and he still makes your knees weak.

Dinner is actually good— turns out Jungwon can cook when properly motivated. You eat on his tiny balcony despite the cold, wrapped in blankets, watching the city lights. “I have something for you,” Jungwon says when you’re both finished eating.

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“I know. But I saw this and thought of you and I couldn’t wait.” He pulls out a small wrapped box from his pocket.

“Jungwon—”

“Just open it.”

You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a tiny moon pendant. “Oh,” you breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know you love looking at the moon. You always point it out when we’re walking at night. And I just… I wanted you to have something that reminded you of…” He trails off, looking embarrassed. “This is cheesy, isn’t it?”

“It’s perfect.” You kiss him. “Help me put it on?” He fastens the necklace around your neck, his fingers gentle on your skin. The pendant rests just below your collarbone, catching the light.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, but he’s looking at you, not the necklace.

That night, you make love in his bed, slow and tender. You’ve gotten better at it over the past few months— learned what each other likes, how to move together, how to make it good for both of you. When you’re both satisfied and drowsy, you curl up against his chest.

“I love you,” you say. It’s the first time either of you have said it. You’ve been thinking it for weeks, but you weren’t sure if it was too soon, if it would scare him off.

Jungwon goes very still. Then he tips your chin up so he can see your face. “You do?”

“Yeah. I do. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says it like a revelation, like he’s just discovered something amazing. “I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Scared. Didn’t want to freak you out.”

“You could never freak me out.”

“Good to know.” He kisses you again. “I love you. So much. More than I knew was possible.” You fall asleep in his arms, the moon pendant warm against your skin, and everything feels perfect.

Your POV

Spring semester is brutal. You’re both drowning in work— your senior thesis is due in two months, Jungwon is applying to medical schools and studying for the MCAT. You still see each other every day, but it’s different now. Stressed. Tired. Neither of you sleeping enough.

One evening in late March, you’re both in the library, sitting at the same table but working on separate things. You’ve been here for six hours. Your eyes are burning, your back hurts, and you’re pretty sure you’ve read the same paragraph seventeen times without retaining any information.

You glance at Jungwon. He’s hunched over his biochemistry textbook, highlighter in hand, looking exhausted. “Break?” you suggest.

“Can’t. This exam is in two days and I’m nowhere near ready.”

“You’ve been studying for weeks. You’re ready.”

“I’m not. There’s still three chapters I haven’t reviewed and—”

“Jungwon.” You reach across the table to take his hand. “Take a break. Ten minutes. Please.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but then he sees your face and sighs. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

You both step outside into the cool spring air. The campus is quiet— it’s almost midnight, most people are asleep or partying. You find a bench and sit, and Jungwon immediately slumps against you. “I’m so tired,” he mumbles.

“I know. Me too.”

“When does it get easier?”

“I don’t think it does. I think we just get better at handling hard.”

He laughs weakly. “Philosophical.”

“I’m a history major. We’re all secretly philosophers.” You sit in comfortable silence for a while. The moon is visible through the trees, nearly full.

“Look,” you say, pointing. “The moon.”

Jungwon looks up, and something crosses his face. Something you can’t quite read. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

“Makes me think of the necklace you gave me.” You touch the pendant, which you wear every day. “Do you ever wonder if the moon gets lonely? Just hanging up there, watching everyone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it’s comforting. Being able to witness everything. All the love stories, all the lives, all the history.” There’s something strange in his voice. Something distant.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Just… sometimes I get this feeling. Like I’m supposed to remember something important but I can’t quite grasp it.” He shakes his head. “Ignore me. I’m sleep-deprived and saying weird things.”

“I get that feeling too sometimes.”

He turns to look at you. “You do?”

“Yeah. Especially when I’m with you. Like there’s something just out of reach. Something I should know.” You’re both quiet, staring at each other, and the moment feels heavy with meaning you can’t articulate.

“Weird,” Jungwon says finally.

“Yeah. Weird.” You go back to studying, but the feeling lingers.

—

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re driving back from the library— late night, you stayed to finish a research paper. You’re tired, ready to collapse into bed. The light is green. You’re sure it’s green. You start through the intersection and— impact.

The car hits yours from the side, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world spins. Your head slams against something. And then everything goes dark.

Jungwon’s POV

Jungwon is in his apartment, half-asleep on the couch with a textbook on his chest, when his phone rings. Unknown number. He almost doesn’t answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Yang Jungwon?” A woman’s voice, professional and careful.

“Yes?”

“This is Mercy General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”

His blood turns to ice. “What happened? Is she okay? What happened?”

“There’s been an accident. A car accident. She’s alive, but she’s unconscious. You should come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Jungwon doesn’t remember the drive. One minute he’s in his apartment, the next he’s running through the hospital corridors, demanding to know where you are. They lead him to a room in the ICU. You’re there, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Your face is pale, bruised. There’s a bandage around your head.

“Oh god,” he breathes.

A doctor intercepts him before he can reach you. “Mr. Yang?”

“How is she? What happened?”

“She was hit by another vehicle. Traumatic brain injury, some internal bleeding. We’ve stabilized her, but she’s in a coma.”

“A coma.”

“Her brain is swelling. We’re monitoring closely. The next 24-48 hours are critical.”

Jungwon sinks into a chair, his legs giving out. “Can I—can I sit with her?”

“Of course.”

He pulls a chair to your bedside and takes your hand. It’s cold. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”

The machines beep steadily. Your chest rises and falls. But you don’t respond. Jungwon sits there for hours. Days. He leaves only when forced, only for bathroom breaks and when the nurses make him eat something.

He talks to you. Tells you about his day, about stupid things happening in his classes, about how much he misses you. Begs you to wake up. On the third day, your eyes open.

Your POV

You wake up slowly, consciousness returning in pieces. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Beeping sounds. The smell of antiseptic. Hospital. You try to sit up and pain lances through your head.

“Hey, hey, don’t move.” A familiar voice. Warm hands gently pushing you back down. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You were in an accident.”

You turn your head— slowly, because it hurts— and see Jungwon. And suddenly, you remember everything. Not just this life. Not just Jungwon the pre-med student you’ve been dating for nine months. You remember everything.

1770. A field hospital, a dying soldier, promises whispered under candlelight. 1850s. An arranged marriage that became real love, tuberculosis stealing him away. 1912. The Titanic, stolen moments, his face disappearing into chaos. 1969. Vietnam, journal entries, a letter written the day before he died. 2001. September 11th, a phone call, watching towers fall.

Five lifetimes. Five times you’ve found each other. Five times you’ve lost each other. And now this. Now here. You gasp, tears streaming down your face. “You,” you sob. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

He looks confused and worried. “What? Hey, it’s okay, you’re probably disoriented—”

“I remember,” you say desperately. “I remember all of it. The hospital in 1770. Our wedding in 1850. The ship. The war. The towers. I remember, Jungwon. I remember everything.”

He goes very still. “What did you just say?”

“I remember. All the lifetimes. All the times we found each other and lost each other. The moon— you always asked if the moon remembers us. And you always said you’d find me in the next life. And you did. You always did.”

Jungwon is staring at you, his face white. “How do you—” His voice breaks. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I was there. I was there every time. And so were you.”

“I thought I was crazy,” he whispers. “I’ve been having these dreams since I was a kid. Different times, different lives, but always you. Always the same person. I thought they were just dreams. Just my brain making up stories.”

“They weren’t dreams. They were memories.” You’re both crying now, holding onto each other like you’re drowning.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jungwon says. “My whole life, I’ve been looking for you. And when I saw you that day on campus, I knew. I knew it was you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it sounded insane! How do you tell someone you just met that you’ve loved them for centuries? That you remember dying in their arms in a field hospital in 1770?”

“You remember that?”

“I remember all of it. Every lifetime. Every death. Every promise I made to find you again.” He cups your face. “And here you are. You’re finally here and you remember me.”

“I almost died,” you realize. “That’s why I remember now. Being so close to death triggered the memories.”

“I don’t care why. I’m just glad you do.” He kisses you desperately. “I love you. I’ve loved you for lifetimes. Literal lifetimes.”

“I love you too. In every life, I’ve loved you.” You hold each other, crying and laughing and trying to process the impossible truth: you’ve lived before. Multiple times. And every single time, you’ve found each other. And every single time, you’ve lost each other.

“Not this time,” Jungwon says fiercely, like he can read your thoughts. “This time we’re not losing each other. This time we get our happy ending.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m not letting you go. Not for anything. We’ve waited too long. Suffered too much. This time, we’re keeping each other.” You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But you’ve believed before. And it’s never been enough.

Six Months Later - Your POV

You recover from the accident slowly but completely. The doctors call it a miracle— the brain injury should have had lasting effects, but somehow you’re fine. You know it’s not a miracle. It’s something else. Something to do with the lifetimes, with the universe giving you another chance.

You and Jungwon are inseparable now. Not in the cute couple way— in the “we’ve literally died and been reborn six times to find each other” way. You talk about the past lives constantly. Comparing memories, filling in gaps. He remembers things you don’t. You remember things he doesn’t. Together, you piece together the full story.

“In 1770, you promised me a dance,” you tell him one night.

“Did I?”

“You said when you were healed, you’d take me dancing. But you died before you could.”

“Then I owe you a dance.” He stands, offering his hand. “May I have this dance?”

There’s no music, but he pulls you into his arms anyway, swaying with you in the middle of his living room. You rest your head on his chest and close your eyes. “This is nice,” you murmur.

“Better late than never.”

“Only about 250 years late.”

He laughs. “I’m nothing if not punctual.”

You dance until you’re both tired, then collapse on the couch together. “Do you think it will happen again?” you ask quietly. “Do you think we’ll lose each other?”

“I don’t know.” His arm tightens around you. “But even if we do, I’ll find you again. I always do.”

“That’s not comforting. I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want to go through that pain.”

“Me neither. But if I had to choose between loving you and losing you, or never loving you at all? I’d choose loving you every time.”

You know he means it. Across five lifetimes, through wars and sickness and disasters, he’s chosen to love you every single time. “Marry me,” you say suddenly. “We’ve wasted enough time across enough lifetimes. Let’s not waste any more.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely serious. I love you. You love me. We’ve loved each other for centuries. Why wait?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Okay. Yes. Let’s get married. Let’s do it right this time. Let’s build the life we’ve never gotten to have.”

You kiss him, laughing and crying at the same time. “When?”

“Now. Tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care. Whenever you want.”

“Next month,” you decide. “Small ceremony. Just us and a few friends. Nothing fancy.”

“Perfect.”

You get married in October, in a small ceremony in Central Park. You wear a simple white dress. He wears a suit. Mina and Jake are there, along with a handful of other friends. The officiant asks if you have your own vows.

“I do,” Jungwon says, taking your hands. “I’ve loved you in more lifetimes than most people get to experience. I’ve died loving you. I’ve been reborn to find you. And every single time, choosing you has been the easiest decision I’ve ever made. This time, I’m choosing you for the rest of this life. However long that is. I’m choosing you every day, in every way. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you.”

You’re crying. “I promise to love you for the rest of this life and whatever comes after. I promise to remember. I promise to choose you, just like you’ve chosen me, across time and space and whatever separates us. You’re my home. You always have been.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He kisses you, and it tastes like forever.

Fifteen Years Later

You’re both in your fifties now. Jungwon is a successful cardiologist. You’re a tenured professor with three published books. You never have kids. It’s a choice you make together— you’ve lost each other too many times, you can’t imagine bringing children into that uncertainty. 

Instead, you pour your love into each other, into your careers, into making the world a little bit better. Jungwon volunteers at free clinics. You mentor graduate students. You both donate to causes you believe in. Your lives are full and meaningful and happy.

One evening, you’re both at a gala for Jungwon’s hospital. Fancy clothes, fancy food, schmoozing with donors. It’s not your favorite thing, but you do it for him. During the dancing portion of the evening, he pulls you onto the floor. “Remember when I promised you a dance in 1770?” he says, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours.

“You mean the dance we had in your apartment about twenty years ago?”

“That was a down payment. This is the real thing.”

You laugh and let him lead you around the floor. He’s a good dancer— you both are, after years of these events. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask quietly. “Choosing me? Building a life with someone who carries all this history?”

“Never. Not for a single second.” He pulls you closer. “Do you?”

“No. But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If we’d been normal people. If we’d met in just this lifetime and didn’t carry all that weight.”

“We wouldn’t be us. All those lifetimes, all that loss— it made us who we are. It taught us to appreciate what we have. To not take a single moment for granted.”

“That’s true.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too. In this life and every other.” 

You’re not sure what the future holds. You’re not sure if the two of you broke the cycle. But right here, in 2026, is all that matters. You found eachother after seven lifetimes.

And no matter what, the moon will be watching. The moon always watches. And the moon always remembers.

[elikajinnie]

P: Death Eater!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (MDNI 18+) PART 2

Warnings: Hogwarts!AU, Murder, Slight Torture, Blood, Injury, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Edging, Emotional Manipulation, Minor Jealousy, Psychological Manipulation, Overstimulation, Angst, Explicit Content, Corruption, Oral Sex, Fingering, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Choking, Needy!Sunghoon, Dub-Con, Belly Bulge, Praise Kink, Degradation, Sadism/ Masochism, Mind Break, Objectification, Body Worship, Cock Warming, Animagus Transformation, hoon is a snake (he does stuff to you in that form,) does that count as bestiality??

Wordcount: 19,4k

Synopsis: At Hogwarts, you were golden. He chose darkness and shattered you. Years later, you hesitate to kill him. He kills for you instead. Now you teach at Hogwarts, trying to forget him. But Park Sunghoon never forgot you, now he has decided he won’t lose you twice.

a/n: I admit that i had E.T. by Katy Perry on repeat writing most of this. So i recommend that :) I also wanna specify that i tried to set this before Harry was born in the OG universe... if that wasnt clear. Anyways, I hope you guys will enjoy and thanks for the positive feedback on part 1 :D (I recommend reading part 1 if you havent already to understand part 2.) REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

Years passed in the quiet, methodical way that time has when you're building something new over the ruins of something old.

You never saw Sunghoon again after graduation.

You didn't really expect to.

The wizarding world is large enough to swallow people whole if they want to disappear, and Sunghoon had always been good at vanishing—first from your life in pieces, then completely. No owls. No chance of sightings. No whispered rumors of him among the Ministry corridors or at Ministry galas where old Hogwarts names still carried weight. He became absence. A name you stopped saying aloud. A face you trained yourself not to picture when the nights grew too quiet.

You threw yourself into Auror training with the same single-minded ferocity you'd used to claw your way through NEWTs. The program was brutal—dueling drills until your arms shook, dark-arts theory that left you nauseous, night patrols in places most people never wanted to go. You excelled. Not because it was easy, but because failure wasn't an option anymore. Every time doubt crept in, every time you caught yourself twisting the black serpent ring on your finger and remembering his voice saying it's over—you channeled it into precision. Into control. Into becoming someone who could never again be broken by another person's choices.

You earned your full Auror badge two years after graduation.

Your parents framed that letter too.

You moved up quickly—field assignments, high-risk raids, interrogations where your calm voice and unflinching stare made hardened suspects falter. You took no partners at first; trust was still a wound that hadn't fully scarred over. Eventually you let one man in: Thorne, a senior Auror fifteen years your senior with salt-and-pepper hair and a dry sense of humor that reminded you, distantly, of the way Sunghoon used to tease you before everything turned cold. Thorne took you under his wing without asking permission. He taught you how to anticipate a Death Eater's Apparition flicker, how to read micro-expressions in a suspect's face, how to keep breathing when the Killing Curse passes close enough to feel the air move.

He became the closest thing to family you allowed yourself outside blood.

And then, four years after graduation—late autumn, Tuesday—a tip came in.

A suspected safehouse in the Yorkshire moors. High-level Death Eaters rumored to be regrouping after a string of Ministry leaks. The raid was scheduled for midnight. You were assigned to the strike team. Thorne was leading your flank.

It went wrong almost immediately.

The moment the first Aurors breached the warded perimeter, green light answered. Avada Kedavra after Avada Kedavra. Spells clashed in midair: red Stunners, blue Shield Charms, purple hexes that made skin blister on contact. The night turned into chaos—shouts, cracks of Apparition, the wet thud of bodies hitting frozen earth. You fought like a machine: Apparating in bursts, firing Incarcerous ropes that wrapped around masked figures, shielding fallen colleagues, countering curses with a flick of your wand that had become second nature.

Then you saw it.

Thorne—broad-shouldered, steady Thorne—took a jet of green light square to the chest. The curse lifted him off his feet like a rag doll. He flew backward, robes billowing, and landed hard on the frost-crusted ground twenty feet away. He didn't move again. Didn't twitch. Didn't breathe.

Time slowed. 

You felt the scream rise in your throat but swallowed it. Felt the cold fury coil in your veins like venom.

The Death Eater responsible was already turning—black robes swirling, mask gleaming under moonlight. Tall. Lean. Moving with lethal grace.

You Apparated without thinking.

Crack.

You reappeared ten feet behind him. Fired a Stunner. He twisted mid-air, vanished. Crack. You followed. 

Again. Again. Again. 

A deadly game of leapfrog across moorland and hedgerows until the landscape gave way to crooked headstones and moon-bleached marble.

A graveyard.

He Apparated one final time inside the iron gates. You landed right behind him—boots crunching on frozen grass—and fired a full-body bind.

The spell struck true.

He went down hard— slamming into a weathered angel statue, and crumpled to the ground between two cracked headstones. His wand flew from his grip, skittering across the ground to land several meters away.

You advanced—wand tight in your grip, breathing controlled, heart slamming so hard it hurt.

"Hands where I can see them," you said, voice flat. Auror protocol. "You're under arrest. Resist and I will use force."

He stayed crouched for a long second—shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Then, slowly, he lifted one gloved hand, not to surrender but instead to his mask.

A whispered Finite Incantatem.

The intricate dark metal shimmered, dissolved into coiling smoke, and drifted away on the night wind.

And there he was.

Park motherfucking Sunghoon.

Older. Harder. Hollowed in places that used to be soft. The boy who once kissed you like the world was ending had been replaced by this man—taller somehow, broader through the shoulders beneath the heavy Death Eater robes, dark hair falling in careless strands across his forehead and brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones. A thin scar curved along his left jaw, silver-pink against pale skin. Stubble shadowed the elegant cut of his face, rough where he used to be meticulously smooth. But the eyes—those eyes that once looked at you like you were the only star worth following—were the worst.

They weren’t soft anymore.

They were dark. Wild. Crazed. Pupils blown wide under the moon, glittering with something feral and hungry and unhinged. They locked onto you with the precision of a predator that had finally found the one thing it had been hunting for years.

Your whole body reacted before your mind could catch up.

A shiver raced down your spine—cold and wrong in all the ways that still felt delicious. Your stomach twisted. Heat crawled up your throat even as revulsion burned behind your ribs. Every nerve screamed danger and memory at the same time, and the conflicting signals left you dizzy, rooted to the frozen ground with your wand still trained on him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the wand. Just stayed crouched—knees planted, black-gloved hands loose at his sides—like he was deciding whether to pounce or play.

Then he smiled.

Slowly.

The corner of his mouth lifted first before spreading into something lazy, and far too knowing. It wasn’t the shy, private curve he used to give you in empty corridors. This was the smile of a man who knew exactly what the sight of him did to you after all these years. A man who could still read every micro-twitch of your expression like an open book.

His gaze never left yours. Not for a second.

“Hello, love.”

The words rolled out in a low, velvet purr—thick with power, dark with intent, every syllable dripping like honey laced with arsenic. His voice had deepened over the years, roughened at the edges, but the cadence was the same. It landed like a hex you hadn’t braced for, curling around your ribs and squeezing.

For one frozen heartbeat, you couldn’t move.

Your wand stayed locked on him—steady in theory, trembling in reality. The graveyard wind sliced between you, carrying the faint old scent of frost-bitten marble. Your breath fogged in small, erratic clouds. The black serpent on your finger burned—insistent, alive—like it recognized its maker and was trying to crawl off your hand to reach him.

You felt it all at once: the old ache blooming fresh behind your sternum, the muscle memory of his mouth on your throat, the ghost of his hands. And beneath it was the rage. The fury that had kept you upright for years. The fury that had turned you into someone who could stare down Death Eaters without flinching.

You hardened your face.

It happened in stages: jaw clenching until your teeth ached, eyes narrowing to slits, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. The tremor in your wand hand steadied—not gone, but locked down, forced into submission by sheer will. You drew your shoulders back. Lifted your chin. Let every inch of Auror training snap into place like armor locking over skin.

You were no longer the girl who cried in a forgotten study room. 

You were the woman who had walked through fire and come out the other side with a badge and a kill count.

And he—Park Sunghoon, masked killer, boy who once claimed your heart and then discarded it—was kneeling in front of you with no wand, no backup, no escape.

Your voice came out low. Cold. Professional.

“Stand up. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just watched you—head tilted, that slow, dangerous smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. Like he was cataloguing every change: the sharper line of your cheekbones, the way you held yourself now, the faint scar across your left eyebrow from a raid two years ago that he would never know the story of. Like he was drinking you in after years of starvation.

Then he rose in one fluid motion. No sudden jerks. No attempt to lunge. Just unfolding from his crouch until he stood at his full height while the black robes fell around him like spilled ink. He lifted both hands slowly, palms open, fingers spread. 

“Park Sunghoon,” you said, each syllable clipped and precise, voice carrying the flat authority of someone who had read this script to dozens of masked figures before him, “you are under arrest for murder, for being a follower of the Dark Lord, and use of the Unforgivable Curses. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of magical law.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked at you.

The stare was raking—from the tight knot of your hair down the sharp line of your jaw, over the fitted black Auror robes that hugged your frame, lingering on the way your chest rose and fell too fast despite your control, then lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the taut stretch of fabric over your thighs, before dragging back up to your face.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t ashamed. 

Your skin prickled. Heat crawled up your throat even as ice settled in your stomach.

“Quit it,” you snapped, voice low and dangerous.

He laughed. The sound vibrated through the cold air and straight into your bones. The same laugh he used to give you when you tried to scold him in empty classrooms. 

“Quit what?” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to let a lock of dark hair fall across his brow. “Looking at what’s mine?” His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You still bite the inside of your cheek when you’re trying not to react. Still—” he took one step forward despite the wand aimed at his sternum—“get wet just thinking about what I used to do to you.”

The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk. Fury ignited behind your ribs—bright, blinding. 

You opened your mouth to lash out—to spit protocol, to threaten him with every curse in the Auror handbook, to remind him exactly who held the power here—

A spell slammed into your back.

No warning. No sound but the sharp crack of magic in the air.

The force lifted you clean off your feet. Your wand flew from your grip mid-flight. You twisted helplessly—boots scraping nothing—before crashing hard onto frozen ground meters away. Pain exploded through your ribs, your shoulder, the back of your skull. Breath punched out of you in a ragged gasp. You rolled instinctively, trying to find your wand, trying to rise—

“Crucio!”

The word ripped through the night gleefully.

Instantly, white-hot agony tore through every nerve in your body.

You screamed.

The sound was torn from your throat, raw and helpless. Your back arched off the ground, limbs locking, muscles seizing as though every fiber was being ripped apart by invisible knives. Vision whited out. The graveyard spun. Somewhere distant you heard laughter, cruel and triumphant.

It lasted only a heartbeat.

Then—

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light flared, bright and unmistakable.

You forced your eyes open just in time to see it.

Sunghoon had somehow retrieved his wand in the chaos. His arm was extended and the Killing Curse had erupted from the tip in a clean arc.

The other Death Eater—the one who’d cast Crucio—didn’t even have time to look surprised. The green light struck him square in the chest. He froze mid-laugh. Then he dropped—limp, lifeless, robes pooling around him like spilled oil.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Sunghoon lowered his arm. Turned. And looked at you.

Still crouched on the ground, still gasping, still shaking from the aftershocks of Cruciatus. Your wand lay somewhere to your left—too far. Your body felt like it had been run over by a herd of hippogriffs. Every nerve ending screamed phantom fire; your muscles twitched and spasmed without permission, refusing to obey the simplest commands. But you forced yourself up onto one elbow anyway—teeth gritted so hard your jaw ached, eyes burning with unshed tears and fury, because you would not lie helpless in front of him. Not him. Not after everything.

Sunghoon stepped over the dead man without looking down, his boot brushing the edge of the sprawled arm as though it were nothing more than a fallen branch. His focus never wavered. It stayed locked on you while he walked toward you.

You tried to move back.

Instinct. Pure animal fear.

Your elbow slid; your palm scraped against frozen earth. Pain lanced through your ribs, your spine, your skull—sharp enough to steal your breath. Your legs refused to cooperate; they jerked uselessly, still half-paralyzed by Cruciatus echoes. You managed half a pathetic meter before your strength gave out and you collapsed again, chest heaving, vision swimming.

He kept coming.

Close enough that the hem of his robes brushed your knee when he stopped above you. He dropped to one knee bringing his face level closer to yours. His gaze raked over you as something flickered behind the madness in his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to regret.

Then—

A blast of red light tore through the night.

Stunner. Bright. Angry. Aimed straight for the center of his back.

Sunghoon didn’t even turn.

His wand snapped up and a Shield Charm erupted from the tip in a dome of shimmering silver. The Stunner struck it dead-center and ricocheted harmlessly into the dark, lighting up crooked headstones like lightning. In the same motion the Death Eater mask slipped back over his face—smooth, seamless, as though it had never left. 

He rose.

Turned.

And the graveyard became a battlefield again.

Another Auror had Apparated in behind a crumbling mausoleum. Wand already raised. Face half-hidden by a scarf. Voice shouting something you couldn’t make out over the ringing in your ears.

Sunghoon moved like liquid shadow.

He Apparated and reappeared behind the Auror—fired a jet of purple light that sent the man sprawling. The Auror rolled, came up firing. Sunghoon blocked again then retaliated with a curse that made the air scream. Headstones cracked. Marble shards flew. The Auror staggered but didn’t fall.

Then more came.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three—no, four—Aurors Apparating in rapid succession. Reinforcements. Your backup. Finally.

Wands lit the night in a storm of color. Shouts overlapped—“Stupefy!” “Protego!” “Expulso!”—spells clashing midair, explosions of light and sound turning the graveyard into chaos.

Sunghoon laughed as he moved through the fight like he was dancing—apparating in short, vicious bursts, blocking, striking, never staying still long enough to be hit.

You watched as he carved through them with terrifying efficiency.

The first to fall was the Auror who’d fired the opening Stunner. Sunghoon apparated directly behind him when an opening appeared. “Sectumsempra.” The curse sliced clean across the man’s chest. Blood sprayed black in the moonlight. The Auror gasped once—wet, choking—then collapsed face-first into the dirt, robes soaking dark.

Sunghoon didn’t pause.

He twisted—Apparated again—reappeared behind a second Auror who was hiding by the mausoleum. Before the words “Protego Maxima” could fully leave her lips, Sunghoon’s wand flicked upward. “Avada Kedavra.” The curse struck her square between the shoulder blades. She froze mid-gesture, wand still raised, then dropped straight down like a marionette with cut strings. 

The third Auror—a tall man with a scarred cheek—saw it happen. Saw his colleague crumple. Rage twisted his face. He roared something incoherent and unleashed a barrage: three rapid Blasting Curses, each one tearing up graves and sending marble flying like shrapnel. Sunghoon apparated through the debris cloud, reappeared at point-blank range and hid behind a gravestone and aimed his wand towards the man.

“Confringo.”

The explosion was muffled—sickeningly wet—as the man’s torso burst outward in a spray of red and bone. What remained collapsed backward over a headstone, robes smoldering.

The fourth Auror—the last one standing—froze for half a second.

Long enough.

Sunghoon turned toward him.

The Auror’s wand rose—trembling—mouth opening on a final, desperate “Expelliarmus—”

Sunghoon was faster.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The curse struck the man clean. His eyes widened with shock—then fell backward, limbs splaying awkwardly across a cracked angel statue. Wand clattered uselessly to the ground beside him.

Silence returned—thick, ringing, broken only by the sound of your own breathing.

Sunghoon didn’t even look at the bodies. Didn’t survey his work. He looked only at you.

For one suspended heartbeat you held your breath.

Then—more cracks.

Reinforcements. Real ones this time. Too many. Too late for the fallen.

Sunghoon’s head tilted as he took one last look at you, eyes burning through the mask’s slits and raised his wand in a casual salute.

Crack.

The graveyard was empty of him in an instant.

You collapsed fully then, cheek pressed to frozen grass, vision tunneling to black at the edges.  Voices reached you—shouts, running boots, someone yelling your name—but they sounded far away. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the moonlit outline of four dead Aurors sprawled among the headstones.

And the empty space where Sunghoon had stood.

Like he had never been there at all.

When you woke up, it was to the harsh white light of St. Mungo’s ward. Your body felt like lead wrapped in cotton—every limb heavy, every joint protesting even the shallowest breath. 

The Cruciatus aftershocks lingered like static under your skin; your fingers twitched without permission for days. Healers came and went, murmuring about nerve regeneration potions and rest and psychological evaluation. You answered their questions in monosyllables. You stared at the ceiling until the white tiles blurred. You replayed the graveyard over and over until the memory carved itself into the backs of your eyelids.

The questions started small.

How had the boy who once kissed you under enchanted snow become this?

What had happened in the years you’d spent trying not to think about him?

Had the Dark Mark burned under his sleeve the night he told you he’d fallen out of love?

Had he already been carving his path to Voldemort while you cried yourself to sleep?

You locked yourself in your Ministry office the moment they discharged you.

Desk buried under files. Door slammed shut. You pulled every record you could access—old Hogwarts enrollment logs, Ministry surveillance reports, seized Death Eater correspondence, even the classified Auror debriefs from raids. You read until your eyes burned. You cross-referenced dates. You mapped disappearances. You hunted for anything. 

You came up empty.

There was no single smoking parchment. No intercepted owl. No witness testimony that named the day or the hour he chose the Dark Lord over everything else. Just gaps. Unexplained coincidences. Sunghoon had walked into the dark so quietly no one had heard the door close behind him.

The obsession became unhealthy.

You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating anything that wasn’t conjured coffee. Stopped answering owls from old friends. Your office became a tomb—papers pinned to every wall, red string connecting nothing to nothing, your own handwriting growing more frantic in the margins. Colleagues knocked. You didn’t answer. Superiors sent memos. You ignored them. The serpent ring on your finger pulsed hotter every night, like it was feeding on your spiral.

Eventually your department head noticed. Then the Minister’s office.

You quit before they could force the issue. The resignation letter was three lines long. Delivered by owl at dawn. No explanation. No farewell speech.

The news spread like fire.

Star recruit quits without warning.

Disgrace to the badge.

Whispers followed you. Former colleagues looked away when you passed. Your parents sent a howler—furious, disappointed, the same tone they’d used when your Transfiguration grade slipped in seventh year. You walked away without reading the second paragraph.

It was fine.

All dandy, really.

Because three days after your resignation hit the Prophet’s front page, an owl arrived at your tiny rented flat in Knockturn Alley. It was a large, silver-feathered bird with knowing eyes. It tapped insistently at your window until you opened it—half-dressed, hair wild, still clutching yesterday’s cold coffee.

The letter was short. Written in Dumbledore’s familiar handwriting.

My dear former student,

The Defense Against the Dark Arts post has once again become vacant. Hogwarts could use someone with your particular experience and resolve.

If you are willing, the castle awaits.

Albus Dumbledore

You stared at the parchment for a long time. Then you folded it carefully. Set it on the table. Packed your life into two trunks in under an hour.

You left without looking back.

Hogwarts welcomed you like it had been waiting.

The castle smelled the same—old stone, beeswax, faint traces of potion fumes drifting up from the dungeons. The Great Hall still echoed with student laughter at breakfast. The Black Lake still glittered under the weak autumn sun. Your room—high in one of the northern towers—overlooked the Forbidden Forest and had a fireplace that lit itself when you entered.

You were safe here.

No Death Eaters Apparating out of shadows. No green light waiting around corners. No raids that ended in deaths and destruction. No Sunghoon.

You only had to worry about which third-years were sneaking banned books into the common room. Which fifth-year Slytherin kept asking too many questions about Unforgivables “for research.” Which Gryffindor troublemaker thought setting off Dungbombs in the corridor was still funny.

You lectured on shield charms, you demonstrated counter-curses with calm precision, you stayed late in the classroom helping struggling students, answering questions about dark magic with unflinching honesty. You patrolled corridors at night with your wand loose in your hand—not because you expected danger, but because old habits died hard.

The students called you Professor.

They liked that you never talked down to them, never pretended the dark arts weren’t real.

You genuinely found happiness.

Mornings started with tea, the low murmur of McGonagall’s voice discussing Quidditch schedules with Flitwick while you listened without needing to speak. Afternoons were filled with the bright chatter of third-years finally mastering Protego, their faces lighting up when a Shield Charm held against your gentle testing hex for the first time. Evenings stretched long in your classroom—windows open to let in the scent of pine and lake water—while you sat cross-legged on a desk helping a nervous fourth-year Ravenclaw understand why counter-curses required intent as much as wandwork.

The students liked your unflinching honesty. When a Slytherin boy asked whether the Unforgivables were really unforgivable if used against Death Eaters, you didn’t give him the Ministry-approved platitude. You looked him in the eye and said, “They are unforgivable because they strip away choice. Yours. Theirs. The person you become after you cast them. That’s the part no one can give back.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then nodded once. 

You started smiling—real smiles—when a Gryffindor girl stayed late to perfect her Disarming Charm and finally managed it with a flourish that sent your practice dummy cartwheeling across the room. You laughed when Peeves tried to drop a bucket of ink over your head during patrol and you wordlessly redirected it onto him instead. The poltergeist sulked for a week.

You slept through the night sometimes. Not always. But sometimes.

The nightmares still came—green light, Thorne’s body hitting the ground, Sunghoon’s masked face turning toward you—but they came less often. When they did, you woke up, sat up and pressed your palm to the cool stone wall until your breathing steadied, then went back to sleep.

For exactly one month, you were happy. Truly.

Then—

You opened your classroom door on a late Thursday afternoon, arms full of second-year essays that needed grading before tomorrow’s lesson. The corridor outside was empty, torches already lit. You shouldered the heavy oak door open with your hip, already mentally sorting the stack by house—

And froze.

Sunghoon was sitting in your chair.

One long leg crossed over the other, dark hair falling just so across his brow. He looked relaxed, elegant, utterly at home in a space that wasn’t his.

Your cat—Erebus, that enormous, treacherous black tom who usually hissed at anyone but you—was curled in his lap.

Purring… Loudly… 

Sunghoon’s long fingers scratched idly behind the cat’s ears. Erebus’s eyes were half-closed in bliss, tail flicking lazily against Sunghoon’s thigh.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, Sunghoon looked up. And lit up. 

Not with a grin or a flourish. Just—his whole face softened. The hard edges melted. Those dark, wild eyes you remembered from the graveyard turned warm again, almost gentle. 

Your heart lurched so violently you almost dropped the essays.

You slammed the door shut behind you.

The bang echoed through the empty classroom.

Your wand was in your hand before you consciously thought to draw it. You twisted the lock with a sharp flick—wards snapping into place—then rounded on him.

“Are you crazy!?” The words came out half-whispered, half-shouted—desperate to stay quiet, terrified someone would hear.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. Just tilted his head slightly, still petting Erebus, who had now rolled fully onto his back in shameless surrender, paws in the air.

“I missed you,” he said simply. Soft. Honest. Devastating.

Your grip on the wand tightened until your knuckles bleached white.

“You can’t be here.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re a wanted man. There are wards. There are professors. There are students—” Your voice cracked on the last word—half accusation, half plea—and the sentence died in the suddenly too-small space between you.

Sunghoon didn’t answer with words. He only looked at you. 

That smug, devastating grin spread across his face—small at first, just a lift at one corner of his mouth, then wider, lazier, until it reached his eyes. The same grin he used to give you when you tried to scold him in fifth year for sneaking you into the restricted section after curfew. 

He stayed seated behind your desk. Relaxed. Regal. Utterly unbothered.

Erebus—that purring traitor—had now abandoned his lap, leaping down to wind around your ankles once before retreating to the windowsill to watch the drama unfold with lazy green eyes.

You took another step forward. Then another. Close enough now that you could see the faint scar along his jaw glint in the late-afternoon light slanting through the high windows. Close enough that the hem of your professor’s robes brushed the edge of your desk.

That was perfect for him as his hand moved. Fingers closed around your wrist. 

You gasped.

He pulled.

One smooth, decisive tug.

Your balance gave out; your knees hit the edge of the chair. Before you could plant your feet or wrench free, he had you—dragged forward and down until you landed astride his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. 

He didn’t let go of your wrist.

Instead he slid his other hand to the small of your back—long fingers splaying wide, pressing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel every inch of him: the hard planes of his chest, the heat radiating through his robes, the press of him against your inner thigh.

“Get your hands off me,” you hissed—voice low, trembling, barely above a whisper in case anyone passed the corridor outside.

“No.”

“Why the hell not?” you demanded, voice cracking despite your effort to keep it quiet. Your palms shoved hard against his chest, but he didn’t budge; if anything, his arm around your waist tightened. “You think you can just stroll into Hogwarts—into my classroom—like you’re not a wanted fugitive? Like you didn’t murder four Aurors in front of me? Like you didn’t disappear for years and leave me to pick up the pieces?” Your words tumbled out faster, sharper, each one a blade you’d been sharpening in silence for too long.

“How did you even get here? The wards are supposed to be impenetrable with detection spells keyed to every known Death Eater signature. You shouldn’t have made it past the gates, let alone up seven flights of stairs and through my door. And don’t tell me you just walked in. You didn’t. So how? Who helped you?!”

You were breathing too fast now, chest rising and falling against his, close enough to feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

“And Dumbledore—” Your voice dropped even lower, almost a hiss. “He has to know. He always knows. The portraits report. The castle itself reports. You think he’d let a Death Eater sit in my chair petting my cat like this is a social call? Or is that part of your plan too? Drag me down with you again? Make me choose between turning you in and—”

He shut you up mid-ramble.

One second you were spitting questions like curses; the next his mouth was on yours.

His hand fisted in your hair—fingers threading through the pins and pulling them loose in one rough tug. The sharp sting at your scalp made you gasp against his lips; he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding in, claiming every inch like he’d never left. His other hand wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing against your racing pulse, fingers curling around the side of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You froze for half a heartbeat—shock, fury, memory crashing together in a blinding wave—then your hands fisted in the front of his robes and you bit his bottom lip hard enough to taste copper. You shoved your tongue against his like you were trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.

That only spurred him on as the kiss turned wet and obscene, tongues sliding slick and aggressive, lips swollen and bruising from the force of it. 

His other hand—the one that had been on your throat—dropped to your hip, fingers digging in with bruising strength. He jerked you forward, grinding your core down hard against the thick ridge straining behind his trousers. The friction was immediate, ruthless; you couldn’t stop the broken moan that tore out of you, muffled against his lips. 

“Still so responsive...” he growled into your mouth.

You hated how right he was.

You could already feel your underwear clinging uncomfortably as you rocked against him without permission. Your nails raked down his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, trying to hurt him back, but it only made him rougher.

One arm banded around your waist and he stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your legs automatically locked around his hips; your back hit the edge of the desk with a thud that rattled quills and ink bottles. Papers scattered. A stack of essays fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.

He didn’t care.

He shoved you back until your spine arched over the desk, hips canted up, thighs spread wide around his waist. His free hand yanked your robes open, fabric tearing slightly at the shoulder and shoved them down your arms until they caught at your elbows. Cool air hit your skin; your blouse was next—ripped open, buttons scattering across the wood.

You reacted instantly—hands flying up to shove at his chest, nails digging into wool and muscle, trying to create even an inch of distance. “Get off—”

He caught both your wrists in one large hand and slammed them down above your head, pinning them to the desk with bruising force. 

“Stop fighting me,” he growled against your throat, voice thick with hunger. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

You bucked—hips twisting, legs kicking—but he simply stepped closer, wedging his hips between your thighs so you had nowhere to go as he yanks the bra cups down, baring you completely. Cool air hit your nipples causing them to tighten. He covered one with his mouth immediately—sucking hard, tongue flicking—while his fingers pinched and rolled the other, tugging until you whimpered.

“Sunghoon—stop—” Your voice cracked when he bit down, sharp enough to make you gasp. “Stop it—please—”

You tried to twist away; he simply followed, mouth chasing skin, sucking harder, biting down just enough to sting.

“Stop—talking—” he muttered, voice fracturing when he switched sides and bit the underside of your breast, leaving another dark mark. 

“You—you broke up with me. You said—you said you didn’t love me anymore—”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you—eyes blown black, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed. “Young me was stupid,” he rasped. “How could I fall out of love with a woman like you?”

You stared down at him, chest heaving, confusion crashing through the anger like cold water on hot coals. Your mouth opened—words forming, scrambling, anything to claw back control, to remind him (and yourself) that this was wrong, that he had no right, that you should be hexing him through the nearest wall.

But the sentences died on your tongue.

His hands were still on your breasts, thumbs brushing worshipful circles over your nipples, keeping them peaked and aching. Every few seconds he dipped his head again, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft undersides, the valley between them, the faint red marks his teeth had already left. He looked… lost in it. 

And Merlin help you—you didn’t really want him off.

Not anymore.

Not when you could feel the heat of his palms seeping through your skin, not when every drag of his tongue sent sparks straight to your core, not when the man staring up at you with raw devotion was still—despite everything—the one you used to fall asleep dreaming about marrying. Back when the future felt soft and certain. Back when you pictured silver bands and quiet vows and his hand in yours at every Ministry function. 

The boy who looked at you like you were the only star worth navigating by. Until he wasn’t. Until the lies started, the disappearances stretched longer, and the boy you loved became a stranger wearing his face.

You blinked, trying to hold onto the anger, the betrayal, the righteous fury that had carried you through years of rebuilding, while you were still locked in that spiraling thought—still trying to decide whether to shove him away or pull him closer—his hands had moved.

He had shoved your skirt up to your waist in one rough yank. Fingers hooked into your tights and underwear before he tore it off—fabric ripping with a sharp, satisfying sound.

Then he dropped.

Went to his knees between your spread legs like it was the most natural place in the world.

His shoulders pushed your thighs wider while his hands gripped the backs of your knees and spread you wider. Wide enough that the desk edge dug into your lower back and your heels hooked uselessly over his shoulders. The cool air of the classroom kissed your exposed cunt for half a second—then his hot mouth covered you completely.

He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked—hard, greedy, like he was trying to pull your soul out through that single point of contact. Your hips jerked up off the desk with a strangled shout; your hands flew to his hair, fingers knotting in the dark strands so tightly you felt strands snap against your knuckles.

“Sunghoon—!”

He groaned against you—vibration ripping straight through your pussy—and doubled down.

His tongue lashed—fast, merciless flicks over the swollen bud while he sucked, hollowing his cheeks. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room immediately: the slick slide of his tongue through your folds, the obscene suction of his mouth, the wet squelch every time he plunged his tongue inside you only to drag it back up to your clit again. His saliva dripped down, mixing with your own slick until everything was glossy, messy, dripping onto the desk beneath your ass.

He ate like your cunt was the only one he’d ever kneel to.

His hands tightened on the backs of your knees—fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises shaped like his grip—keeping you spread and helpless while he feasted. Every time you tried to close your thighs he forced them wider, shoulders wedging deeper, stubble scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs until it burned red.

You yanked his hair harder—half to hurt him, half to anchor yourself. He moaned into you—loud, shameless—the sound muffled against your soaked folds. The pain only made him rougher. 

“Too much—too much—”

He didn’t stop.

Instead he pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your pussy, watching the saliva slide down your folds before he dove back in. Tongue flat and broad now, lapping up every drop like he was collecting something sacred. 

“Pretty cunt..” he rasped between long, sloppy licks. “So swollen already. All for me. Always for me.” He sucked your clit back into his mouth—harder this time—while two fingers plunged inside without warning. Deep. Rough. No gentleness. He fucked them into you fast—curling hard against that spot on every thrust—while his tongue never left your clit. The wet sounds were pornographic: slick fingers pumping, mouth slurping, your own choked moans and gasps echoing off stone walls.

You yanked his hair again—harder—trying to pull him off, trying to regain control.

He retaliated by biting the inside of your thigh, then soothing the sting with slow licks before returning to your clit with renewed ferocity. Another finger joined the first two—three now—stretching you wide, pumping brutally while his tongue flicked faster. 

Your back bowed off the desk. A sob tore from your throat—pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

He moaned again—long, low, vibrating straight through your clit—and you shattered.

The orgasm hit like a curse—violent, unstoppable. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, pulsing, fluttering, gushing slick that coated his hand and chin. Your thighs locked around his head, heels digging into his back, hips grinding against his face as wave after wave ripped through you.

Eventually he pulled his fingers out, letting you feel every inch. Lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean—eyes locked on yours the entire time—tongue curled around each finger in turn, slow and thorough, sucking them clean. A low, satisfied hum vibrated in his throat as he swallowed every trace of you.

Then he rose.

He stood in one smooth motion, towering over you again. His hands never left your body—sliding up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips, along the dip of your waist—as he kissed his way back up. Open-mouthed, bruising kisses. He sucked hard on the soft skin just below your navel, leaving a dark, wet mark that would bloom purple by morning. Higher—teeth grazed the underside of your breast, then closed around a nipple, pulling it deep into his mouth with a hard suck that made your back bow off the desk. 

Every mark he left was claiming. A constellation of red and purple blooming across your collarbones, the tops of your breasts, the sensitive skin along your ribs. By the time his mouth reached your throat you were trembling, body strung tight and liquid at once. He kissed the frantic pulse there—soft first, then bit down hard enough to make you cry out. His tongue traced the fresh mark immediately after, like an apology he didn’t mean.

He finally lifted his head.

Face to face.

Noses almost touching. Breaths mingling in harsh, uneven pants that fogged the narrow space between you.

His hand slid up until it cupped your jaw. Fingers splayed wide across your cheek, warm and rougher from calluses you didn’t quite remember from school. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just beneath your bottom lip, tilting your chin up and forcing your mouth open. 

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough, barely above a whisper yet heavy enough to sink straight into your bones. “Did you let any other man touch you after me?”

The question landed soft. But it carried teeth.

Your throat worked—once, twice—muscles flexing visibly. No sound came out at first. Just a small, helpless swallow. Your eyes—still glassy from tears, from the sheer overwhelming force of him—darted across his face.

His smirk faded into something sharper, more dangerous. The hand on your jaw tightened—fingers digging in until you felt the faint sting of nails pressing half-moon crescents into the soft flesh of your cheeks. 

“Answer me.”

You shook your head—small, frantic jerks that made fresh tears spill over your lower lashes.

For one suspended heartbeat the room held its breath—only the faint crackle of the dying fire and your own uneven panting breaking the silence.

Then—slowly—his entire face lit up.

“No one else,” he breathed—voice cracking open on the words, raw with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “After all this time...”

The realization seemed to hit him in waves. His breath hitched once—sharp, audible. His grip on your jaw loosened fractionally, thumb stroking once across your trembling lower lip in something almost like worship.

Then he straightened.

Hands dropping from your face to his belt.

The clink of metal was loud in the quiet room—buckle opening, leather sliding free, zipper dragged down with rough impatience. He shoved his trousers and boxers down in one impatient motion—fabric pooling around his thighs—and his cock sprang free.

Thick. Hard. Flushed dark at the tip, already leaking steadily. Veins stood out along the shaft ,pulsing faintly with every heartbeat. The head glistened with precome, a thick bead welling at the slit before sliding slowly down the underside in a slow, obscene trail. He wrapped a fist around it once, giving himself one long stroke from base to tip. 

“You stayed empty for me,” he rasped—voice thick with awe. “All these years. No one else got to touch what’s mine. No one else got to feel how tight you are, how you cry when you come. Just me.”

He stroked himself again—slower this time—watching the way your gaze dropped involuntarily to his cock, watching the way your tongue darted out to wet your swollen lips, watching the way your pussy clenched like your body was already aching to be filled again.

“Still so perfect,” he murmured—almost to himself. He stepped closer—cock brushing the inside of your thigh, leaving a wet streak of precome across your skin.

His free hand slid into your hair—fingers threading gently this time, cradling the back of your head—tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again.

“I’m going to fill you again,” he said softly, voice low and trembling with barely-leashed hunger. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember what it feels like to be empty… until every breath you take reminds you I’m still inside you… until you forget there was ever a time your cunt wasn’t stretched around me.”

The other hand guided himself to your entrance—hot, blunt, already leaking.

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt in a single motion—thick, stretching you wide and deep until your walls burned with the sudden invasion and your back bowed off the desk in a violent arch. A scream tore from your throat—raw, involuntary—shattering the quiet of the empty classroom. He swallowed it instantly, mouth crashing down on yours, tongue shoving past your teeth to muffle the sound as his hand came up to your throat.

Fingers clamped around your neck, cutting off just enough air to sharpen every sensation until it felt like fire racing under your skin. The pressure was perfect—cruelly precise—his thumb pressing against the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other fingers dug into the sides of your throat, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Sunghoon didn’t ease up. 

He fucked you like he was trying to carve himself permanently into your body—each thrust brutal, punishing, bottoming out so hard you felt the thick head batter your cervix with every snap of his hips. The desk creaked dangerously beneath you—wood groaning, legs scraping an inch across stone with the force of it. 

Your thighs trembled uselessly around his waist—heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him deeper even as your body screamed. You hadn't been so full after his absence, so much so that every deep plunge felt like it was splitting you open again, yet your hips still rolled up to meet him, greedy and traitorous, chasing the ache.

“So good.. taking my cock so fucking well. Look how deep I am, baby—look how your belly swells every time I bottom out.” His free hand slid down your stomach, until his palm flattened just on your navel. He pressed down.

Hard.

You felt it instantly—the obscene bulge of him inside you, the thick ridge of his cock pressing outward against your lower belly with every punishing thrust. He watched his own hand move—watched the way your stomach distended slightly every time he slammed home.

“Oh—feel that?” he groaned, pressing harder, making you feel every inch of him even more clearly. “Feel how your greedy little cunt is stretching around me? That’s me. Inside you..”

You whined, eyes rolling back as the combination of pressure and depth pushed you closer to the edge again. 

He moaned loudly,head thrown back for a second as your walls fluttered around him.

“Merlin—oh—keep clenching like that,” he panted, hips snapping harder, faster.

You came hard—walls clamping down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, gushing slick that coated his cock and dripped down his balls. Your back bowed off the desk so violently he had to pin you down with his body weight. A scream tried to tear free but his hand turned it into a strangled whine.

He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were sobbing, shaking, oversensitive and still coming apart.

“Take it, baby” he snarled, hips stuttering, thrusts losing rhythm. “Take every inch. Take me.”

He buried himself deep—one last brutal thrust—and came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, filling you until you felt it leak out around his cock, mixing with your own release on the desk beneath you.

Minutes passed.

Or seconds.

Time didn’t matter.

Eventually he eased his grip—letting you drag in full, shuddering breaths that burned all the way down your raw throat. The world swam back in fragments: the faint scent of old books and spilled ink, the creak of the desk beneath your sweat-slick back, the slow drip of your combined release leaking out around where he was still buried deep inside you.

Sunghoon didn’t pull out.

He stayed.

Thick. Hot. Pulsing faintly even after he’d come so hard it felt like he’d tried to flood your womb. His hips stayed flush against yours, cock seated to the hilt, stretching you open and keeping every drop of his cum locked inside. When he shifted—barely an inch—the pressure made you whimper.

Sunghoon exhaled roughly through his nose, the sound almost pained with how much restraint it took not to start fucking into you again right then. Instead he shifted, arms banding beneath your thighs and around your back in one smooth, possessive motion.

He lifted you off the desk.

Your legs automatically locked around his waist; a soft, broken whimper escaped you at the shift of his cock inside, the swollen head dragging along oversensitive walls while gravity pulled you down even deeper onto him. He groaned low in his throat—long, guttural—forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder as though the sensation almost undid him.

Then he dropped back into your chair with you still impaled on him. The impact was gentle enough not to jar you too badly, but it still punched a high, startled sound from your throat. Your knees sank into the worn leather on either side of his hips; your chest pressed flush to his.

He settled you fully on his lap—your ass seated against his thighs, his arms locked around your lower back like iron bands. “Stay,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked. “Just like this. Warm my cock.”

You whimpered, head lolling forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder. Your body was still trembling from the last orgasm; every tiny shift of his hips sent fresh sparks skittering up your spine. He was so deep the head of him pressed against your cervix with even the slightest movement making you dizzy.

“Sleep, love,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. “Just sleep. I’ve got you.” His voice dropped lower. “I’ll take such good care of you.” He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering—then your closed eyelids, then the tear tracks on your cheeks. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair now, soothing where he’d pulled earlier.

“Sleep,” he whispered once more, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again...”

You woke slowly to the apparent wet feeling.

A warm, slippery sensation between your thighs—persistent, rhythmic, dragging you out of the heavy black of unconsciousness like a tide pulling at your ankles. Then sound filtered in next: soft, wet, obscene noises—slick glides, muffled suction, greedy moans that weren’t entirely yours. Your breathing hitched and your eyelids fluttered.

You blinked awake.

The room was dimmer now. Evening had deepened into proper night; the only light came from the low fire in the hearth and the single candle you’d left burning on the desk before… before everything, only your classroom no longer looked like a classroom. You were in your private quarters. Your robes, your blouse, your skirt—everything—had vanished. You were fully naked on your own bed, sheets twisted beneath you, wrists loosely bound above your head with what felt like your own torn tights, ankles free but thighs held wide by strong, familiar hands.

And between them—

Sunghoon.

With his shoulders wedged under your knees, head halfway resting on the inside of your thigh like it was the most comfortable pillow in the world. His dark hair was a mess—sweat-damp strands falling into his eyes, clinging to his forehead. His cheeks, his jaw, his chin—absolutely dripping. Slick coated him from nose to collarbone in glistening trails; it caught the candlelight and shimmered every time he moved. His lips were swollen, dark red, shiny with you. His tongue—almost dreamy now—traced slow, broad stripes up your slit, circling your clit without urgency, then dipping inside to collect more of the mess he’d already made.

He looked gone.

Eyes half-lidded, pupils blown so wide. Lashes fluttering every time he swallowed another mouthful of you. Soft moans vibrated against your folds, like he was praying into your cunt. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints, keeping you spread even though you were too boneless to close them anyway.

You registered the overstimulation last.

Your pussy was throbbing, swollen and absolutely hypersensitive. Every lazy lick felt like fire and honey at once; every gentle suck on your clit made your hips jerk weakly even though you had no strength left to arch. You’d come so many times while you were out—while he kept going, relentless—even when your body had simply shut down. Now every touch was too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too him.

A small, shattered sound escaped you—half sob, half moan.

His eyes flicked up.

Found yours.

Slow. Dangerous. Utterly pleased.

“Morning, love,” he murmured against your folds—voice wrecked, thick with hours of use. “Or evening.. Hard to tell.”

He sucked your clit almost tenderly, then released it with a wet pop.

“You passed out so pretty,” he continued, kissing the inside of your thigh where he’d already left a constellation of bite marks. “Couldn’t stop. Kept tasting you. Look at this mess—” He pulled back just enough to let you see: his chin dripping, your cunt puffy and glistening, slick smeared across his cheeks and down his neck. “You soaked me. Soaked the sheets. Soaked my face.”

You tried to speak. But only managed a trembling whimper.

He smiled adoringly and lowered his head again.

His mouth returned to your cunt with the same lazy hunger he’d had for hours. No frantic flicks. No punishing suction. He licked like he had all night—like he intended to spend the rest of his life between your thighs if you’d let him.

You couldn’t move.

The tights he’d used to bind your wrists were knotted tight around the iron headboard slats; every weak tug only made the fabric bite deeper into your skin, sending fresh sparks of pain racing down your arms. Your shoulders ached from being stretched overhead for so long; your fingers had gone numb at the tips. But even without the bindings, your body was too heavy to obey you. Your thighs quivered uselessly around his head; your hips gave tiny, involuntary twitches every time his tongue passed over your clit, but you couldn’t lift them, couldn’t close them, couldn’t do anything except lie there and take it.

His hands slid under your ass again—palms cupping, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise—and lifted your hips just enough to give himself better access. He groaned softly against your folds at the new angle, the vibration traveling straight through your oversensitive clit and making your whole body jolt.

“So sensitive..” he murmured, lips brushing your swollen lips as he spoke. “ No one else will ever know how to take you apart like I do..”

The overstimulation was excruciating. Tears slipped steadily down your temples now, mixing with the sweat already dampening your hairline.

He noticed, lifting his head just enough to watch your face, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Cry for me,” he whispered. “Let me see how much it hurts. How much you love the hurt..”

His voice was velvet dragged over broken glass, every word sank into you like teeth, sinking deeper.

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t form words.

Only cry out—high, fractured, animal sounds that tore from your raw throat every time his lips sealed around your clit again. 

He hummed again—long, low, pleased—which in turn ripped another broken cry from you.

And that was it.

The final thread snapped.

Your body locked up—back bowing violently off the bed, walls fluttering helplessly around nothing—and then went utterly limp.

You fainted.

Again.

Sunghoon stilled.

For one heartbeat, his tongue paused against your folds. Then a slow, dangerous grin broke across his face.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, taking in your slack, tear-streaked face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed—voice thick with dark glee. “You went out on me again.” He laughed—soft, breathless, utterly delighted. “Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh where he’d left fresh bite marks. “Sleep for me.”

He shifted carefully, easing your thighs wider still now that you couldn’t resist. “So loose now,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So soft inside. Took me so well…”

He slid two fingers inside you with no resistance at all. Your walls parted around him like silk; he curled them gently, stroking that oversensitive spot with feather-light touches that still made your unconscious body twitch and sigh. He watched—mesmerized—as your hips gave tiny, helpless jerks, as more slick welled up around his knuckles, coating his hand in a fresh, glistening sheen.

You moaned in your sleep—soft, sleepy, so sweet it made his chest ache.

A tiny, breathy sound that slipped past your slack lips and went straight to his cock, hard and leaking against his thigh.

He suddenly pulled his fingers free, watching the way your cunt clung to them, reluctant to let go, slick stretching in thin, glistening strands between his knuckles and your entrance before snapping.

“So greedy even when you’re asleep,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Still trying to keep me inside…” He shifted, guiding himself to your entrance. The head of his cock nudged against you and your body welcomed him instantly.

He slid in one long, slow glide.

Your walls—loose and slick—parted around him like they were made for this exact shape, this exact stretch. He sank deep—deeper—until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt again, the swollen head kissing your cervix while your pussy fluttered weakly around him, trying to pull him even further.

Sunghoon groaned—long, low, broken—forehead dropping to rest between your breasts.

He stayed like that for a moment—just feeling you. The slow, sleepy clench of your walls. The way your body sighed around him even in unconsciousness. The obscene, wet heat that coated him from base to tip.

Then he started to move.

Every thrust measured—pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in with a slick glide that made the wet sounds echo softly in the quiet room. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself into every inch of your insides—long, rolling strokes that dragged his cock along every sensitive spot. 

Your head lolled to the side, mouth open on another soft, sleepy moan.

So cute…

So perfect…

He kept the rhythm gentle but deep enough to bump your cervix every time, shallow enough not to wake you, just enough to keep you floating in that hazy space between sleep and pleasure.

“More…” 

The word was slurred, sleepy, barely audible, but it hit him hard.

Your voice—thick with sleep, mumbled it again, hips twitching upward in tiny, helpless searches for more of him.

“More… please…”

Sunghoon’s eyes snapped shut.

He had to.

The sight of you was too much. Too perfect. Too dangerous.

He exhaled shakily through his nose, while he forced himself to keep the rhythm steady. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. Again. Again. Counting the beats of your heartbeat against his cheek until the urge to slam into you and chase his own release receded just enough to let him breathe.

Then—carefully—he lowered his mouth to your breast. He took the swollen nipple between his lips like it was something fragile.

You sighed—long, dreamy—chest arching up into his mouth without conscious thought, offering more even in sleep.

Sunghoon felt the shift in you instantly.

The tiny, unconscious roll of your hips.

The way your back arched just a fraction more.

The soft, needy lift of your chest like your body was begging without words.

Something in him cracked—just slightly.

His next suction wasn’t gentle.

He pulled your nipple deep into his mouth with sudden, bruising force—hollowing his cheeks, sucking so hard the tender bud stretched taut and throbbed against his tongue. 

A fresh sob slipped free from you, body jerking in his lap like you’d been shocked.

For one dangerous heartbeat Sunghoon lost the leash.

His hips snapped forward—harder than before—driving his cock deep in one brutal thrust that made your lower belly bulge visibly again, the thick head battering your cervix while your walls clenched helplessly around him.

“Filthy little thing… Even passed out you’re trying to fuck yourself on my cock..”

But then—

You moaned his name.

Soft. Slurred. Barely audible.

“Sunghoon…”

One word and he fractured, eyes fluttering shut like the sound had punched through him.

“My sweet girl.. Still calling for me. Still needing me.”

That was really all it took to remind him why he’d burn the world down to keep you.

The next day arrived like a punishment wrapped in routine.

You stood at the front of your Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, spine straight, voice steady, pretending the night before had been a dream you could simply wake up from and discard.

You’d covered everything.

High-collared blouse buttoned to the throat. Long sleeves pinned at the wrists. A heavy black shawl draped over your shoulders despite the mild autumn warmth filtering through the high windows. Skirt long enough that it brushed your ankles.

Every visible inch of skin concealed the evidence Sunghoon had left.

You stayed behind your desk the entire lesson. Not because you wanted to loom over the students like some old-fashioned professor, but because your legs felt like they might give out if you walked more than three steps. The desk became your anchor—hands braced on its edge when you gestured, hip leaning against the wood when you turned to write on the blackboard. Every movement pulled at sore muscles, tender places, the lingering ache between your thighs where he’d been buried so deep for so long.

You spoke about Shield Charms and their variations against dark curses. Your eyes scanned the room with practiced authority. But inside you were screaming.

When you finally dismissed the class to begin their practical assignment, pairing off to practice, you lowered yourself into your chair with excruciating slowness.

A tiny, involuntary wince slipped past your lips as your bruised ass met the cushioned seat. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper, forced your expression neutral, and reached for the stack of third-year essays you’d barely touched yesterday.

He was gone when you woke up this morning.

You had come to slowly and found the bed empty beside you. No note. No trace. Just the lingering soreness between your legs.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a long minute. Then sighed—long, defeated.

Probably only came to fuck you and leave.

The thought tasted bitter, but it wasn’t new. So you’d dragged yourself out of bed, cleaned the evidence as best you could, and came to class pretending nothing had happened.

Now, halfway through grading the first essay, you felt it.

Something cool and smooth slithering up the inside of your calf.

The quill in your hand stilled mid-word.

Slowly you pushed your chair back just far enough to glance under the desk.

A black viper.

Sleek. Glossy. Thick-bodied. Its scales caught the candlelight in iridescent ripples. Navy-blue eyes—too intelligent, too knowing—locked straight onto yours.

Your breath caught.

Sunghoon.

He was an Animagus..

You knew it instantly. The way the snake held its head—tilted slightly, almost curious. The way those eyes watched you with the same hunger you’d seen last night. 

You bit back the meanest insult you could think of.

Glanced up—quick scan of the room.

None of the students had noticed. They were too busy dueling in pairs, laughing when shields shattered, groaning when hexes hit home. Controlled chaos.

Perfect cover.

You looked back down.

The viper—Sunghoon—had already slithered higher.

Panic surged through you like ice water. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure the nearest student would hear it. Your hand shot beneath the desk—instinct, desperation—fingers curling to grab him, to yank him out before anyone noticed, before he could—

He dodged. Smooth. Fluid. Almost playful.

The black-scaled body twisted sideways with impossible grace, evading your grasp like smoke, and before you could adjust your grip he surged forward, slithering straight up the inside of your thigh.

You clenched your fists on the desk so hard the wood creaked.

The cool, muscular length of him glided beneath your skirt—scales whispering against nylon—higher, higher—until the blunt head of the viper pressed right up against the crotch of your tights.

You bit back a gasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

He nuzzled. Once. Twice. Pressure right over your clit through the thin fabric, the forked tongue flicking out in tiny, teasing darts that you could feel even through the layers.

Your thighs tensed—trying to close, trying to trap him, trying to stop this madness—but he was already moving.

Sharp little teeth caught the nylon.

A quick, precise rip—barely audible over the chatter and spell-fire in the room—and cool air kissed your suddenly bare cunt.

Then he slipped inside the tear.

The first contact of his scales against your heated folds made you squeak high, the sound swallowed instantly by the dueling students’ laughter and the crack of deflected hexes. His body was shockingly cold compared to your flushed skin: sleek, smooth muscle sliding against slick warmth, the contrast so sudden it made your inner thighs twitch and clamp reflexively around him.

You tried to stay still. You really did. But Sunghoon—ever attentive, even as a viper—moved with purpose.

He slithered forward, thick body gliding until his blunt head nudged directly against your clit.

Then he… cuddled.

Pressed the flat, cool top of his head right against the swollen bud and rubbed slow circles that dragged his smooth scales over the oversensitive nerves in a maddening friction. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to make your hips jerk forward, light enough to tease rather than overwhelm. His forked tongue flicked out once—quick, curious—tasting the fresh slick that had already begun to leak from you again, and the tiny, wet touch sent a full-body shiver racing up your spine.

And then his tail moved. Thick, muscular, sinuous—it coiled once around the inside of your thigh like an anchor before the tapered end found your entrance.

And sank in. Deep. Wide.

The stretch was strange, foreign, overwhelming: not like fingers, not like a cock, but something alive, something that moved inside you. Sending tiny sparks skittering up your spine that made your toes curl inside your shoes. He didn’t thrust like a man would; he rippled—slow, fluid undulations that pushed deeper with every wave of muscle, filling you inch by cool, thick inch until you felt impossibly stretched, impossibly full, the blunt pressure nudging against your g-spot with every lazy coil.

A moan slipped free, barely a breath.

“Sunghoon…” you whispered—barely audible, more breath than voice—praying no student turned at the sound of their professor murmuring a name that didn’t belong in a classroom.

He answered with a low, vibrating hiss against your clit—pleased, smug, content.

The head of the viper stayed nestled right against the swollen bud—nuzzling, rubbing, occasionally flicking that wicked little tongue in quick, feather-light darts that made your hips jerk forward despite every effort to stay still. Meanwhile his tail kept moving—slow, deep, exploratory—curling and uncurling inside you like it was mapping every inch of your walls, every sensitive spot, every place that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

When he found that perfect angle, tail tip pressing firmly against the spot just behind your pubic bone—he stayed there.

Your breathing turned shallow, each exhale a trembling whine you tried to disguise as thoughtful hums while pretending to read the next essay. Your free hand dropped beneath the desk—fingers hovering, shaking—half wanting to push him away, half wanting to hold him there.

You did neither. 

You just sat—frozen, thighs quivering, cunt clenching helplessly around the living intrusion. 

Each individual scale was a point of friction: smooth enough to glide, textured enough to drag, and the way they rippled against your g-spot felt like hundreds of tiny fingers massaging you from the inside at once. 

You clenched involuntarily—hard—and he answered with a pleased, vibrating hiss directly against your clit.

The sound traveled straight through your core.

You choked on a moan—turned it into a cough at the last second—and one student glanced over briefly before returning to their duel.

You were growing slicker by the second, fresh arousal leaking out around the black scales, coating them until every movement made an obscene sound you were terrified someone would hear. The wetness eased his exploration, let him push deeper, let the tail wiggle in ways that made your vision blur: curling upward to stroke that perfect spot again and again, then flattening to press outward against your walls, stretching you in slow, pulsing waves that mimicked the rhythm of a heartbeat.

It hurt.

It felt good.

It hurt because it felt good.

You tried to focus on the students. Tried to pretend you were still their professor.

The practical portion of class dragged on—pairs practicing, laughter and spell-fire filling the room—but every second felt like torture wrapped in velvet. Your thighs trembled beneath the desk; your breathing stayed shallow, controlled only by sheer force of will. When a fourth-year asked a question about wand movement you answered—voice only cracking once—and prayed no one noticed the way your knuckles whitened on the desk edge.

Finally after some time the practical ended.

“Sit down and begin your written analysis,” you managed, voice steady enough to pass for calm. “Ten minutes on shield charm theory and counter-curse applications. Quietly.”

Chairs scraped. Quills scratched. The room settled into the low hum of focused work.

You made it through the rest of the lesson.

Barely.

When the bell finally rang and students began packing up, you stayed seated until the last straggler had filed out and the door clicked shut behind them.

Only then did you allow yourself to slump forward, forehead pressed to folded arms on the desk, breathing in short, shuddering gasps.

But there was no reprieve.

The next class—sixth-year Slytherins—was due in less than five minutes. And they had a test. Which meant you had to stand at the front of the room. Supervise. Watch for cheating. Be present.

You sat upright—wincing as the motion shifted the thick tail inside you—and smoothed your skirt down with shaking hands. The fabric clung uncomfortably to damp thighs; you could feel the slick still leaking out around Sunghoon’s body with every step.

The students trickled in.

You forced your voice to remain level as you greeted them, handed out parchment, and reminded them of the rules. Every syllable felt like a performance. Your legs shook beneath the desk as you stood—back straight, chin up—pretending the black viper coiled inside your cunt wasn’t currently exploring deeper.

Sunghoon didn’t seem to mind the audience at all. No, that bloody goblin changed his position while you stood at the front watching Slytherins settle into their seats.

His thick tail stayed buried deep inside you but the rest of his long, powerful body began to rearrange itself with terrifying efficiency.

First came the loop around your waist—once, twice—tight enough that your next breath got caught in your throat. The cool scales pressed against your blouse, hidden beneath the heavy fabric, squeezing in pulses that forced your diaphragm to work harder for every inhale, your ribs compressed slightly; your stomach sucked in on instinct.

Then he moved higher.

One more coil around your stomach—lower this time, just above your navel—constricting firmly, like he was trying to imprint the shape of himself onto your organs. The pressure pushed against the faint bulge of him inside you, making you feel the fullness even more acutely. Then the sleek black length continued upward—dragging the undersides of your breasts, then right in the center of your cleavage.

And then—

The final coil.

Around your neck.

He wound once—tight—hidden beneath the high collar of your blouse and the thick wool scarf you’d wrapped around it to conceal the hickeys and bruises. The pressure was immediate. Your pulse hammered against the cool scales; he could feel it—he must have felt it—because he tightened fractionally in response, a slow squeeze that made your vision spot black for half a second.

Fuck.

He was everywhere.

His head came to rest just beneath your ear, blunt snout pressed to the sensitive skin there, forked tongue flicking out once to taste the salt of your sweat.

You heard him hiss—soft, low, almost like an evil little laugh.

“Bastard… get the hell—”

He tightened. 

Around your throat. Around your waist. Around your stomach. The sudden constriction made stars explode behind your eyes. Air became thin, precious, expensive. Your vision tunneled; your knees threatened to buckle. 

You got through the full test time.

Somehow.

The Slytherins bent over their parchments—quills scratching, occasional sighs of frustration, the soft rustle of turning pages—while you stood at the front like a statue carved from willpower and desperation. Your voice had steadied enough to call out the standard warnings: “Eyes on your own work. No talking. No wand movements unless checking the time with a charm.” The words came out almost bored, the way you’d practiced in the mirror a thousand times before real lessons. No one looked twice.

You caught two cheaters early.

First was a boy near the window—sixth-year, dark hair, perpetually smug—trying to sneak a glance at his neighbor’s parchment. You called his name sharply; he startled, flushed, and snapped his eyes back to his own work. Your voice didn’t waver, but the effort cost you—Sunghoon chose that exact moment to ripple his tail deeper inside, curling it against your g-spot. Your knees nearly buckled; you gripped the edge of your desk until your knuckles bleached white, turning the involuntary whimper into a throat-clearing cough.

The second was subtler—a girl passing a folded note under the desk. You spotted the movement from the corner of your eye, strode over (each step a torment as his body shifted with you), and confiscated it without comment. She paled; you returned to the front, parchment crumpled in your fist.

Every stride made him move. The tail inside you thrust lazily—shallow, rolling waves that dragged scales along every oversensitive inch. 

A student looked up curiously.

You forced a tight smile. “Focus, please.”

The moment their eyes dropped, you hissed under your breath—barely audible—“Get—out—”

He punished you instantly.

The coil around your throat clamped down like a vice—cutting air to a thin whistle. The bands around your waist and stomach squeezed in unison—ribs compressing, belly sucked in until the pressure on your full cunt became unbearable. His tail stilled for one heartbeat—then curled viciously against that spot until your vision whited out.

You stumbled—caught yourself on the desk—papers fluttering. A tiny, choked sound escaped before you swallowed it.

Your free hand slipped behind you—beneath the shawl, beneath the blouse—fingers finding the thick coil around your waist. You dug your nails in hard—trying to pry, trying to hurt, trying to make him stop.

He didn’t. 

He only tightened further.

You bit your lip, forced yourself upright to scan the room again. 

No one had noticed. They were too busy scratching answers, frowning at questions, chewing nails in concentration.

Every time your mind tried to surface—tried to plan how to get him off, how to end this before someone looked too closely—he tightened again. Squeezing until thought melted away.

The end of class came like a distant mercy you barely registered.

You stood frozen at the front, hands braced on the podium like it was the only thing keeping you upright—as the Slytherins gathered their things. Quills tucked away. Parchments rolled. Chairs scraping back in a symphony you barely heard. A few glanced at you curiously—your cheeks too flushed, your breathing too shallow—but no one lingered. No one questioned. They filed out in twos and threes, chatting about the test's difficulty, oblivious to the black viper coiled so intimately around and inside their professor.

When the last student crossed the threshold—door swinging shut with a soft, final thud—you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Then waved your wand.

A lazy flick and the test papers floated up from the desks in a neat stack, drifting onto your own like fallen leaves. The movement cost you; your arm trembled, wand nearly slipping.

The room was empty.

Silent.

You collapsed.

Knees giving out like strings cut—hitting the cold stone floor with a thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet. You caught yourself on the desk edge—palms slapping wood, nails scraping for purchase—gasping, moaning out his name in a voice that didn’t sound like yours anymore.

“Sunghoon—please—”

The words tore free, broken by sobs you couldn’t hold back. Your mind was melting, thoughts fragmented: he’s inside me, around me. No logic. No resistance. Just surrender. Just the exquisite agony of being filled and squeezed and claimed in ways no human body should be able to endure, let alone crave.

And your broken plea was all it took.

Sunghoon`s tail—still buried deep inside your cunt—began to thrust.

Hard.

Fast.

Slick sounds filled the empty classroom—wet squelches blending with your broken moans, overpowering his triumphant hisses. Each thrust stretched you wider, filled you deeper, the alive intrusion writhing inside like it was alive with intent: exploring every fold, pressing every nerve, corrupting every inch of you from the inside out. The tail curled at the tip on every upward stroke—hooking against that spot until your hips jerked helplessly—then straightened on the withdrawal, dragging out with a slick pop only to slam back in.

More, tighter, deeper, hurt me, break me. 

No shame. No control. 

You moaned—loud, wrecked—knees spreading wider on the floor, hips grinding back against the intrusion even as tears streamed down your face.

Sunghoon didn’t let you have it.

The moment your walls began to flutter—tightening in that telltale, helpless rhythm that signaled the edge—he stopped.

The thick tail inside you stilled—frozen mid-thrust, curled firmly against your g-spot but no longer moving. 

You cried out, the sound ricocheting off stone walls. “No—no—please—”

Your hips jerked forward—searching, grinding, trying to force friction from the unmoving length inside you—but he only constricted tighter around your waist, pinning you in place, making every tiny movement feel like fighting steel bands. 

“Sunghoon—please—don’t stop—please—”

You were begging. Voice cracking on every syllable, hands scrabbling beneath your blouse to find the coils around your waist, nails digging into cool scales in helpless desperation. You clutched at him—holding on like he was the only solid thing left in the world—trying to pull him deeper, trying to make him move, trying to chase the orgasm he’d just yanked away.

He hissed again—mocking, delighted.

“Please—Sunghoon—need it… need you… don’t—don’t do this…” Every word was punctuated by a helpless roll of your hips—grinding down like you could force him to continue through sheer desperation. 

And then—finally—he moved. 

He surged, pulling out then thrust forward in one satisfying stroke, bottoming out so fast your lower belly bulged visibly again beneath the tight coils around your waist. The sudden stretch ripped a choked scream from your throat, immediately muffled by the iron grip around your neck. 

You were close—dangerously close—pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every brutal stroke, every punishing squeeze, every hissed vibration against your ear.

He felt it.

The moment your walls began to flutter again—tightening in that helpless, telltale rhythm—he tightened everything at once.

Your scream was choked off before it could form—mouth falling open in a silent, wide O, only small choking sounds escaping as your eyes rolled back so hard you saw nothing but white as the orgasm ripped through you like a curse finally unleashed.

Walls clamping down around the writhing length inside you,, gushing slick in messy waves that soaked his scales, dripped down your thighs, and pooled on the stone floor.

Then—suddenly—he released.

The coils around your throat loosened first—air rushing back in a dizzying flood that made you gasp and cough. The bands around your waist and stomach unwound next—slowly, almost reluctantly. Your ribs expanded gratefully; your belly softened, the pressure on the faint bulge easing until you could breathe without fighting.

His tail slipped out last.

He withdrew in one long glide—thick length dragging along every oversensitive inch on the way out. The wet sucking sound echoed in the empty classroom as your walls clung desperately, trying to keep him inside even as he pulled free. You whined at the sudden emptiness, hips jerking forward instinctively like your body still needed to be filled.

He slithered out from under your skirt, black scales glistening wetly with your release, every inch of him shining in the low light. Only when the last tapered tip slipped free did you really see him.

Long.

Thick.

Black as midnight.

Coiled on the stone floor in front of you—easily six feet of sleek, powerful muscle. Navy-blue eyes lifted to meet yours and you felt your breath catch again.

He was beautiful.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as you leaned your head back against the desk leg.

“Bastard snake… absolute menace…” The words came out slurred, breathless, half-hearted. You didn’t even mean them anymore. Not really.

Then you heard it.

Low laughter. Human laughter.

Your eyes snapped open.

Sunghoon stood in front of you now.

Shirtless. 

Sweat glistened on his bare chest, catching candlelight along the sharp lines of his collarbones, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the faint scars that hadn’t been there in school. 

And on his left forearm—

The Dark Mark.

Black against pale skin—skull and serpent twisting in permanent ink.

The sight of it hit like ice cold water.

He stepped closer. One stride. Two.

Then he reached down, strong hands closing around your upper arms and pulled you up from your knees in one effortless motion. Your legs shook and you stumbled forward into his chest.

He caught you, his arms banding around your waist before he spun you around, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he shoved your skirt down your thighs in one impatient yank. The ruined fabric caught briefly on your knees before pooling at your ankles; he kicked your legs wider, bent you over the desk with a hand between your shoulder blades, and forced your chest flat. Your palms slapped wood—breath punching out in a startled gasp.

Then he buried himself to the hilt in your dripping cunt.

You shouted surprised, the sound fracturing into a whine as he immediately started fucking you hard.

His hips snapped forward again and again, each thrust slamming you into the desk until the heavy wood creaked and rocked beneath you. Your toes barely touched the ground; every stroke lifted you up, bouncing you forward only for him to yank you back onto his cock by the grip on your hip. 

One hand stayed clamped on your hip—fingers digging in so deep you’d wear the shape of them for days—while the other fisted your hair, yanking your head back sharply until your spine arched and your throat exposed.

“Sunghoon! Too much—please—”

“Too much?” he growled, hips slamming forward harder, making the desk jolt. “You begged for this, remember? Now take it. Take every fucking inch like you deserve.” He yanked your hair tighter—scalp burning—pulling your head back until your neck strained and tears spilled fresh down your cheeks.

“Such a filthy professor—letting a Death eater fuck you stupid while your students’ papers are still warm under your tits. You love being used like this, don’t you?”

You whined helplessly, voice cracking on every moan.

“Sunghoon—please—need… need—”

He groaned and gave you exactly what you begged for.

The thrusts turned fast, each one slamming you forward until your hips bruised against the desk edge. 

You were loud.

Too loud.

Broken moans and high  cries spilled out with every stroke, echoing off stone walls like a confession.

He noticed.

One hand left your hip and clamped over your mouth, palm sealing your lips, fingers digging into your cheeks to muffle the next sob before it could escape.

He then draped over your back. Chest to spine. Weight pinning you down. Hot breath against your neck.

His hips never slowed—still pounding into you with punishing depth—but now every thrust rocked you both forward.

His other hand came down to your clit, fingers clamping down until the swollen bud throbbed. Your muffled scream trapped, swallowed whole by the rough seal of his hand. Tears streamed faster, sliding down your cheeks in thick tracks that soaked into his skin and dripped onto the scattered parchment beneath you.

Thrust. Pinch. Squeeze. Release.

Thrust. Pinch. Squeeze. Release.

Your body searched for more without your permission. Hips rolling back to meet every slam, trying to take him deeper even as your thighs shook and your toes curled uselessly against the cold stone. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him in helpless spasms, walls sucking at his length like they were trying to pull him in permanently, to keep him buried forever. 

You weren’t in control anymore.

You hadn’t been for a long time.

Every involuntary twitch, every greedy roll of your hips, every flutter of your walls betrayed you—told him exactly how much you needed this, how much you craved it, the pain, the possession. Your body craved him even as he tore you apart.

And that knowledge—that your own flesh was begging for him—only made Sunghoon more aggressive.

His hand clamped tighter over your face, palm sealed like iron, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumb pressing cruelly against your nostril while his pinky hooked under your jaw to force your head back further. You could only get the thinnest threads of oxygen, panicked little sips that made your head swim and your vision spot black.

Without even realising it you came hard.

Your eyes rolled up completely—only whites visible behind fluttering lids—as your mouth stretched wide in a mute scream against his palm. Your walls clamped down so tightly around his cock it was almost painful for him. Your legs—already lifted and trembling in the air—shook uncontrollably, toes curling, thighs quivering like they were trying to snap closed but couldn’t because his hips kept you spread and pinned.

His hand left your clit, and slid up to join the first.

Both hands now on your face. One clamped over your mouth and nose, while the other covered your eyes—palm pressing your eyelids shut, fingers splaying across your forehead and into your hair.

Your arms—previously just weakly supporting your weight on the desk—collapsed. They gave out in one trembling instant, elbows buckling, forearms sliding forward across the desk until your chest and cheek met wood with a soft, defeated thud. Your body simply surrendered, front half draped over the desk like an offering left for slaughter.

Sunghoon caught your head before it could slump completely.

His hand—the one that had been blinding you—slid to cradle the back of your skull, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair with surprising gentleness. He lifted just enough to keep your face tilted upward, cheek no longer pressed to parchment but hovering a fraction above it. Your neck strained at the awkward angle, throat exposed, pulse hammering. He held you there like a collector displaying something priceless.

His mouth found your ear. Hot breath ghosting over the shell. Low voice pouring in like slow poison sweetened with honey.

“Good girl,” he whispered, so soft it almost sounded like love. “That’s it. Let go. You don’t need to hold yourself up anymore. I’ve got you.”

The words sank deep—slipping past every cracked defense you’d tried to rebuild over the years. It was the same tone he used to use in empty corridors when you were still students: calm, coaxing. The same velvet murmur that once convinced you to sneak out after curfew, to let him mark your throat, to believe forever was something he could give you.

“My perfect thing,” he continued, lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear with every word. “So strong for so long—carrying all that pain, all that anger, all that love you tried to bury. And now look—bent over your own desk, crying because it feels too good to stop. You were always meant to end up right here. Owned by me..”

His hips rolled, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in lazy circles that made your walls flutter weakly around him. 

“You don’t have to think. You don’t have to be the perfect professor, the perfect Auror, the perfect anything. Just be mine. Just let me keep you. That’s all you’re good for now, isn’t it? Only I can put you back together.”

Your breathing hitched, each trembling inhale catching on a soft sound.

Eventually his thrusts grew rougher.

What had started as possessive rolls—each one grinding deep, claiming every inch like he was rewriting your body’s memory—shifted into something harder. Hungrier. Less controlled. His hips snapped forward with increasing force, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder again.

Your body now answered him on instinct—hips rocking back to meet every brutal slam even as tears poured down your cheeks.

With one last brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you felt him in your throat as he emptied inside you. Hot, thick spurts flooded your cunt, filling you until it leaked out around his cock in messy, dripping waves that ran down your thighs and puddled on the floor. 

When he finally finished he pulled back.

His cock slipped free with a wet, obscene sound—your used hole gaping slightly, clenching on nothing as thick ropes of his cum dripped out in slow, glistening strands. 

You thought he was done.

You were wrong.

He walked around the desk—boots clicking on stone—until he stood in front of you, reaching down, his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head up from the desk with a sharp tug that made your scalp burn and your neck strain.

Your mouth fell open in a dazed gasp and he didn’t hesitate to push his cock past your lips in one smooth thrust.

You choked, eyes widening as the thick head hit the back of your throat. Your hands flew to his thighs—gripping hard, nails digging into muscle—trying to push, trying to breathe. 

He didn’t let you.

He set a rhythm, fucking your mouth with the same brutality he’d used on your cunt, hitting the back of your throat with every stroke until your gag reflex kicked in.

You looked up at him—eyes wide, glassy, pleading—while he stared down with a crazy glint.

“Let it all go… The anger. The years. The walls you built. Let them crumble. You’re safe here. You’re wanted here. You’re mine here.”

Sunghoon made sure to let you feel every thick inch sliding over your tongue, bumping the back of your throat as your gag reflex fluttered and tears welled fresh. Hips rolling forward until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base and your throat convulsed around him in helpless spasms.

Saliva poured, dripping from the corners of your stretched lips, running in thick strands down your chin. Every time he pulled back the slick strings stretched between your mouth and his cock before snapping; every time he thrust forward again you choked.

He pulled back suddenly—cock slipping free with a wet pop—leaving you gasping, mouth open, tongue lolling slightly as strings of saliva connected your lips to his glistening tip.

He yanked your head back until your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—met his.

He lifted his left arm, showcasing the Dark Mark for you. He held it right in front of your face, close enough that you could almost taste the dark power radiating from it.

“Scared?” he murmured, voice taunting, thumb brushing the edge of the brand almost lovingly. “You should be. One word from me—one single word—and he’d come. Right here. Right now. Because I’m one of his most trusted. His right hand. His favorite blade.” He tilted his head—watching your eyes widen, watching fresh tears spill as the reality of it sank in. “He’d walk through these walls like they were nothing. See you bent over your own desk and he’d laugh. He’d laugh because the great Auror-turned-professor who used to hunt his followers is nothing but my broken little toy now.”

Your breath hitched—shallow, panicked—chest heaving.

“Say it scares you. Say the thought of him walking in right now—seeing you like this—makes you terrified….”

You whined in fear, helpless as tears streamed faster.

He smiled cruelly and shoved his cock back into your mouth. Fucking your throat with renewed savagery while his branded arm stayed raised—taunting you with the symbol of everything he’d become, everything he could summon with a single breath.

“Choke on it,” he snarled. “Choke on the cock of a Death Eater while you think about how easily I could end you.”

The rhythm grew erratic—thrusts losing precision, becoming shorter, harder, chasing release. His breathing turned harsh—panting—while the hand in your hair yanked tighter, forcing your head still so he could fuck your throat exactly how he wanted.

Your vision spotted black—air thin, lungs burning—but your body still answered: throat relaxing on instinct, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft, trying to please even as you choked around him.

He came with a broken groan—deep, guttural—hips jerking forward one last time as the first hot, thick spurt flooded your mouth, salty and bitter, filling your cheeks until you had no choice but to swallow convulsively around him. He moaned loudly, hips stuttering through pulse after pulse, pumping half his release straight down your throat while you gagged and choked, tears pouring faster, saliva and cum bubbling at the corners of your lips.

Then he pulled out.

You coughed, mouth open, as you dry heaved and gasped as the rest of his cum painted your face, one landing on your upper lip, another arcing over the bridge of your nose, a third dripping slowly down your cheekbone to trace the curve of your jaw before falling in a slow droplet down. 

Sunghoon stayed like that for one long heartbeat—cock still in hand, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. Then he exhaled and crouched down in front of you. He balanced on the balls of his feet, forearms resting loosely on his thighs, bringing his face level with yours. Close enough that you could see the faint tremor in his lashes, the way his pupils still hadn’t shrunk back to normal, the way his lips curved into that dangerous smirk you used to dream about.

“I have to leave now,” he said quietly.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

You searched for him—without even realizing it. 

One trembling hand lifted—fingers curling in the air between you like you could physically hold him there. Your voice cracked on the first syllable, raw and hoarse from everything.

“No…” It came out small. Broken. Desperate. “Don’t leave.” The plea hung between you—naked, humiliating, impossible to take back.

The glint in his eyes flared brighter—pupils dilating again like he’d just been handed the most delicious secret in the world.  “Oh, love,” he murmured, reaching out and brushing the pad of his thumb across your cum-streaked cheek, smearing it further instead of wiping it away.

“Still begging me to stay? After everything?” His thumb dragged lower—tracing the swollen curve of your bottom lip, pushing just enough to part it again. “So needy,” he hummed, eyes glittering with manic delight. 

“I’ll be back,” he said—voice dropping to something almost gentle. “I have to go for now. Things to do. Orders to follow. But I’ll be back, love.” He leaned in—forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

He kissed you once—soft this time, almost chaste—lips brushing yours in a ghost of tenderness.

Then he stood.

Took one step back.

And Apparated.

Crack.

You stayed there—kneeling, trembling, face still painted with his release—staring at the empty space where he’d been.

And whispered—barely audible, voice cracked and small—

“Come back…”

Because despite everything—

You still wanted him to.

You didn’t hear from Sunghoon for quite some time.

Weeks bled into months. The castle kept turning—seasons shifting outside the high windows, students cycling through exams and holidays, the Great Hall filling and emptying with the same predictable routine it had held for centuries. You taught your classes with the same measured calm you’d cultivated since taking the post. You graded essays late into the night in your tower office, quill scratching steadily while the fire crackled and Erebus sprawled across the hearthrug like nothing had ever been wrong.

You pretended it didn’t affect you.

You were good at pretending now.

You smiled at McGonagall when she asked if you were sleeping enough. You laughed—light, practiced—at Flitwick’s jokes in the staff room. You answered letters from old Auror colleagues with polite, clipped updates: The students are progressing well. The castle is quiet. You wore high collars and long sleeves even in summer, let the black serpent ring sit cool and silent on your finger, and told yourself repeatedly that the absence was a gift.

Yeah. That dirty Death Eater could rot in whatever dungeon he was lurking in. Probably casting Cruciatus on some poor soul right now. Probably kneeling at Voldemort’s feet, sleeve rolled back, Dark Mark on show while the Dark Lord hissed orders. 

The thought sent goosebumps racing down your spine every single time.

You hated it.

Hated how vivid the image still was: Sunghoon—the boy you once loved now on the other side, wand raised, green light flaring at the tip without hesitation. A student. A Muggle-born. An Auror who got too close. He wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t hesitate. The sweet boy who used to leave notes in the margins of your textbooks, who once spent an entire night teaching you a complicated shielding variation until you got it right—he was gone. Replaced by someone who could torture or kill on command and sleep soundly afterward.

The anxiety spiked without warning.

In the middle of a lesson—mid-sentence—your heart would suddenly lurch, pulse hammering against the base of your throat as though the Dark Mark itself had just flared somewhere nearby. You’d pause, chalk hovering an inch from the blackboard, and force a tight smile when a student asked if you were all right.

“Fine,” you’d say. “Just remembered something.”

You’d turn back to the board and keep writing, hand steady, voice level, while your mind screamed: He’s close enough to him. He could be standing in the same room as Voldemort right now. Breathing the same air. Taking orders. Planning raids. Planning murders.

You told yourself it shouldn’t matter.

He’d chosen.

He’d come back sure, but then vanished again without a backward glance.

So let him rot. Let him kneel. Let him kill.

It wasn’t your problem anymore.

You had classes to teach. Essays to grade. A cat to feed. A life to live that no longer included Sunghoon.

You were fine. Most days you almost believed it….

You knew you had to report it.

Every rational part of you screamed it—loud, insistent, Auror-trained. The moment you’d seen the Dark Mark on his arm, the protocol had flashed through your mind like a memorized oath: Immediate report to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Full description. Last known location. Suspected Animagus form. Threat level: extreme.

You should have gone straight to the Headmaster’s office that very night. Or sent an owl to the Ministry. Or at least write the report yourself.

You should have. But something in you didn’t allow it.

Not when the memory of his mouth on your throat still burned hotter than righteous fury. Not when the serpent ring on your finger pulsed faintly every time you thought his name—like it was still listening, still waiting, still bound to him in ways you couldn’t sever. Not when the thought of him made your chest ache with something too complicated to name as hate.

So you waited.

You told yourself it was strategy. Gathering evidence. Watching for patterns. You told yourself you were protecting the students by keeping him close enough to monitor. Lies, all of them. The truth was simpler and uglier: some part of you still wanted him to come back.

And he did.

One winter night—snow falling thick and silent outside the castle windows—you pushed open your classroom door after curfew, intending to retrieve a forgotten stack of fourth-year essays.

Only to find Sunghoon there.

Leaning casually against your desk, one hip braced on the edge, long black robes pooling around his boots like spilled ink. In his hand: one of your students’ parchments, held up as though he were grading it himself. 

The moment you stepped in he looked up. 

“This one,” he said, voice amused as he tapped the parchment with one long finger, “is failing spectacularly. Can barely string a coherent sentence together. Clearly a mudblood. Talent like this doesn’t come from good breeding.”

The word landed like a slap—casual, cutting, exactly the way he used to speak when he sat with those scummy Slytherins raised with the mind of Salazar Slytherin.

You scowled, already crossing the room with purposeful strides.

“Shut up.” You pulled your wand as you closed the distance, the tip rising until it hovered an inch from his throat.

“Easy, Professor,” he murmured, smirk widening. “I come in peace.”

You didn’t lower the wand. 

He leaned forward anyway, until the tip pressed lightly against the hollow of his throat.

“Do it.” The words came out almost coaxing. Like he was daring a child to jump into deep water. “You’ve got the spell,” he continued, eyes locked on yours. “One word. One flick. Stupefy. Incarcerous. Expelliarmus. Or something nastier—something that would really hurt. You could send me straight to Azkaban. Watch them drag me away in chains. Be the hero everyone already thinks you are.” He tilted his head—just enough that the wand tip slid along the side of his throat, tracing the faint scar there like a lover’s caress. “They’d give you a medal,” he went on, smirk curling sharper. “Order of Merlin, Second Class at least. Maybe even First if you play the tragic card right—tell them how I broke your heart, how I used you, how you still loved me anyway and that’s why it took you so long to turn me in. They’d eat it up. The Ministry loves a redemption story with a body count.”

Your fist clenched tighter around the wand—knuckles bleaching white. The tremor was small, contained, but he saw it. His gaze flicked down for half a heartbeat, then back up, and the smirk turned into something almost gleeful.

“Shaking already?” he teased, voice dropping to that velvet register that used to make you melt in empty corridors. “Not from fear, though…No. You’re scared of what happens if you don’t pull the trigger. Scared of what happens if you do.”

He reached up until his fingers brushed the back of your wand hand, thumb stroking once along your knuckles. “One word and I’m shackled. Dementors waiting. No more midnight visits… No more me...” His eyes searched yours. “But you won’t do it.. Wanna know why? Because deep down you know what happens when I’m gone. You go back to being the perfect professor. The perfect Auror who walked away. The perfect woman who survived me. And every night you’ll lie in bed, wondering why it still feels empty without me.”

Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached into his sleeve. 

And pulled out his own wand. Black ebony. Sleek. Deadly.

He brought it up until the tip rested feather-light against the hollow of your throat, right where your pulse hammered hardest.

“Now we’re even,” he murmured.

The air between you turned electric—two wands, two throats, two heartbeats slamming in dangerous sync.

“Say the word,” he whispered. “End it. Or…”

The spell came before you could think. 

“Depulso!”

A burst of raw force exploded from your wand tip—unfocused, emotional, more instinct than incantation. It slammed into his chest like an invisible fist. Sunghoon flew backward—boots skidding across stone—crashing into the opposite wall hard, then slid down a foot before catching himself, one hand braced on stone, the other still loosely holding his wand.

And laughed. Bright and unhinged—the same delighted sound he used to make when you finally beat him at chess after three hours of silent warfare.

“Damn,” he gasped, rubbing his chest with a grin that showed too many teeth. “There she is.” He pushed off the wall—graceful even when winded—and flicked his wand in a casual arc.

“Expulso!”

You threw yourself sideways; the spell struck the desk instead, splintering wood in a violent spray of shards and ink. You rolled, came up firing.

“Stupefy!”

Red light streaked across the room. He twisted—almost lazily—and deflected it with a casual “Protego.” The spell ricocheted into the ceiling, showering dust and stone chips.

“You hate me,” he called over the crack of magic, voice bright with manic joy. “Say it louder! Let it out!”

“I hate you!” you screamed—voice raw, echoing off stone. “I fucking hate you!”

“More,” he laughed, dodging another Stunner and firing back a jet of purple flame that you barely shielded against. “Tell me how much!”

“Stupefy! Incarcerous!”

Ropes shot from your wand. He sliced them mid-air with a flick—“Diffindo”—then Apparated—crack—reappearing behind you.

You spun—fast—wand already rising.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

He blocked it—wand sparking—and closed the distance in two strides.

“Levicorpus!”

You felt the tug at your ankle, then your body flipped upside down, skirt falling toward your head, wand slipping from shocked fingers. He caught it mid-air with his free hand, twirling it once like a trophy.

You hung suspended—blood rushing to your head, hair cascading downward, heart slamming against your ribs.

He stepped closer, throwing your wand on the ground as he tilted his head to look at you dangling there.

“Still hate me?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” You spat at him.

“Good.”

He flicked his wand.

“Liberacorpus.”

You dropped, crashing onto the stone floor with a grunt. Pain flared through your shoulder, your hip, your knees. You rolled and grabbed your wand from the floor from where he had thrown it.

“Reducto!” The blasting curse exploded against the wall where he’d stood a second earlier. Stone shattered; dust billowed.

He laughed again—bright, breathless—and Apparated behind you.

You spun—wand raised—but he was faster.

His arm locked around your waist from behind—pulling you back against his chest—while his other hand caught your wand wrist, twisting until you dropped it with a hiss of pain.

You thrashed—elbows, heels, nails—fighting like you were drowning and he was the water.

He took it all.

Let you claw at his arms, let you kick backward, let you scream every hateful word you’d swallowed for years. 

“Fuck you—fuck you—I hate you—I hate you—”

He only tightened his hold—chest heaving against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“More,” he growled. “Get it out. All of it.”

You twisted—hard—managed to turn in his grip—and slapped him.

Full force. Across the face.

His head snapped to the side.

A red mark bloomed instantly on his cheek.

He laughed then caught your wrist before you could strike again.

You slapped him with the other hand. Harder.

He caught that one too.

Now both your wrists were pinned between you while you glared up at him, chest heaving.

He looked down at you—cheek red, eyes glittering with something manic and tender all at once.

“What now?” he asked softly. “Going to send me to Azkaban? Let them kiss me with Dementors while you go back to pretending you’re whole?”

Your chest heaved—once, twice—then something inside you finally shattered.

Tears burst free, spilling down your cheeks. “I hate you,” you spat—voice cracking with fury and something darker, something that clawed its way up from the deepest part of you. “I hate you. I hate what you became. I hate that you came back. I hate that I still—”

The sentence fractured—unfinished, unfinishable—because saying it out loud would make it real, would make the love you still carried for him something monstrous and undeniable.

“More,” he growled, low and urgent, eyes blazing. “Get it out! Scream it! Hit me! Curse me! Hate me until you can’t anymore! I want every fucking drop of it!”

You twisted—wild, feral—knees coming up hard toward his groin in a vicious strike meant to cripple.

He barely managed to block it, grunting as your knee grazed his inner thigh instead of landing true. The impact jarred through both of you; his grip on your wrists slipped for half a second.

That was all it took.

You wrenched free, shoved at his chest, trying to get leverage, trying to hurt him the way he’d hurt you for years. He laughed as you fought, nails catching his cheek this time, leaving a fresh scratch under his eye.

“Come on, honey,” he panted—eyes blazing, blood trickling from his nose where your elbow had clipped him earlier, smile manic. “Is that all you can do? Give me everything. Hate me harder. Fight me harder!”

You lunged.

No thought. No plan. Just raw, animal fury.

Your fist connected with his jaw. His head snapped sideways.

You didn’t stop. You hit him again across the same cheek, then the other, back and forth like you were trying to erase him with every strike.

He took it every slap. Every scratch. Every sobbed accusation. He didn’t block. Didn’t retaliate. Just let you pour it out, while his hands stayed loose at his sides.

“More,” he rasped, voice thick with something that sounded almost like pride. “Keep going.”

You screamed furious—and shoved again.

This time he let you.

He stepped back—just enough—and your momentum carried you forward. Your legs gave out beneath you—exhaustion, grief, rage finally winning—and you slid down to your knees in front of him.

The stone was cold.

Your palms slapped against it, trying to hold yourself up, but your arms shook too hard. You collapsed forward—forehead almost touching the floor—sobbing now, great heaving sobs that tore out of your chest like something alive.

He crouched slowly in front of you.

One knee hitting stone. Then the other.

He reached out, fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your face up.

You tried to jerk away.

He didn’t let you.

His face was a mess: lip split, nose bleeding, cheek red and swelling, fresh scratches down his neck and chest. But his eyes were intense. Locked on yours with a focus that made your breath catch.

A small, crooked smile tugged at his bloody mouth.

“Why are you here?” you whispered—voice cracked, small, trembling. “You told me you didn’t love me... You said it was over… You said—”

He sighed—long, slow, almost pained.

“I lied.”

The admission hung between you.

“Why?”

He looked at you for a long moment—really looked—like he was seeing every scar he’d ever left, inside and out.

“Because I was stupid,” he said softly. “Young. Weak. I thought if I broke you enough—if I made you hate me enough—you’d stay away. You’d be safe. You’d never follow me into the dark. You’d live. Without me dragging you down with me.” He laughed once, bitter and full of self-loathing. “It didn’t work.” 

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek.

“You kept breathing. You kept being so fucking perfect it killed me every day not to be with you. Every raid. Every order. Every time I had to kill  someone else so they’d believe I belonged—I thought of you. Of how you’d look at me if you knew..”

He leaned closer—forehead almost touching yours.

“I couldn’t stay away.. So now I have to make sure you stay with me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I have to make up for lost time. I have to make sure you stay safe.”

“Safe?” The word came out choked, incredulous. “With you?” 

“Yes… With me. Because I’m the threat. I’m the one who can keep you alive when the rest of them would kill you just for knowing my name. I’m the one who can stand between you and him. I’m the one who will burn everything down before I let anyone touch you.”

His eyes burned into yours in a terrifying way.

“So hate me,” he whispered. “Fight me. Curse me. Try to kill me. But don’t ever think you’re safer without me. Because you’re not.” 

He leaned in—lips brushing yours in the ghost of a kiss. 

“You’re only safe with me.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, shallow little pants that did nothing to ease the burn behind your ribs. Tears clung to your lashes, blurring him at the edges until he looked almost unreal.

But it was wrong.

The Dark Mark on his forearm stared back at you like an open wound. His chest rose and fell with the same rhythm as yours, and yet he looked at you like you were the only sacred thing left in a world he’d already set on fire.

“You’re still so beautiful when you’re wrecked,” he whispered, “still so fucking perfect. Even after everything… Even when you hate me... Especially when you hate me.”

His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, collecting a tear in the motion. He brought it to his mouth, sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every word. You’re only safe with me. Because anyone else—Ministry, Order, even Dumbledore—they’d use you. They’d put you on a pedestal or in a cage or on a battlefield until there was nothing left. I won’t. I’ll keep you, keep you alive. I’ll keep you mine.”

You wanted to scream at him. To curse him. To tell him he was delusional, dangerous, a monster wearing the face of the boy you once loved.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because part of you believed him.

Believed that in a world where green light waited around every corner, where friends became enemies and trust became a liability, the only place truly safe was in the arms of the man who’d already destroyed you once.

His hand slid to cup your jaw—thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, fingers splaying across your cheek like he was trying to hold every piece of you together.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just asking you to let me stay. Let me protect you. Let me love you the only way I know how...”

The words landed gently this time.

Not like a command. Not like a taunt.

But like a confession he’d carried for years and finally allowed himself to speak aloud.

His grip on your face softened—fingers loosening until they cradled instead of held. The pad of his thumb brushed away the last tear clinging to your lower lash gently, as though he were afraid one wrong touch would shatter you completely. 

You closed your eyes.

And almost—almost—melted against him.

It happened in stages.

First your shoulders dropped—tension bleeding out like ink in water. Then your head tipped forward—just a fraction—until your temple brushed his. Then your hands—still clenched at your sides—unfurled slowly.

He exhaled relieved, like he’d been holding that breath since the day he walked away.

“I’ve got you… I’m here...”

The shift in him was sudden and complete. No more taunts. No more manic edge.

Just careful tenderness.

He kissed your temple, then your closed eyelid. His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, massaging slow circles against your scalp. The other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was no space left between you.

“You’re exhausted. I know. I did this to you. I know.” He rocked you slightly—barely a movement, just enough to soothe—like he was comforting a frightened child instead of the woman he’d broken down over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Not for coming back. Not for wanting you. But for every day you spent thinking you weren’t enough. For every night you cried alone because I made you believe I didn’t care. I cared. Too much. That was the problem.”

His lips found your hairline —kissing softly, like he could press the words into your skin. 

“I thought if I hurt you enough you’d hate me. You’d move on. You’d be safe. But you didn’t hate me. You just… waited. And it tore me apart every single day.” His voice cracked on the last word before he swallowed hard, then pressed his forehead to yours again.

“Let me take care of you. Let me fix what I broke. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg if you want. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll burn the whole fucking world down if it keeps you safe. Just… let me stay.”

You felt it. You felt the last wall inside you—the one you’d rebuilt brick by bloody brick after he walked away—finally crumbled.

You didn’t see the change in his face.

Didn’t see the way his eyes flicked over your expression, reading every softening line, every trembling breath, every tear that slipped free. Didn’t see the victorious grin that spread across his bloody mouth, like a predator finally watching the trap snap shut.

All you felt was the sudden, overwhelming need to close the distance.

Tears still running down your cheeks in hot, silent tracks, you surged up and kissed him. Your hands flew to his face, fingers digging into his jaw, pulling him down as though you could fuse your mouths together permanently. You tasted blood, salt and the faint metallic edge of everything you’d both bled tonight. You kissed him like you were drowning and he was air, like you hated him and loved him and needed him all in the same ragged heartbeat.

He just kissed you back harder.

a/n: HEY thats it for part 2. I was unsure where to end it, but this is good.. i think? Just a warning that part 3 will be VERY ANGSTY! So be prepared ;)

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[svvtvenom]

Oh the angst, it's so good. I love this so much. The amount of smut to angst ratio is like, perfect. I love the way you worded everything and also how we get a little peek on reader and her students as well. I think those are really cool small details!!

[elikajinnie]

P: Death Eater!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (MDNI 18+) PART 1

Warnings: Hogwarts!AU, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Emotional Manipulation, Minor Jealousy, Psychological Manipulation, Angst, Explicit Content, Corruption, Oral Sex, Fingering, Marking, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Kinda Needy!Sunghoon, Dub-Con, Praise Kink, Degradation, Mind Break.

Wordcount: 17,1k

Synopsis: At Hogwarts, you were golden. He chose darkness and shattered you. Years later, you hesitate to kill him. He kills for you instead. Now you teach at Hogwarts, trying to forget him. But Park Sunghoon never forgot you, now he has decided he won’t lose you twice.

a/n: Welcome to the first part of this series. It occured to me very late that it became too long to be a oneshot, so i had to cut it up. Now this first part is.. almost like an epilogue, but more detailed. So enjoy! REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

Your father always called you a handful.

Not cruelly. Never cruelly. It was usually said with a tired sigh and the faintest hint of pride in his eyes, like he couldn’t decide whether to scold you or applaud you.

“You’ll go far,” he’d tell you, hands clasped behind his back as he watched you duel older cousins twice your size. “But that appetite for danger of yours will drag you down if you’re not careful.”

You always brushed him off, always laughed it off.

Because you were extraordinary.

Top marks. Impeccable wand control. A natural duelist. Pure-blooded and well-bred, raised with old magic. Professors at Hogwarts praised your essays, your reflexes, your instincts. You wanted to be an Auror — and you had the discipline to get there. Your grades never slipped. Your ambition was steady, focused, sharp.

But there was that other side of you.

The side that liked testing spells just to see how far they could stretch. The side that found creatures with too many teeth fascinating instead of frightening. 

You liked teeth and claws and things that could kill you if you made one wrong move.

You liked danger. And yes, maybe you liked chaos just a little too much.

You were exceptional with hexes — quick, creative, controlled. You knew the difference between harmful and humiliating, and you preferred the latter. There was an art to embarrassment. A craft.

Filch and Mrs. Norris simply happened to be easy canvases.

Their patrol routes were predictable. Their reactions were theatrical. Their paranoia made everything better.

And then there was Peeves.

Peeves adored you.

You were one of the few students who could keep up with him — who could invent chaos instead of merely react to it. 

Tonight’s prank had been meticulously planned.

You had enchanted one of the suits of armor near the third-floor corridor — the one Filch always passed during his late-night rounds. A simple trigger charm. Once activated, the armor would screech accusations at him in a booming, dramatic voice while releasing a cloud of bright purple smoke and a cascade of glittering sparks that clung stubbornly to fabric.

Harmless.

Humiliating.

Perfect.

You crouched behind a stone pillar, wand tucked into your sleeve, heart beating with anticipatory delight. Peeves hovered beside you, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

“He’s coming,” Peeves whispered, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Oh, this will be delicious—”

Footsteps echoed.

Measured. Even.

Not the shuffling, irritated stomp of Argus Filch.

But you were too excited to notice.

The suit of armor detonated into sound.

“FIIIIILCH YOU MISERABLE CAT-OBSESSED—”

Purple smoke burst outward in an impressive plume. Sparks rained down like cursed confetti.

And instead of wheezing outrage—

There was a sharp intake of breath. A cough. And a distinctly masculine voice snapping in surprise.

Peeves vanished. Just—gone.

“Coward,” you muttered under your breath, heart plummeting straight into your shoes. You stepped out immediately, because unlike poltergeists, you had dignity.

“I am so sorry — that was not meant for you, I thought you were Filch, I swear I would never—”

The student turned.

Your apology died mid-sentence.

Park Sunghoon.

He stood in the fading smoke like something carved from it — tall, composed, dark hair slightly mussed from the magical blast. Purple glitter clung to the shoulders of his robes and dusted the sleeve near his wrist. The torchlight along the corridor caught in his eyes, sharpening them into something almost metallic.

You had seen him before. Everyone had.

Pure-blooded. Ravenclaw. Top of the year in nearly everything. Brilliant. Ruthless. Quiet in a way that didn’t invite pity but demanded space.

You had seen him across the Great Hall, sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table with a book open. You shared—what? Two classes? Advanced Charms and Ancient Runes. You were almost certain you had never actually heard his voice before.

Not properly. Not directed at you.

And now he was staring at you. Not angry in a loud way. Just… displeased. Assessing.

Your pulse began behaving very unprofessionally. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, softer now, suddenly hyperaware of the distance between you — or lack thereof.

He blinked once.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Merlin.

You had not been prepared for that, not prepared for how the sound slid down your spine.

You had not expected that voice.

“It was meant for Filch,” you added quickly, because for some reason you felt compelled to defend yourself.

“I gathered,” he replied dryly.

There it was.

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Not quite. Something restrained.

Up close, he was unfair.

Sharp jaw. Dark lashes. Eyes that looked like they held thoughts he would never share, like they held too much thought and too little mercy. There was something composed about him, something restrained — like he was constantly holding something back.

And he was tall. 

You had to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact, and that realization alone sent your traitorous heart into a frenzy in a way that was deeply inconvenient. 

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t brush the glitter off his robe. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

He simply stood there, taking you in like you were the unexpected variable in an equation he hadn’t planned for.

“You’re in Advanced Defensive Theory,” he said.

Not a question.

You blinked. “Yes.”

“You argue with Professor Whitmore.”

“I contribute,” you corrected immediately.

“You interrupt.”

You scoffed softly, folding your arms over your chest like you were in the middle of a casual debate instead of standing inches away from a boy who made your pulse behave irrationally.

“In my book,” you said breezily, “that’s the same thing.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

You pushed on, brushing him off with a careless tilt of your head. “If someone is wrong, I correct them. If someone is vague, I clarify. If Professor Whitmore insists on explaining defensive counter-curses like we’re first years, I improve the lecture.”

A faint curl of satisfaction settled in your chest. You were used to winning arguments. Used to people reacting — either with amusement or exasperation.

Sunghoon did neither. He just stared at you. 

It wasn’t a blank stare. It wasn’t empty. It was sharp and focused, like he was dissecting your words instead of responding to them. His gaze didn’t flicker away when you shifted your weight. It didn’t falter when you met it head-on.

If anything, it deepened.

“You’re not going to argue back?” you asked lightly, attempting to reclaim some of your usual confidence.

He didn’t answer. He just continued staring.

And Merlin help you, but that was worse. Because it felt like he was waiting for something. Watching for something. As if he already knew how you would react and simply wanted to see it unfold.

Your fingers fidgeted slightly at your side before you forced them still. “Anyway,” you said, shifting gears, “I really am sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”

Still nothing. Just those dark eyes, steady and unrelenting.

For someone so quiet, he had a presence that was almost suffocating. Not loud. Not overbearing. Just… intense.

It made your skin feel too tight.

“I didn’t expect anyone else to be walking through here,” you added, softer this time.

His gaze flickered — just barely — to the enchanted armor, now standing innocently against the wall as though it hadn’t just screamed obscenities.

Then he looked back at you.

“How did you do it?”

You blinked.

“…What?”

“The trigger,” he clarified calmly. “How did you bind it?”

For a second, you simply stared at him.

That was not the question you expected.

“I—” You faltered, thrown off. “I’m sorry?”

His expression didn’t change. “The suit of armor. You hexed it to respond. How?”

Confusion washed over you, followed quickly by something like surprise.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t offended. He was curious.

“You’re asking about the enchantment?” you said slowly.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it unsettled you.

You glanced back at the armor instinctively, as if expecting it to answer for you. “It’s not complicated,” you said after a moment, though your tone lost some of its usual teasing edge. “It’s a layered charm.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You found yourself explaining before you consciously decided to. “I used a modified auditory trigger,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your hand. “The armor only activates when it detects ‘Filch’ spoken within a certain radius.”

“And the smoke?” he asked.

“Basic dispersion charm. Non-toxic. Stains fabric for about an hour, though.” You winced slightly. “I may have overdone the glitter.”

His gaze flicked to his shoulder again. Then back to you.

“You stacked the enchantments,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“In sequence?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to layer that many minor charms without destabilizing the trigger,” he said evenly.

You blinked at him, surprised despite yourself.

“I stabilized the core,” you replied automatically. “Anchored it to the armor’s existing ward structure.”

His eyes sharpened. “How?”

“Why do you care?” you asked quietly.

“Because it worked.”

It shouldn’t have felt like praise. But it did.

Your pulse skipped.

“I adjusted the matrix,” you admitted after a beat. “There’s a binding symbol carved inside the base. It redirects excess magic back into the object instead of letting it disperse.”

Another stretch of silence.

You expected him to challenge it. To critique it. To tell you it was inefficient. Instead, something shifted in his expression.

Interest.

“You modified the runes yourself,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Like one minute.”

His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your stomach flip.

“It was just for fun,” you added. “I wasn’t exactly writing a thesis.”

“You shouldn’t waste that on pranks.” There was no condescension in his tone. Just a fact.

Your chin lifted instinctively. “I don’t waste anything.”

His lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “I can see that.” He glanced once more at the armor, then back at you. “Next time,” he said calmly, “tell me before you try something like that.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So I can see it up close.” 

You stared at him, thrown off balance in a way you didn’t appreciate. “You want to supervise my rule-breaking?” you asked lightly, trying to regain control of the moment.

“I want to see how your mind works when you’re not being graded.”

That did something to you. Because most people liked you for what you produced. Your scores. Your boldness in class.

But Sunghoon wasn’t impressed by results. He was curious about process.

You tilted your head, studying him the way he’d been studying you.

“You’re strange,” you decided.

A faint flicker of something — almost amusement — passed through his eyes.

“So are you.”

And somehow, that felt like agreement.

After that night, he didn’t disappear back into quiet observation.

He sought you out.

The next time you entered Advanced Defensive Theory, the seat beside you was occupied.

By him.

He didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look at you when you sat down.

He never made a spectacle of it. Sunghoon didn’t do spectacle.

He existed beside you like a shadow that chose to stay.

You found yourself looking for him.

In the Great Hall, your eyes would drift to the Ravenclaw table without permission. In the library, you’d pretend not to notice him already seated near the section you favored. In corridors, you’d sense him before you saw him. 

By fifth year, people had started noticing how Sunghoon was always there. Always just slightly behind you. Or beside you. Close enough that the space between you felt claimed.

He didn’t touch you often in public. But when he did, it was obvious.

A hand at the small of your back when a corridor grew too crowded. Fingers brushing yours briefly before class began. Standing half a step in front of you when someone he didn’t like tried to linger in conversation.

He never raised his voice. He never made scenes.

He didn’t need to.

People felt the quiet warning in his stare. The calm certainty in the way he said, “She’s busy,” without asking your permission — but somehow knowing you didn’t mind. 

And you didn’t.

Because it wasn’t suffocating.

It was grounding.

You liked knowing someone that sharp had chosen you.

The Yule Ball was when everything shifted. 

Until then, whatever existed between you and Sunghoon had lived in the spaces between words — in shared glances across classrooms, in late-night study sessions that stretched a little too long, in the way he always seemed to appear at your side without being asked.

But the Yule Ball made things visible, bringing it to the light. 

You had agreed to attend with a boy from your house — charming, well-liked, perfectly acceptable. The kind of boy your parents would approve of. The kind that smiled easily and didn’t carry storms behind his eyes.

He’d asked weeks in advance, red-faced but hopeful. You had said yes because it was simple.

Because Sunghoon hadn’t asked.

In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all when invitations began circulating. No jealousy. No claim. Not even curiosity. Just that same unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

The night of the Yule Ball, the Great Hall was transformed — floating candles suspended beneath an enchanted winter sky, snow drifting lazily along the ceiling, frost-kissed trees lining the walls. Music swelled from the corner where instruments played themselves in elegant harmony. Students glittered in dress robes and jewel-toned gowns, laughter echoing against marble floors.

You felt beautiful. Confident.

Your date was attentive, polite. His hand rested at your waist as you danced, guiding you through the rhythm.

And yet— You felt it.

Across the room. A weight.

Your eyes found him without trying.

Sunghoon stood near one of the ice sculptures, half-shadowed by flickering candlelight. Dark robes tailored perfectly to his tall frame. Hair pushed back just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his face. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t dancing. He was watching.

Not the room though. No he was watching you.

You looked away first.

The music shifted into something slower. Your date’s hand slid lower on your waist — just slightly. Enough to be noticeable. Enough to feel presumptuous.

“You clean up nicely,” he murmured near your ear, breath warm against your skin. His fingers pressed a fraction too firmly against your hip.

You stiffened.

It wasn’t overtly inappropriate. But it wasn’t respectful either.

Across the ballroom, Sunghoon went very still. The kind of stillness that meant calculation.

You barely saw the movement. Just a subtle shift of his wrist. A controlled flick.

Your date’s foot caught on absolutely nothing. He pitched forward, balance vanishing beneath him as though the floor itself had betrayed him. Robes tangled. Shoes scraped uselessly against polished marble.

He went down hard.

A ripple of gasps. Then laughter.

Your date scrambled upright, face burning crimson, muttering something about slick floors.

You excused yourself with an apologetic smile and crossed the ballroom, ignoring curious stares. The music swelled behind you, but it felt distant now.

You found him near the edge of the Hall, partially obscured by the silver branches of an enchanted tree.

“You hexed him,” you said quietly.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No attempt to deny it. “He was inappropriate.”

Your brows lifted. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.”

That answer threw you.

You expected defensiveness. A justification. Instead, his voice remained calm.

He stepped closer. Close enough that you felt the warmth radiating from him despite the winter air drifting through the enchanted doors.

“I didn’t want you to,” he said. “He touched you like he thought you owed him something.” The possessiveness wasn’t loud. It was precise.

“And you think I owe you?” you challenged softly, though your voice lacked bite.

His gaze locked onto yours.

“No.”  A pause. “I think you’re mine.” The words weren’t playful. They weren’t flirtatious. 

Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered.

“I already did.”

You should have stepped back. You should have bristled. Instead, warmth flooded your chest. It wasn't like he wasn’t claiming control over you, but like he was claiming commitment to you. 

The difference mattered.

He leaned down slowly — giving you time to move if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was controlled intensity. Like he was memorizing the feeling.

Your fingers curled into the front of his robes, pulling him closer without thinking, while his hand slid to your lower back, anchoring you there.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured.

“Told you what?”

“That he asked you.”

Your heart skipped.

“You never asked me.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I don’t compete,” he answered quietly.

You smiled faintly. “That’s arrogant.”

From that night on, there was no ambiguity. You were together. And together, you were formidable. You loved him. Not because he was gentle. But because when he chose something — or someone — he never did it halfway.

You didn’t see the warning signs. You didn’t question the intensity.

You were young and in love.

And completely unaware of how dangerous it would become when the world outside Hogwarts demanded something darker from him.

The change began in the summer before sixth year, subtle and insidious, like ink bleeding slowly across parchment.

You didn’t notice it immediately — how could you, when you were separated by distance and the obligations of separate worlds? Letters had always been your bridge. His used to arrive heavy with detail: sharp observations about Ministry decrees he found illogical, notes on experimental charm variations he’d tested in the quiet of his family estate, even the occasional dry remark about a tedious pure-blood gathering where politics masqueraded as polite conversation. He wrote in that precise, slanted script, filling margins when the page ran out, as if he couldn’t bear to leave anything unsaid.

Then the replies grew shorter.

Not colder, exactly. Still polite. Still him in their careful construction.

I’m well.

Studying.

Family obligations are tedious.

Don’t do anything reckless.

You stared at the sparse lines, turning the parchment over as though more might appear on the reverse. You told yourself it was the pressure of summer — pure-blood families demanded appearances, alliances, endless dinners where every word was weighed like galleons. You knew that life. You lived echoes of it yourself. So you wrote longer letters in response: the Kneazle at your creature assessment internship that nearly took a chunk out of your sleeve, the new hex variation you’d been perfecting (more elegant containment, less backlash), how the days felt longer without him near.

He never acknowledged those parts.

The train ride back to Hogwarts should have felt like returning to solid ground.

The platform at King’s Cross thrummed with familiar chaos — trunks clattering over stone, owls hooting indignantly from cages, students calling greetings across the steam. The scarlet engine huffed impatiently, ready to pull away.

You stepped onto the Hogwarts Express with that old thrill sparking in your chest, scanning the corridor instinctively.

There he was.

Sunghoon stood near the far end, posture rigid, dark robes immaculate. He looked… honed. Leaner, sharper, as though the summer had stripped away anything soft. His features stood out more starkly — high cheekbones, jaw set in quiet tension, dark hair pushed back.

Your heart lurched forward before your feet did.

You wove through the crowd.

“Sunghoon—”

He turned.

For the briefest instant, something flickered in his eyes — relief, perhaps, or recognition so raw it almost hurt to see. Then it disappeared.

“You look well,” he said. The words sounding practiced, like lines from a script he didn’t entirely believe. No smile. No step toward you.

You tried for lightness. “You look like you forgot how to write more than two sentences.”

His gaze flicked down the corridor — scanning faces, checking distance — before returning to you.

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Things.”

The train lurched into motion. Compartments filled with chatter. You reached for his hand out of long habit.

He let you take it. But his fingers didn’t curl around yours the way they used to. The grip was there — present, but restrained. Distant. Like he was permitting contact rather than returning it.

You told yourself it was nothing.

The first weeks of sixth year unwinded in small fractures.

He still walked beside you to classes. Still claimed the seat next to yours in shared classes. Still dismantled questions with that same surgical intelligence. But he no longer lingered.

After lessons, he rose quickly. “I have something to handle.”

“With who?” you’d ask, keeping your tone casual.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

The phrase settled between you like a wall, repeated often enough to feel rehearsed.

He stopped the small touches, no idle tracing of your wrist while you read side by side, no hand at the small of your back when corridors grew crowded. He stood near, but the space between felt hollow. Air where warmth used to be.

When another student flirted with you — bold, harmless — he didn’t react. No sharpened stare. No quiet step forward. He simply watched, detached, expression unreadable.

That detachment cut deeper than any flash of jealousy ever had.

One night in the library, the air thick with dust and candle smoke, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You’re distant.”

He didn’t lift his eyes from the page.

“I’m studying.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence.

You reached across the table and gently closed the book in his hands.

“Talk to me.”

His jaw flexed, then he looked up at you. His eyes weren’t cold. They were exhausted — shadowed beneath, darker than you remembered, as though sleep had become optional. His shoulders carried perpetual tension, braced for impact.

“You’re overthinking,” he said quietly.

You searched his face for the boy who once told you he didn’t underestimate you.

“Are you pulling away from me?” The question landed heavy. 

For a heartbeat, vulnerability cracked through, then it vanished, sealed behind composure.

“No.”

But he didn’t reach for you. Didn’t soften the line of his mouth. Didn’t offer the reassurance you ached for. The absence of those things hurt more than any denial.

You began noticing the edges of something larger.

Whispers among certain pure-blood circles. Quick glances exchanged in corridors. Conversations that broke off when you approached. Sunghoon spent time now with people he once dismissed — sons of old families, names that lingered in the darker corners of wizarding news.

“You’ve made new friends,” you said once, trying to keep it light.

“They’re useful.”

Useful. The word landed like a curse.

You worried. But pride and trust kept you from chasing. 

Sunghoon had always been intense. Maybe this was simply… evolution. Family pressure. Sixth-year expectations. The weight of futures already mapped out.

You decided to give him space.

You stopped reaching first. Stopped asking where he disappeared to. Stopped pressing when he drew the line with “It doesn’t concern you.”

You smiled in public. Threw yourself into studies, into Auror training, into anything that filled the hours without requiring you to name the growing silence.

At night, though, alone in your dormitory, the questions returned.

You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling as moonlight spilled through the window, replaying every small shift: the way he flinched — just barely — when your fingers brushed his forearm once; the way he scanned corridors before speaking your name; the gradual cooling of his voice.

Love didn’t vanish overnight, you told yourself. People changed under pressure. Brilliant minds bent strangely under strain.

But distance, once offered, sometimes refused to take root.

You tried. Gods, you tried. In the weeks that followed, you became an expert in finding ways to avoid most interactions. You arrived to class three minutes late so the seat beside him was already taken by someone else—usually a wide-eyed third-year who didn’t know better when you smiled apologetically and claimed the far end of the row. You lingered in the library only until the candles burned to half-height, then packed your things with brisk efficiency before he could suggest walking back together. In the corridors you kept your eyes forward, chin high, laughter a little louder when your friends surrounded you, as if volume alone could fill the hollow space he used to occupy.

You told yourself it was kindness. Space. The gift he seemed to want.

He never thanked you for it. Instead, the opposite began to happen.

At first it was small things, easy to dismiss as coincidence. He appeared at the entrance to the Great Hall just as you were leaving breakfast, falling into step beside you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours once, twice, before you could widen the gap. When you chose a different table in the library—tucked and out of sight—he was already there the next evening, book open to the exact page you needed, as though he’d known your research schedule better than you did.

You tried harder.

You stopped going to the Astronomy Tower at midnight, the place that had once been yours without discussion. You joined a study group for NEWT-level Potions that met three evenings a week in the dungeons—loud, crowded, safe. On the fourth night, you slipped out early, expecting an empty corridor.

But it wasn’t.

He was leaning against the stone wall opposite the dungeon stairs, arms folded, silver prefect badge catching the torchlight like a warning. The same unreadable expression, but something sharper beneath it now. Tension in the line of his jaw. A muscle ticking once, twice.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. 

You paused mid-step, heart lurching against your ribs. “I’m giving you space. You said—”

“I didn’t say disappear.” His answer came faster than usual. 

The corridor felt suddenly narrower. Torch flames flickered as though the air had shifted. You swallowed. “I’m not disappearing. I’m… respecting your boundaries.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally—the only crack in the composure. He pushed off the wall in one fluid motion and closed the distance until only a handspan remained between you. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his lashes cast spidery lines across his cheeks in the low light.

“My boundaries,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Is that what you think this is?”

You lifted your chin. “You flinch when I touch you. You vanish for hours and come back smelling like rain and smoke. What else am I supposed to think?”

For a moment he said nothing. Just looked at you—really looked, the way he used to when the whole world narrowed to just the two of you. Then his hand moved, slow enough that you could have stepped away. His fingers brushed your wrist, then closed around it.

“I don’t want space,” he said. The words were barely above a whisper, but they landed like a spell. “I never asked for space.”

“Then what do you want, Sunghoon?” Your voice cracked on his name despite every effort to keep it steady. “Because you’re pulling away and holding on at the same time and I can’t—I can’t breathe in the middle.”

His thumb traced once over the pulse point at your wrist, feeling the frantic beat there. Something fractured in his expression—brief, almost invisible, but you caught it. The same flicker you’d seen on the train platform the first day back. Relief edged with pain.

“I want you here,” he said. “Even when I can’t… even when I shouldn’t.” His free hand lifted, hesitated, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted every sharp line of his posture. “I need you close enough that I can still see you. Still know you’re safe. Still—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Still feel like I’m not completely gone.”

You could feel the tremor in his fingers against your skin, the way his breathing had shallowed. This was the boy who never made spectacles, never raised his voice, never admitted weakness—and yet here he was, confessing in a dungeon corridor that smelled of damp stone and old potions, that the distance you’d offered was carving him open.

You should have pulled away. Should have demanded answers. Instead your free hand rose of its own accord and settled against his chest, right over the place where his heart hammered beneath layers of wool and restraint. 

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered.

“I know.” His forehead dropped to rest against yours. “I’m scaring myself.” His gaze traced every line of your face as though he were memorizing it again: the arch of your brows, the curve of your mouth. He looked at you like you were the last solid thing in a world that had begun to slip through his fingers.

His hand—the one still wrapped around your wrist—lifted slowly, until his fingertips grazed the edge of your jaw. He tilted your face up the barest fraction, the gesture was so careful it almost hurt.

Then he closed the distance.

His lips brushed yours once—soft, testing, almost a question. When you didn’t pull away, didn’t push away, he pressed again, firmer this time. Still slow. But the restraint was fraying; you could feel it in the tremor that ran through his fingers, in the way his breath hitched against your mouth.

You didn’t kiss him back.

You let him have this—let him pour everything he couldn’t say into the careful press of his lips, the way he lingered at the corner of your mouth as though afraid to demand more. His other hand came to your waist, fingers splaying wide, anchoring you against the cold stone wall at your back without caging you. He kissed you like he was apologizing. Like he was asking permission with every slow slide of his mouth over yours.

And then—he pulled you closer.

One decisive tug, erasing the last sliver of space between your bodies. Your chest pressed flush to his, the hard planes of him meeting the softer give of you, and something inside you simply gave way.

You melted.

The resistance you’d been clinging to dissolved in a rush of heat and want and relief so sharp it bordered on pain. Your lips parted on a soft, involuntary sound, and you kissed him back.

Your arms moved without conscious thought. Up. Around his neck. Fingers sliding into the dark silk of his hair at the nape, threading through the strands he kept so ruthlessly neat. You tugged—just enough—and he groaned.

The sound vibrated against your mouth, low and rough and wrecked. It sent a shiver racing down your spine. His control snapped another fraction; the hand at your waist tightened, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. Long fingers curled around the column of your throat, guiding your head exactly where he wanted it so he could angle deeper.

The kiss turned molten.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow at first, exploratory, tasting you like he was relearning every inch. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still, and he answered with a low sound that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His free hand began to wander, skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric before continuing, mapping the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the sharp edge of your shoulder blade. You arched instinctively into the touch, and he took advantage—pressing you harder against the wall, thigh sliding between yours just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

Your palms slid down from his hair to the broad span of his shoulders, feeling muscle that hadn’t been quite so defined last year. He’d always been lean, elegant, precise. Now he felt lethal. Like a blade that had finally been sharpened to its full edge.

Another groan rumbled through him when your nails dragged lightly down his back. He retaliated by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth—gentle, then firmer—until you moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

Sunghoon’s mouth left yours only long enough to drag hot, open kisses along your jaw, his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear and you arched.

You retaliated by sliding your hands under his robes, over the crisp white shirt he always kept buttoned to the throat like armor, his abdomen contracted under your touch, a sharp inhale escaping him when your nails scraped lightly just above the waistband of his trousers. He was breathing unevenly now. You felt the evidence of how much he wanted you pressing insistently against your hip, and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

His fingers found the first button of your shirt—popped it open with a deft flick. Then the second. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of your collarbone, your sternum, and he followed it with his mouth—kissing a slow path downward until your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. Your shirt hung half-open now, one side slipping off your shoulder with your robe. His hand slid inside, cupping the soft swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumb brushing over the peak until it hardened under his touch and you whimpered his name.

“Quiet,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked, but the command lacked its usual steel. It sounded more like a plea. “Someone could—”

You cut him off by tugging his shirt free of his trousers and dragging your nails down his sides, harder this time. He bucked against you once—instinctive, helpless—and then his mouth was back on yours, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that matched the frantic press of hips. His free hand dropped to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist so he could settle more firmly between them. The friction was devastating. You rocked against him without thinking, chasing the pressure, and he groaned so deeply it felt like it came from the center of his chest.

His belt buckle clinked softly as he shifted—fingers fumbling for the zipper of his trousers with less grace than usual. You helped, impatient, your hand brushing over the hard length of him through fabric before he managed to free himself. The sound he made when your fingers wrapped around him—low, broken, almost pained—sent a shiver racing through you. He thrust shallowly into your grip once, twice, forehead dropping to your shoulder as though the sensation had short-circuited every thought he’d ever had.

You were both lost in it now—clothes askew, breaths mingling, bodies straining toward the same desperate edge. His hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingertips teasing along the edge of your underwear, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk—

A sharp, indignant meow.

High-pitched. Close. Too close.

You both froze.

Mrs. Norris stood at the end of the corridor, tail lashing, yellow eyes gleaming with accusation in the torchlight. Her thin, mangy frame was silhouetted against the flickering flames, ears flattened, mouth open in another warning yowl that promised Filch wasn’t far behind.

Reality crashed in like ice water.

Sunghoon swore under his breath—vicious—and released you so fast you nearly stumbled. You scrambled back against the wall, hands flying to your shirt. Fingers shook as you fumbled buttons back into place, missing the first one twice before managing to close the top enough to look halfway decent. Your bra strap had slipped down your shoulder; you yanked it up, cheeks burning.

Sunghoon moved with the same frantic efficiency. He tucked himself back into his trousers with a wince, zipped up, fastened his belt in one swift motion. His shirt was still untucked, hair mussed beyond repair, lips swollen and glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like that could erase what had just happened.

Mrs. Norris hissed again, louder.

“Bloody cat,” Sunghoon muttered, voice hoarse. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the nearest darkest alcove, pressing you both into shadow just as distant footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Filch’s wheezy voice drifted down, calling for his infernal pet.

You held your breath, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Sunghoon’s chest rose and fell rapidly beside you, his hand still locked around your wrist like he couldn’t bear to let go even now. His thumb stroked once—unconscious, soothing—over your racing pulse.

The footsteps paused. Mrs. Norris yowled once more, then trotted off toward the sound of her owner’s voice. The corridor fell silent again.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Then Sunghoon exhaled—shaky, almost a laugh.

“We’re going to get expelled one day,” he said quietly, voice still rough around the edges.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, pupils still blown, but the corner of his mouth twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

“Worth it?” you whispered.

He looked at your mouth then back to your eyes. “Every damn time.” 

He leaned in, pressed one last, slow kiss to the corner of your lips—soft this time, almost tender—before stepping back and straightening his robes with shaking hands. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before they return.”

You followed him on unsteady legs, shirt still crooked, hair a disaster, skin still burning where he’d touched you.

From that night onward, he kept you close.

It felt, at first, like a gift. Like the calendar had flipped backwards, to when every glance carried promise and every brush of shoulders felt like a secret. In the days that followed, he was there—always there—whenever you came to him.

You slid onto the bench beside him at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall one morning, still half-asleep, and before you could even reach for the pumpkin juice, his arm had already draped casually around your shoulders. Just close enough that the warmth of him seeped through your robes, close enough that anyone looking would see the claim without him ever needing to speak it. 

In the library, he had already claimed your usual table, you came and sat beside him, greeting him lovingly. When your quill rolled off the edge, he caught it mid-fall and set it back. When you leaned over to point out a note, his head tilted toward yours until your temples nearly touched, breath warm against your cheek. Perfect. Attentive. Exactly the boyfriend who once memorized the rhythm of your pulse.

It should have felt like coming home.

But the more it happened, the more you noticed the pattern beneath the perfection.

He never came to you first.

Never.

Not once.

You were always the one to seek him out. You were always the one to slide onto the bench beside him, to claim the chair across from him, to walk the extra corridor to where he usually studied. If you didn’t—if you waited, testing—he simply… wasn’t there. He didn’t appear at breakfast looking for you. Didn’t linger outside your common room. Didn’t send an owl asking where you’d gone. He existed in his own orbit, precise and self-contained, and only intersected with yours when you crossed into his path.

And when you did, he became flawless.

Strategic.

The word lodged in your chest like a splinter.

You began to watch him more closely.

His social circle hadn’t changed since the summer. If anything, it had tightened. The same cluster of pure-blood students—tall, pale, impeccably dressed— always murmuring in low voices when professors passed. Names that carried old weight: Malfoy, Zabini, Nott, Greengrass, even a Lestrange boy two years above who’d returned for his NEWTs with a permanent sneer. They spoke of blood status the way other people spoke of Quidditch scores—casual, dismissive. Half-bloods were “adequate, at best.” Muggle-borns were “a temporary inconvenience.” 

Sunghoon sat among them.

Not loudly. Not performing. But he was there—listening, nodding once in a while, offering the occasional dry comment that made them laugh in that sharp, knowing way. When one of them sneered at a Gryffindor first-year who’d tripped over their own robes, Sunghoon didn’t join in. But he didn’t correct them either. He simply looked away, jaw tight, and changed the subject.

You hated it.

Every time you caught him at their table, something cold twisted in your stomach. You hated the way their eyes slid over you when you approached—like you were an interesting specimen rather than a person. You hated the way Sunghoon’s posture shifted fractionally straighter when you were near. You hated most of all that he still let you pull him away from them—let you thread your fingers through his and lead him toward the doors—without ever once apologizing for where he’d been sitting.

Because he was smart. Brilliant, really.

He should know better. He did know better. And yet he stayed in their orbit.

You told yourself it was survival. Pure-blood politics were a chessboard, and Sunghoon had always played three moves ahead. Maybe he was gathering information. Maybe he was protecting himself. Maybe he was protecting you.

But the doubt had taken root now, small and poisonous. Because when you weren’t there—when you didn’t cross into his path—he didn’t reach for you. And when you did, his perfection felt less like love and more like compensation. Like he was trying to keep you tethered with touches and kisses and murmured promises so you wouldn’t look too closely at the company he kept when your back was turned.

One evening in the library, you watched him from across the stacks.

You hadn’t meant to hide. Not really. You’d come looking for a specific volume on advanced counter-curses and the section had offered the perfect vantage. You could see without being seen. Or so you’d thought.

Sunghoon sat at the long oak table near the center of the room, flanked by Nott and Zabini. The three of them formed a closed triangle: heads bent over the same length of parchment, quills moving in lazy unison. From this distance their voices were a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional soft scrape of ink on paper and the rustle of turning pages. They looked like any other group of sixth-years cramming for NEWTs.

Except they weren’t.

You noticed it in pieces.

First, the way their eyes flicked outward—not randomly, but with purpose. A Hufflepuff girl with ink-stained fingers and a second-hand robe walked past, head down, hurrying away. Nott’s lip curled, just enough. He leaned in and muttered something. Zabini’s shoulders shook once in silent laughter. Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched—small, almost imperceptible. Then he added something under his breath. Whatever it was made Nott snort outright and Zabini cover his mouth with the back of his hand.

Next came a Ravenclaw boy—lanky, glasses perpetually slipping, the kind of student who always answered questions too eagerly in class. He passed within ten feet of their table, arms full of books. Zabini tilted his head, murmured something about “eager little half-bloods thinking they belong here.” Nott smirked. And then, almost casual Sunghoon spoke.

“Careful,” he said, voice carrying just far enough for you to catch it. “He might hear you and start crying to McGonagall again.”

The words were dry. Detached. But they landed like a spark on dry tinder. Nott barked a short laugh. Zabini leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming. The Ravenclaw boy faltered mid-step, cheeks flushing, then hurried faster without looking back.

You felt your stomach turn over.

Sunghoon had instigated it.

Not in the theatrical way some Slytherins liked to perform. But he’d fed it. A single sentence—perfectly timed—and the others had latched on like wolves scenting blood. He didn’t join in the laughter. He simply returned to the parchment, expression serene, as though he’d commented on the weather.

You pressed your back harder against the shelf, heart thudding unevenly. The candle closest to you threw long shadows across your hiding place. You told yourself to leave. To walk away before you saw anything else that would make the splinter in your chest dig deeper.

But you stayed.

Another student passed—a Muggle-born Gryffindor fourth-year, red tie askew, laughing too loudly at something her friend had said. Zabini’s gaze tracked her like a hawk. He opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, Sunghoon lifted his head slightly. 

And looked directly toward you.

A tiny, involuntary squeak escaped you, barely audible, swallowed instantly by the library’s hush—but it felt deafening in your own ears.

He couldn’t see you… could he? 

You were hidden. Well hidden. Tucked behind two rows of towering tomes on goblin rebellions, half-obscured by a ladder and the angle of the shelf. Your robes blended with the shadows. There was no way…

And yet his gaze had locked exactly on your position.

For one frozen second his eyes narrowed—searching, assessing—then softened in recognition. The faintest curve touched his lips. Not a smile. Something private. Something that said I know you’re there.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Why would he look here? How could he possibly—

Nott’s voice cut through the silence, casual and amused.

“Oi, Park. You’ve gone soft staring at the shelves again?” He followed Sunghoon’s line of sight, squinting into the gloom. “Or is that your little flower lurking back there?”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t look guilty. He simply leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, and let one brow lift in mild interest.

“She’s not lurking,” he said evenly. “She’s studying.”

Zabini chuckled low. “Studying us, more like. Must be thrilling, watching the future of wizarding society at work.”

Nott grinned, sharp and lazy. “Lucky bastard, though. Perfect girlfriend, isn’t she? Loyal. Pretty. Doesn’t ask too many questions.” He nudged Sunghoon’s elbow. “Bet she melts every time you look at her. Must make the rest of it easier.”

Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change.

But you saw it—the micro-second tightening at the corner of his eye. The way his fingers flexed once against his sleeve. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Almost gentle.

“She’s more than that.”

Nott opened his mouth for another quip, then closed it again when Sunghoon’s gaze slid sideways to him. Something cold and unreadable passed over Sunghoon’s face. 

Zabini cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the parchment again. Nott shrugged, smirk fading into something more neutral.

Sunghoon’s eyes returned to the shadows where you stood. He didn’t beckon. Didn’t call your name. Just held your gaze across the distance until the weight of it became unbearable.

Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure the sound would carry.

You sighed.

It slipped out before you could stop it—soft, defeated, the sound of someone who had already lost the argument with themselves. Your shoulders dropped a fraction. The book you’d been clutching like a shield felt suddenly ridiculous in your hands.

And then you stepped out.

One foot, then the other. Candlelight caught on the edges of your robes as you emerged from the alcove’s gloom into the open aisle. You kept your chin up, eyes locked on his, refusing to shrink even as heat crawled up your neck.

Sunghoon’s gaze sharpened the instant you crossed into the light.

It wasn’t the soft, private look he’d worn a moment earlier. This was something else—something honed, possessive, almost predatory. His eyes narrowed fractionally, with the faintest tilt of his head, like a predator acknowledging movement in the grass.

Then he lifted a hand.

Slow. Elegant. Palm up, fingers relaxed—except for the index one.

He crooked it.

Once.

A single curl of his finger.

Come here.

The gesture was small. Insignificant to anyone watching who didn’t know him. But to you it landed like a spell—silent, binding, impossible to ignore. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. One step. Another. Crossing the open floor toward their table as though pulled by invisible thread.

Nott and Zabini noticed. Nott’s smirk widened into something lazy and approving. Zabini leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the exchange like it was private theater staged just for him.

Regret hit you like cold water the second your body obeyed.

Why did you do that?

Why did you let one crooked finger pull you across a crowded room like a summoned house-elf?

You’d walked to him. In front of them. Because he crooked a finger.

Like you were his. Like you’d always been his.

Nott let out a low whistle, soft enough not to draw Madam Pince’s attention. “Merlin. That was almost poetic.”

Zabini chuckled under his breath. “She comes when called. Convenient.”

Sunghoon didn’t acknowledge either of them.

You however turned your head just enough to side-eye them.

Nott first—lounging with one elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his fist, dark eyes glittering with amusement. The smirk hadn’t faded; if anything, it had deepened into something smug, satisfied, as though your obedience had confirmed some private bet he’d made with himself. Zabini was worse in his stillness—arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched in faint, mocking approval. Neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to. Their silence was loud enough: Look at her. Look how easily she folds.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck—anger, embarrassment, a sharp twist of something you refused to name. You let your gaze linger on them a second longer than necessary, letting them see the edge in your expression. Not fear. Not submission. Just cold, quiet warning: I see you too.

Nott’s smirk only widened at the challenge, lazy and predatory, like he found your defiance amusing rather than threatening. Zabini tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with detached interest, as though you were a particularly interesting exhibit in a glass case.

Before either of them could open their mouths again, Sunghoon moved. Without looking away from your face, without so much as shifting his shoulders, he extended one long leg under the table. The motion was casual, almost lazy—until the toe of his polished shoe connected with the side of Nott’s bench. A single, firm push.

The bench scraped back and Nott’s balance vanished.

He pitched sideways with an undignified yelp, arms windmilling for half a second before he hit the floor in a sprawl of robes. A soft thud, followed by the unmistakable clatter of ink bottle rolling under the table. A few nearby heads turned; someone stifled a laugh behind a book.

Nott scrambled up almost immediately, face flushed crimson, mouth already opening on a retort.

“Enough,” Sunghoon said. Voice low. Flat. Final.

Nott recovered quickly, righting himself with exaggerated nonchalance, but the smirk faltered for half a second. Zabini raised both brows, amusement flickering, though he said nothing.

Sunghoon’s attention never wavered from your face.

“Sit,” he said. Low. Quiet. 

You glared at him.

The look you gave him was pure venom—narrowed eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, every line of your body screaming don’t you dare think this fixes anything. You wanted to turn on your heel. Wanted to leave him there with his smug friends and his carefully curated distance. Wanted to prove you weren’t the girl who came when called.

Your jaw tightened. Your hands curled into loose fists at your sides.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead he reached out and hooked two fingers through the belt loop at the side of your skirt. One gentle tug. The impact was soft. Cushioned. Because the second you were close enough, his arm slid around your waist. He drew you in until your side was flush against his, until the length of your thigh pressed along his, until there was no space left for doubt. His hand settled at the dip of your waist—then drifted lower. Dangerous. The heel of his palm rested just above the curve of your ass, fingers splayed wide enough that the tips brushed the upper swell through your skirt. Not groping. Not crude. Just a claim so blatant it made heat flare low in your belly despite everything.

His scent washed over you in the next breath—cedarwood, clean parchment, the faintest trace of winter air that always clung to him after flying. It curled into your lungs like smoke, familiar and devastating. Your shoulders wanted to drop. Your spine wanted to soften. You hated it.

You let yourself halfway melt anyway.

Your head tipped—just a fraction—until your temple brushed his shoulder. Not forgiveness. Just exhaustion. Just the bone-deep relief of being held when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Nott, back on the bench now, robes askew and pride clearly bruised, let out a low, mocking whistle.

“Merlin, Park,” he drawled, leaning back with renewed amusement. “You’ve got her trained better than a Cruciatus curse.”

Zabini leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. His voice was silk over steel.

“She looks good like that, though. All flushed and obedient.” His gaze slid over you—slow, appreciative, lingering a second too long on where Sunghoon’s hand disappeared against your side. “If you ever get tired of the brooding Ravenclaw routine, love, my bench has plenty of room.”

You stiffened.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, then his head turned. When his eyes met Zabini’s, the temperature in the immediate radius dropped ten degrees.

“Shut. Up.”

Nott opened his mouth—probably to push, because that was what Nott did—but Sunghoon’s gaze slid to him next. One look. That was all it took. Nott closed his mouth again. Shrugged. Picked up his quill like nothing had happened.

Zabini exhaled through his nose and leaned back, pulling his own book toward him.

“Fine. Touchy tonight, are we?”

They both bent their heads over parchment.

They weren’t studying. Not really. Quills moved in lazy strokes. Eyes flicked sideways every few seconds—watching, waiting for the next crack in composure. But they kept their mouths shut. Kept their teasing leers to themselves. 

Because the message was clear: 

She’s mine. Back off.

You felt the tension in his frame—the way his fingers flexed once against your side, the way his breathing stayed even despite the storm you could sense coiling beneath his skin.

His thumb stroked once—slow, soothing—along the line of your waist.

A silent promise. Or maybe a silent apology. 

You weren’t sure which.

For weeks you tried—really tried—to give him the benefit of the doubt. You told yourself the library incident was a one-off, a momentary slip under pressure from Nott and Zabini’s goading. You reminded yourself that Sunghoon had always been sharp-tongued when cornered; it was part of what drew you to him in the first place. The way he could dismantle someone with a single sentence and never raise his voice. You loved that about him. You still did, in the private moments when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.

But the moments weren’t private anymore.

You watched it happen again and again.

In the corridors between classes, when a nervous Hufflepuff fourth-year dropped their books in front of him—Sunghoon didn’t help pick them up. He stepped over the scattered parchment, glanced down at the trembling kid, and murmured something low enough that only the cluster of pure-bloods around him caught it. Whatever it was made them laugh loudly. The boy flushed scarlet and scrambled to gather his things alone.

You loved your boyfriend.

You did.

You loved the boy who once hexed your date at the Yule Ball because his hand had rested too low. You loved the boy who kissed you like you were oxygen in a room without air. You loved the way he memorized spell structures and shared them with you in late-night whispers, the way his fingers traced protective runes on your skin when he thought you were asleep.

But not when he was like this.

Not when he let those words slip so easily. Not when he chose silence over correction. Not when he fed the cruelty instead of starving it.

You tried to bring it up.

The first time was in the empty Charms classroom after curfew, moonlight spilling through tall windows, turning the desks silver. You’d waited until the castle quieted, until it was just the two of you and the faint hum of sleeping portraits.

“Sunghoon,” you started, voice low. “The things you say—the things you let them say—”

He turned from the window where he’d been staring out at the dark grounds.

His expression was unreadable.

Then he crossed the room in three strides.

Before the next word could leave your mouth, his hands were on your waist—lifting, turning, pressing you back against the nearest wall with controlled force. Your breath caught. His mouth crashed into yours, hard and claiming, swallowing whatever protest you’d been forming.

You tried to push back—palms flat against his chest—but his body caged you, pinning you in place. His hands roamed. Under your shirt. Along your ribs. Cupping your breasts through fabric until your nipples peaked and you gasped into his mouth. Fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. Drowning every coherent thought.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to let you drag in air—your mind was already fogging. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. Knees trembling.

He looked down at you, smirking—slow, dark, victorious. “Can’t even finish a sentence without melting for me.”

The words should have stung. Should have made you shove him away. Instead heat flooded your core. Your thighs clenched around nothing. A soft, broken whimper escaped before you could stop it.

He chuckled—low, cruel—and kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. One hand sliding down to palm your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you arch. The other fisted in your hair, tilting your head so he could devour your throat—teeth grazing, then biting, marking you in places your collar wouldn’t hide.

By the time he let you go, you couldn’t remember the exact shape of your argument. Only the taste of him. The ache between your legs. The way your body betrayed you every single time.

It happened again the next week…

And the week after…

Every time you tried to confront him—about the comments, about the company he kept, about the way he let poison seep in—he turned it into this. Into something so intense it erased everything else. 

Into him winning. Always winning.

You started coming to class late.

Lips bruised and swollen. Shirt buttoned crooked, collar barely covering the fresh hickeys blooming purple along your collarbone, the faint crescent of bite marks peeking above your tie. Your hair mussed in ways no brush could fix. Eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed, walking with that careful, slightly bow-legged gait that made your friends exchange knowing glances and then look away.

One of them caught your wrist once in the corridor, voice low and worried.

“Are you okay?”

You forced a smile. Nodded. Lied.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

You were exhausted.

Torn between the boy you’d fallen in love with and the one who was slowly disappearing into something darker. Torn between the way your body still craved him and the way your heart ached every time he chose silence over standing up.

You stopped trying to bring it up. Not because you agreed. Not because you stopped caring.

You told yourself one day you’d find the strength to surface. One day you’d make him listen without letting him turn your body against your mind.

One day.

But for now…

For now, you just tried not to look too closely. Tried not to hear the quiet cruelty in his voice. Tried not to notice how the boy you loved was slowly being replaced by someone colder.

Tried not to notice how the relationship tilted, into something slow, insidious, and toxic at the edges. Not broken. Just… off-balance. Like a potion left too long over flame—still drinkable, still sweet in places, but with a bitter aftertaste that lingered no matter how much honey you tried to stir in.

And then the showing-off began.

It started small. A hand on the small of your back as he steered you toward the Slytherin table during free study. Sunghoon didn’t ask if you wanted to stay. He simply guided you to the center of the group, sat you beside him on the bench, and rested his arm along you back like a king displaying his favorite trophy.

“Look who I brought,” he said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. His fingers traced idle circles on your shoulder, right where everyone could see. “My girl.”

The title landed like a claim. Not girlfriend. Not even your name. My girl. Possessive. Proud. Delivered with that quiet, effortless arrogance he wore so well now.

You flushed instantly—cheeks burning, gaze dropping to your lap. You wanted to shrink. To disappear behind Sunghoon’s shoulder. But he wouldn’t let you. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across your ribs, pulling you closer until your thigh pressed flush against his.

Whenever you tried to pull away—whenever the discomfort crested and you’d whisper, “Not here, Sunghoon, please”—he’d turn it around so smoothly you almost believed him.

“You’re ashamed of me?” he’d ask, voice low and wounded, eyes wide with feigned hurt. 

You’d shake your head, throat tight, but the words would tangle. Because part of you did want the dark thrill of being claimed so publicly by the boy everyone else feared a little. And he knew it. That's why he used it.

He started taking you to their private gatherings. He’d walk in with you tucked under his arm like a living accessory, robes slightly askew from the way he’d kissed you breathless in the corridor beforehand. He’d seat you on his lap in front of everyone, one hand resting casually on your thigh under the table, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm while they discussed bloodlines and loyalty and power.

You wished you could have spoken up.The words had burned on your tongue. This is wrong. They were right there, heavy and sharp: Blood doesn’t decide worth. Everyone at Hogwarts has the right to be here. To learn. To become something greater than the families that birthed them. Muggle-born, half-blood, pure-blood—none of it matters when a spell lights up the same way in every wand.

You wanted to say it out loud. Wanted to cut through the laughter when they sneered about “mudbloods cluttering up the good seats in Potions.” Wanted to look them in the eye and ask how many generations of “superior blood” it took before cruelty became tradition. Wanted to stand up—literally push Sunghoon’s hand off your thigh and stand—and remind them that the castle didn’t check blood status at the gates. How the Sorting Hat never asked for a family tree.

But Sunghoon wouldn’t let you.

It was like he could read the exact moment the rebellion formed behind your eyes. Every single time. His fingers would tighten, a hard press against the inside of your thigh under the heavy oak table, thumb stroking once, twice, right where the hem of your skirt met skin. A silent don’t. His other hand would slide up your spine beneath your robes, fingertips tracing the knobs of your vertebrae until you shivered, until your breath caught and the words dissolved on your tongue.

Or worse—he’d kiss you. Right in the middle of someone else’s sentence. His tongue sliding against yours until your mind blanked and your fingers curled helplessly into the front of his shirt. When he pulled back, your lips would be glossy, your cheeks flushed, and the conversation would have already moved on. The moment was gone. Your courage with it.

He always knew. 

Sometimes he’d rest his chin on your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and murmur against your neck, “You’re thinking too loudly again.” As if your thoughts were something he could taste in the air between you. As if he’d already mapped every moral line you were trying to draw and had decided, long ago, exactly where to blur them.

You started falling down the rabbit hole.

Late at night, alone in your dormitory, the questions gnawed at you like gnats.

Were you even better than them?

You were pure-blood. Old family. Wealth that meant your vault at Gringotts had its own dragon on retainer. Your parents had rooted connections at the Ministry, kept a summer manor where portraits of ancestors sneered down. On paper, you belonged in their circle. You had the blood, the money, the connections.

But your family had never spoken like that.

Your father valued the house-elves with please and thank you. Your mother hired Muggle-born tutors for advanced Arithmancy because “talent is talent.” You had grown up believing Hogwarts belonged to everyone who could make a feather float on their first try. Blood status was a footnote, not a verdict. You had never looked at a first-year with patched robes and thought lesser. 

Never.

Yet here you were.

Complicit.

Every time you watched a Hufflepuff girl fall when Nott “accidentally” tripped her in the corridor, you said nothing. Every time Zabini drawled about how “certain bloodlines dilute the magic,” you bit your tongue so hard it bled. Every time Sunghoon added his quiet, cutting remark, you felt the guilt coil tighter in your stomach like a serpent.

You told yourself you were protecting the relationship. That if you spoke, he’d pull away harder. That you couldn't make him choose. That love meant standing beside him even when the ground turned to quicksand.

But the truth was uglier.

It was getting harder to meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You started avoiding your friends entirely. Started walking the long way around the Great Hall so you wouldn’t have to see the Muggle-born students laughing together, unaware of how their joy was being dissected at another table. Started excusing yourself from study groups when the conversation turned to “why some families still cling to old prejudices.”

Because every time you opened your mouth to defend someone—anyone—the memory of Sunghoon’s voice in your ear, his mouth swallowing your protests, would rise like a tide. And you would stay quiet.

You hated the person you were becoming. 

You hated how easily your body still arched into his touch even while your mind screamed this is wrong. You hated the way shame and desire had started to braid together so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

And still, Sunghoon would turn to you in the empty room, eyes dark and soft all at once, and kiss you like you were the only pure thing left in his world.

“I need you,” he’d whisper against your swollen lips, hands already sliding under your clothes. “Stay with me. Please.”

And you would.

Because loving him had become a kind of drowning where you sank a little deeper into that rabbit hole—questioning your own goodness, your own courage, your own right to judge.

The rest of the year passed like that—slow, suffocating, a quiet erosion.

Exams came. You aced them—both of you did—because brilliance was the one thing neither of you ever lost. But the victories tasted hollow. You celebrated in empty classrooms instead of the common room, his mouth between your legs while your notes lay scattered on the floor, his name the only word you could remember when he finally let you come. Afterward he would hold you against his chest, and whisper how perfect you were. How no one else could ever understand what you had.

You believed him because believing anything else would have broken you.

End-of-year feasts passed in a blur of house banners and golden plates. You sat beside him at the Ravenclaw table, his arm draped over the back of your chair, fingers occasionally slipping beneath the collar of your robes to brush the fading hickeys he’d left the night before. 

Then slowly the castle emptied. Trunks rattled down staircases. Owls screeched farewell from the Owlery. You said goodbye to friends with smiles that didn’t reach your eyes, promising letters you already knew you wouldn’t write. Sunghoon vanished into the crowd the morning of departure—gone before breakfast, no note, no goodbye kiss. You told yourself it was better this way. Cleaner. You told yourself the distance might give you space to breathe, to remember who you were before his hands and his voice rewrote you.

The Hogwarts Express carried you back to King’s Cross in heavy silence. You sat alone in a compartment near the back, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the countryside blur past. Your reflection looked older, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.

Platform 9¾ was chaos when the train finally hissed to a stop. Families reuniting, house-elves scurrying with trunks, parents calling names over. You stepped onto the platform last, suitcase heavy in your hand, heart heavier still. You scanned the crowd once—half hoping, half dreading—and saw nothing. 

You sighed and adjusted your grip on the handle.

Then arms came around you from behind.

Strong. Familiar. Unmistakable.

You froze for half a heartbeat—then melted.

Your suitcase slipped from your fingers with a dull thud. Your back pressed into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder as though your body had been waiting for this exact moment all year.

He kissed the top of your head, then his right hand lifted in front of your face.

A small velvet box rested on his palm.

He flicked it open with his thumb.

Inside lay a ring.

Sleek black metal—almost obsidian in the dim platform light—shaped like a slender serpent. Its body coiled once around an invisible axis, head raised, tiny navy blue eyes glinting with captured fire. Beautiful in the way only dangerous things can be.

“For you,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite name. “To show you my love. My devotion. That no matter what happens—no matter who tries to pull us apart—you’re mine. And I’m yours.”

The platform noise faded to a distant hum. The crowd blurred into watercolor. All you could see was the ring. All you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his arms caging you in the gentlest prison.

You turned in his hold.

His eyes were unguarded for once, with zero calculation. Just raw need. Just him.

You surged up and kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of silence and guilt and drowning poured into the press of your mouth against his. He groaned—low, wrecked—and kissed you back with equal force. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, he lifted the ring between two fingers.

“Do you accept it?” His voice cracked on the last word—barely, but you heard it.

You stared at the serpent. At the blue eyes that seemed to watch you back. Then you looked up at him.

“Yes.”

The moment the word left your lips, the ring moved.

The black snake uncoiled in a fluid ripple of metal, slithering across his palm like liquid shadow. It glided onto your waiting finger—cool at first, then warming rapidly to match your skin temperature. The serpent’s body wrapped once around the base of your finger, before coiling around. The blue eyes flashed once—bright, alive—then stilled. But you felt it: a faint pulse, like a second heartbeat against your skin. Binding. Eternal.

You stared, stunned.

Sunghoon only smiled before he lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed the ring. Kissed the knuckle just above it. Then pressed another kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the racing pulse.

You didn’t know yet what the ring truly meant. You didn’t know yet how tightly its coils would one day bind you.

The holiday passed in a fever dream of snow and silence.

Your family’s manor was as it always had been—grand, glittering, suffocating in its perfection. Crystal chandeliers refracted firelight across marble floors. Portraits of stern ancestors murmured approval when you passed. Your parents asked polite questions about NEWTs and future prospects, never once mentioning the black serpent coiled around your finger like a living tattoo. They noticed it, of course—they always noticed everything—but they said nothing. Pure-blood etiquette demanded discretion when it came to marks of devotion, especially when the giver came from a family as old and shadowed as Sunghoon’s.

And before you knew it, the calendar had turned.

September 1st arrived cold and sharp. The Hogwarts Express waited at King’s Cross like an old promise, scarlet engine huffing steam into the September sky. You stepped onto Platform 9¾ with your trunk levitating behind you, heart hammering in a rhythm you couldn’t name—anticipation, dread, braided together so tightly you couldn’t separate them.

You found an empty compartment near the middle of the train. Seventh year. Last year. No time to mess around. NEWTs loomed like storm clouds. Auror applications waited in Ministry offices. The war whispers that had once been background noise now felt like thunder rolling closer every day. 

The door slid open.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Sunghoon looked… insanely good.

Taller, somehow, though that was impossible. Dark hair pushed back just enough to reveal the clean line of his brow. Charcoal wool hugging shoulders that had broadened another inch, sleeves rolled once to expose the pale skin and the faint shadow of veins. His tie was loose, the knot imperfect, silver-and-blue stripes against crisp white. 

Before you could open your mouth—before you could say hello, or I missed you—he surged forward.

Three strides. Door slamming shut so hard behind him that the curtains followed with a flick of his wand. The locking charm snapped into place so fast the air crackled.

Then he was on you.

Hands framing your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though mapping something he’d dreamed about all summer. His mouth crashed into yours—hard, desperate, tasting faintly of peppermint. You gasped against him; he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding in without preamble, claiming every inch like he was reminding you who you belonged to. You clung to the front of his sweater, knuckles white, body already arching toward him like gravity had reversed and he was the only solid thing left in the world.

The kiss turned frantic almost immediately.

Sunghoon’s breathing grew ragged against your lips, little hitches and low groans vibrating between you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, fingers digging in with bruising force, urgent, like he needed to feel solid proof that you were real, here, his. He kissed you harder, deeper, teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you whimpered. The sound seemed to snap something inside him.

He broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, hoarse and wrecked, “Fuck—I can’t wait.”

Before you could process the words, his arms banded around your ribs. In one fluid, effortless motion he lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist for balance; your skirt rode up your thighs as he turned, dropped heavily onto the cushioned bench seat, and pulled you down with him.

You landed straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn velvet on either side of his hips.

The compartment rocked gently with the motion of the train, but neither of you noticed. Sunghoon’s hands were already everywhere—sliding up your thighs, shoving your skirt higher until the fabric bunched uselessly around your waist. His palms were hot against your bare skin, calluses from Quidditch broom handles dragging deliciously as he gripped the backs of your thighs and yanked you forward until your core pressed flush against the hard ridge straining against his trousers.

You both moaned at the contact—low, broken sounds that tangled in the air between your mouths.

He surged up to kiss you again, but this time it was messier, hungrier. His tongue stroked yours in filthy imitation of what he wanted to do lower. One hand left your thigh to fist in your hair, tugging your head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down your throat—sucking hard enough to leave fresh marks over the faded ones from last term. You felt the sharp sting of teeth, then the soothing lap of his tongue, and your hips rolled forward without permission, grinding down on him in helpless little circles.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your collarbone, hips bucking up to meet yours. “You have no idea—how many nights I thought about this. About you like this. On me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and tugging the fabric aside. Cool air hit slick skin for half a second before his fingertips found you—sliding through your folds, circling your clit once, twice, then pressing inside with no warning.

You cried out—sharp, needy—and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“Shh,” he breathed against your lips, even as he curled his fingers deeper, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. “Someone might hear. Though…” He smirked, dark and dangerous. “Maybe I want them to. Maybe I want the whole bloody train to know exactly what I do to you.”

You clenched around his fingers at the words; he groaned like you’d punched the air out of him.

“Still so tight… Still so fucking perfect.” His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles while his fingers pumped slow and deep. “Ride my hand, baby. Show me how much you missed me.”

Shame burned somewhere distant in the back of your mind, but it dissolved under the heat of his touch, under the way his eyes devoured every twitch of your expression. Your hips rocked forward, chasing the pressure, grinding down until the heel of his palm pressed hard against you with every roll. Your hands scrambled for purchase—fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging until he hissed.

He watched you fall apart, eyes blown black, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. The hand not buried inside you gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, guiding your movements when your rhythm faltered.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Let me feel you come all over my fingers before I fuck you properly.”

The filthy promise tipped you over.

Pleasure snapped through you like a whip, sharp and blinding. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the cry, body shaking as you clenched around his fingers, hips stuttering, thighs trembling on either side of him. He worked you through it, murmuring praise the whole time.

“Good girl. So good for me. Missed this—missed you clenching around me like you never want to let go.”

When the aftershocks finally eased, he withdrew his fingers slowly, letting you feel every inch. Then he lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean—eyes locked on yours the entire time—tongue swirling around the digits like he was savoring something rare and precious.

You stared, dazed, lips parted, chest heaving.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss you again. You tasted yourself on his tongue. 

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” he murmured against your swollen mouth.

The train whistle blew somewhere distant—long and mournful—as though warning the world what was coming.

But neither of you cared.

The year had just begun.

And Sunghoon was already claiming every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever.

You really thought—foolishly, desperately—that this could be a normal year.

Seventh year. Last year. The one where everything was supposed to fall into place: NEWTs, career counseling sessions with McGonagall, late-night study marathons that ended in exhausted laughter then desperate kisses against cold stone. You pictured it like a photograph from someone else’s life: you and Sunghoon walking side by side to breakfast, shoulders brushing, sharing notes, stealing quiet moments in the library without the weight of eyes or expectations pressing in. Normal. Safe. Achievable.

It wasn’t like that at all.

Classes started unforgiving. You threw yourself into them with the kind of single-minded focus that had always carried you through. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts—you aced every practical, every written essay, every drill. Professors nodded in quiet approval. Your classmates whispered that you were “Ministry material,” that the Auror Office would be fighting over your application.

Herbology was the exception. The greenhouse felt like a different world—humid, alive in ways that refused to bend to logic alone. Mandrakes screamed when repotted; Fanged Geraniums nipped at your fingers; Venomous Tentacula wrapped around your wrist once and left a bruise that bloomed purple for a week. You struggled. Badly. So you found a tutor: a quiet Ravenclaw fifth-year who spoke to plants like they were old friends and never once looked at you like you were failing. Twice a week in the empty greenhouse after dinner, you repotted, pruned, fertilized. Progress was slow, but it was progress.

Potions, though…

Potions should have been easy. You’d always been competent. But seventh-year NEWT-level was brutal—complex brews with thirty-seven ingredients, timing measured in heartbeats, cauldrons that could explode if you so much as breathed wrong. Your first Draught of Living Death came out the color of weak tea instead of smooth pearl. Slughorn raised one brow and gave you an Acceptable with visible disappointment.

You needed help.

And the person who could help best was Sunghoon.

He was brilliant at Potions. Always had been. Precise, intuitive, the kind of student who could identify a misstep in someone else’s brew from across the dungeon just by the color of the steam. Last year he’d tutored you through sixth-year theory in between classes, his voice low and patient. You thought—hoped—that seventh year could be the same. But it was impossible.

Because you barely saw him.

Now he wasn't like.. gone, no he simply… just wasn’t there. Wasn't present.

One morning he’d kiss you goodbye outside the Great Hall, lips lingering, promising to meet you after lunch for Potions revision. By dinner he was gone. No owl. No sighting in the common room or corridors. You’d wait—first patiently, then anxiously— asking his housemates if they’d seen him, but nothing.

He’d reappear two, sometimes three days later. Tired. Paler. Shadows under his eyes like bruises. Hair mussed in a way that wasn’t your fault. Robes slightly wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them.

You’d corner him immediately—heart in your throat, voice shaking despite every effort to keep it steady.

“Where were you?”

He’d look at you for one long, aching second. Then the mask would slide back into place.

“Sick,” he’d say. “Nothing to worry about.”

You didn’t believe him.

Not the first time.

Not the fifth.

Not the tenth.

Because the absences grew longer. The excuses stayed the same. And every time he came back, he came back… further away.

He touched you less in public. No more casual arm around your shoulders in the corridors. No more hand at the small of your back when crowds pressed too close. When you sat beside him at meals he’d let you lean against him, but his arm stayed on the table instead of around you. His smiles were smaller. His kisses—when they happened—were quick, almost perfunctory, like checking a box.

Conversations became clipped. Surface-level. He asked about your day, listened to your answers, but never offered his own. When you tried to press—about the absences, about the shadows in his eyes, he’d shut it down.

“Not now.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop worrying.”

Each refusal landed like a small cut. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Until the worry became something constant, something that lived under your ribs and made it hard to breathe when he wasn’t there.

You started crying in the shower so no one would hear. Started gripping the ring on your finger until your knuckle turned white, as though the serpent could somehow summon him back. Started lying awake at night staring at the canopy, replaying every disappearance, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was memorizing your face before walking away again.

It broke you. Like ice cracking under too much weight.

You still aced Charms. Still smiled in the Great Hall when friends asked how you were.

But inside, the drowning had returned. Colder this time. 

Because the boy who once claimed every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever was slowly slipping through your fingers. And every time you reached for him, he gave you the same soft, tired lie:

“Nothing to worry about.”

You worried anyway. You worried until the worry became the only thing that felt real, it clung to you like damp robes after a storm—persistent, chilling, impossible to shake off no matter how tightly you wrapped yourself in denial.

It followed you through autumn’s golden decay and winter’s brittle frost. Every morning you woke with the same hollow ache in your chest, checking the foot of your bed for an owl that never came, scanning the Ravenclaw table at breakfast for the familiar dark head that was increasingly absent. Sunghoon became a ghost in his own life. He still appeared—enough to keep the rumors from exploding—but never for long. A quick kiss in an empty corridor before vanishing again. A hand brushing yours under the table in the Great Hall, then gone before you could lace your fingers through his. Notes left on your pillow in that precise, slanted handwriting: Library tonight? followed by nothing when you arrived.

When he did speak to you, his voice was flatter, stripped of the warmth that once lived beneath every word. He answered questions with single syllables. He stopped initiating touch. Stopped pulling you onto his lap in the courtyard. Stopped whispering filthy promises against your throat until you were trembling.

You told yourself it was the war whispers growing louder. The disappearances were Order business, or family business, or something he couldn’t share yet. You told yourself that the distance was temporary. Protective.

But the worry didn't go away. It lived in your throat like a stone. It woke you at 3 a.m. staring at the canopy, replaying every half-smile, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was saying goodbye without words. It made your hands shake when you brewed potions, your cauldron bubbling over more than once because your mind was elsewhere. 

By March the castle felt colder than the grounds outside. The snow had melted into gray slush; the sky stayed low and leaden. You were going crazy thread by thread, and Sunghoon was the only one who could have stitched you back together—but he was never there long enough to try.

You finally had enough on a Thursday afternoon when the sun broke through for the first time in weeks, weak and watery, turning the courtyard into a patchwork of pale light and long shadows.

He was there—miraculously—sitting on the low stone wall near the fountain, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Robes open at the collar, tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes. For one stupid, hopeful second your heart leapt the way it used to.

You crossed the courtyard without thinking. Grabbed his wrist—harder than you meant to—and pulled.

“Come with me.”

He looked up, startled. Opened his mouth—probably to brush you off with another I’m busy—but something in your expression stopped him. He let you drag him away from the curious stares of a few lingering fourth-years, through an archway, down a narrow passage lined with dusty tapestries, into a small, forgotten study room that smelled of old books and forgotten ink.

You slammed the door behind you then you turned to face him.

“What is your problem?”

Your voice cracked. You hated it—hated how small you sounded, how desperate—but the dam had broken.

Sunghoon leaned back against the nearest desk, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

“There’s no problem.”

“Don’t!” You stepped closer. “Don’t lie to me again. You disappear for days. You come back looking like death. You barely look at me, barely touch me, barely speak to me. You’re pulling away and I can feel it every single second and I’m—” Your voice broke again. “I’m losing my mind, Sunghoon. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

He looked away—jaw tight, throat working once. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Stop it!” The shout surprised even you. You closed the distance until you were inches from him, hands fisting in the front of his robes. “Stop treating me like I’m stupid. Like I can’t see it. Like I don’t feel it every time you leave without a word. I’m your girlfriend! I—” Tears burned hot behind your eyes; you blinked them back furiously. “I love you. And you’re letting me drown. Just tell me. Whatever it is. I can handle it. Just don’t keep shutting me out.”

For a long moment he said nothing.

Then something cracked.

His hands came up—fast, almost violent—and gripped your wrists, yanking them off his robes. His eyes—those eyes you’d once thought held entire galaxies—were stormy now. 

“You want the truth?” His voice was low at first, dangerous. “Fine.” He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine met the wall. He didn’t cage you with desire. This was different. This was anger. This was something breaking.

“I fell out of love with you.”

You froze. Breath stopped. Heart stopped. Everything stopped.

He stared down at you—chest rising and falling too fast, eyes glittering with something that looked dangerously close to tears.

“I tried,” he said, quieter now, voice cracking on the edges. “I tried so fucking hard! Every time I came back I told myself I could still feel it. That I could still want you the way I used to. But it’s gone. It’s just… gone.”

You shook your head—small, helpless jerks.

“No...”

“Yes.” He laughed once—harsh, hollow.

The tears were falling freely now—hot, unstoppable, dripping from your chin. You didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? He was already looking at you like you were something he used to care about. Something he’d outgrown.

Sunghoon stepped back. Just one step. Enough to put space between you that felt like miles.

“You think I like this?” His voice dropped lower, colder. The warmth that once lived in it had frozen over completely. “You think I enjoy watching you cry every time I walk away? You think I don’t see how pathetic it’s become? How you cling to me like I’m still the same boy who kissed you in the Great Hall like the world was ending? Newsflash—” He spat the word like venom. “—that boy died the first time I came back and realized I didn’t miss you. Not the way I was supposed to.”

Each sentence landed like a slap. You pressed your back harder against the wall, as though the stone could absorb some of the pain.

“You’re suffocating,” he continued, merciless now. “You hover! You wait! You look at me like I owe you answers I don’t have. Like love is a fucking contract I signed and forgot to renew! I can’t breathe around you anymore. Every time you open your mouth to ask where I’ve been, every time you touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish again—it just reminds me how much I don’t want this. How much I don’t want you.”

The black serpent on your finger pulsed—sharp, frantic, like it was trying to protest. You looked at it, but your vision was blurring.

Sunghoon followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.

“That ring?” He laughed again—bitter, empty. “I gave it to you because I thought it would keep you. But it didn’t work. Nothing works. You’re still here, still begging, still crying, and I still feel nothing… It’s over, don't bother trying to change my mind.”

He didn’t wait for your response. Didn’t give you time to argue, to plead, to scream. He simply turned away, robes swirling once, and walked out.

The door shut behind him with a loud slam.

Your knees hit stone. Your palms pressed flat against the cold floor. And then the sobs came—ugly, wrenching, tearing out of your chest like something alive. You curled in on yourself, forehead to knees, arms wrapped tight around your middle as though you could hold the pieces together. 

You cried until your throat was raw. Until the tears ran dry and left salt tracks on your cheeks. Until the room felt too small and too big all at once.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Sunghoon hadn’t gone far.

He’d walked blindly through corridors, past startled portraits and flickering torches, until he reached the seventh-floor corridor. The blank stretch of wall opposite a tapestry. He stopped. Pressed his forehead to stone. Closed his eyes.

The door appeared almost instantly.

The Room of Requirement opened for him like it had been waiting.

He stepped inside and the door sealed shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

For one heartbeat there was silence.

Then he shattered.

A loud shout ripped out of him,  furious and broken. He spun and slammed his fist into the nearest surface—a wooden table the room had conjured, already cluttered with potion vials and spellbooks he didn’t want. The table cracked. Vials exploded in sprays of glass and liquid. He didn’t stop.

He grabbed a chair and hurled it against the far wall. Wood splintered. He kicked over a bookshelf—tomes and books tumbling like dominoes. He picked up a heavy crystal orb the room had provided (for what purpose he didn’t care) and smashed it against the floor. Shards flew. He stepped on them, grinding them under his heel.

He then sank to his knees in the wreckage.

The first sob came quietly—almost surprised. Then another. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes like he could force the tears back inside. His shoulders shook. His breathing came in ragged gasps.

“I lied,” he whispered to the empty room. “I lied—I lied—I lied—”

The words dissolved into another broken cry.

He curled forward until his forehead touched the cold stone floor—shards biting into his palms, blood smearing across his skin—and cried like something inside him had finally ruptured beyond repair.

Because he hadn’t fallen out of love with you.

He’d fallen so far into it—so deep, so violently—that the only way he knew how to keep you safe was to make you hate him enough to leave.

The war was coming. The mark under his sleeve had burned hotter every day since summer. The disappearances weren’t sickness. They were initiations. Tasks. Orders.

He couldn’t drag you into that darkness. He couldn’t watch you burn because of him.

So he’d burned the bridge himself.

And now—alone in a room full of broken things like him—he paid the price.

He cried until his voice gave out.

Until the room, sensing his exhaustion, softened the floor beneath him into something almost like a bed.

Until the last sob faded into silence.

The first weeks after the breakup were a suffocating collapse.

You didn’t speak. Not to your dormmates, not to the professors who asked why you were missing from class, not even to the house-elves who timidly left trays of food by your bed because you hadn’t appeared in the Great Hall for days. Words felt like glass in your throat, useless, sharp. So you stayed silent. Curled under your blankets with the curtains drawn tight, staring at the dark canopy until your eyes burned. Sleep came in fits and when you woke, the ache in your chest was still there, heavier each time.

You skipped classes. The ones you’d once aced without effort. You told yourself you’d catch up tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. Food lost all taste; the house-elves’ carefully arranged plates went untouched until they vanished again. Your robes hung looser on your frame. Your reflection in the dormitory mirror looked like a stranger—hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips perpetually chapped from biting them to keep from crying again.

The first bad grade arrived like a slap.

An Outstanding in Charms had become an Acceptable in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall’s note was polite, concerned, but the howler from home arrived the next morning, your owl dropping it right in front of you with an apologetic hoot before fleeing.

The scarlet envelope exploded open the second your fingers touched it.

Your mother’s voice—cold, furious, magnified tenfold—filled the room.

“—disgraceful! You are wasting your potential! After everything we’ve sacrificed? After the tutors, the connections, the expectations? You will pull yourself together this instant or so help me you will spend the summer scrubbing cauldrons at St. Mungo’s until you remember what ambition looks like! Do not test us further! Me and your father are ashamed—do you know what this looks like to the Ministry?—fix this, or don’t bother coming home for Easter!”

The parchment shredded itself mid-sentence, scraps fluttering to the floor like dead leaves. You sat frozen, face burning, tears stinging fresh behind your eyes. 

But something else ignited too.

Rage—not at your parents, not at the howler, but at yourself. At the version of you who had let Sunghoon hollow you out until there was nothing left to fight with.

That afternoon you dragged yourself to the library.

You sat at the same table you used to share with him. Opened every textbook you’d ignored for weeks. Summoned every scrap of willpower you had left and channeled the pain—the sharp, jagged thing in your chest—into focus.

From that day forward, you rebuilt.

You went to every class. Sat in the front row. Took notes until your hand cramped. Asked questions when you didn’t understand. You met the Ravenclaw girl in the greenhouse twice as often as before; the plants didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t stop loving you just because you were hurting. You brewed potions until your cauldron sang perfect colors again. Your grades climbed steadily. 

You rejected everyone who tried. A Hufflepuff sixth-year left a note in your bag confessing he’d liked you since fourth year. You ripped it at the first word. A Ravenclaw boy from your study group asked you to Hogsmeade the following weekend. You looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not interested.” Polite. No explanations. No room for hope.

You locked everyone out.

Housemates were allowed small mercies—quiet good mornings, shared chocolate frogs during late-night revision—but nothing deeper. The world narrowed to your dorm, the library, the great hall, the classrooms. Anything beyond that felt like risk. Like vulnerability. Like another chance to break.

You tried to erase him.

The scarf he’d once draped over your shoulders after Quidditch—into the fire. The charmed quill he’d given you that never ran out of ink—snapped in half and discarded. The tiny vial of Amortentia-scented perfume he’d gifted you one Valentine’s poured down the drain, vial shattered against the sink.

You tried to take off the ring.

Every night for a week you sat on the edge of your bed, gripping the serpent between thumb and forefinger, pulling.

The first time it hissed—low, warning, almost hurt. The metal tightened like a shackle, coiling so hard your skin turned white and pain shot up your arm. You gasped, released it immediately. The snake loosened again,  almost apologetically.

You tried again the next night. Same result. Hiss. Tighten. Pain.

By the third attempt you were crying—quiet, furious tears—yanking until your skin bruised and the ring refused to budge. You screamed into your pillow. Punched the mattress. Cursed him in every language you knew.

Then you stopped.

You stared at the black serpent curled around your finger, pulsing faintly with something that felt dangerously close to a heartbeat—and whispered, “Fine! Stay!”

You told yourself it was because the snake didn’t want to leave. That it was enchanted loyalty, nothing more. That you were keeping it out of stubbornness, or spite, or practicality.

But deep down—bone-deep—you knew the truth.

You were relieved.

Relieved that something—anything—of him refused to let go. Relieved that one small piece still clung to you the way you still, traitorously, clung to the memory of him. The ring was the last tether. The last proof that he had once looked at you like you were everything.

You left it on.

Sunghoon, meanwhile, became a stranger in every way that mattered.

He walked the corridors like a shadow wearing his face. Head down. Shoulders rigid. Robes immaculate but eyes dull. When you passed in hallways he didn’t glance up. Not once. Not a flicker. Not even the accidental brush of eyes that strangers sometimes share. You might as well have been invisible. A ghost he’d already exorcised.

You told yourself it hurt less this way.

Yeah… you were a liar.

The lie was necessary. It was the only thing that kept your feet moving through the corridors when every instinct screamed to stop, to turn, to force him to look at you even if it was only to see hatred in his eyes instead of nothing. You repeated it like a mantra during the long, hollow weeks that followed: It hurts less if I pretend he never existed. You whispered it while brushing your teeth in the dormitory bathroom mirror, avoiding your own gaze. You muttered it under your breath while walking past the Ravenclaw table and forcing your eyes straight ahead. You clung to it in the middle of the night, when you had to press your palm against your mouth to keep from crying out.

But pain has a way of becoming fuel when there’s nothing else left to burn.

It pushed you forward.

Through the endless revision sessions in the library. Through the practical exams where your wand hand shook for the first five minutes until muscle memory took over. Through the nights when sleep refused to come and you stared at the canopy, tracing the ghost of his touch along your collarbone until the memory turned sour and you rolled over to bury your face in the pillow.

Before you knew it, NEWTs arrived.

And passed.

You walked out of the last exam—Potions, ironically—feeling nothing at first. Just the dull throb of exhaustion behind your eyes and the faint metallic taste of adrenaline fading on your tongue. Results came by owl two weeks later while you were home for a brief break. The envelope was heavy, official, sealed with the Ministry crest. Your parents watched in silence as you broke it open.

Top percentile, the accompanying letter said. Auror recruitment had already flagged your name. An interview was scheduled. A training position awaited—if you accepted.

Your mother’s eyes glistened for the first time in years. Your father actually smiled—small, restrained, but real. They hugged you. Told you how proud they were. How you’d honored the family name. How the Ministry would be lucky to have you.

And you were proud too.

Not the bright, shining pride of someone who’d won without scars. This was quieter. Harder-won. The pride of someone who had been cracked open, hollowed out, and still managed to stand upright long enough to cross the finish line.

a/n: 6AM. I say thank you. I go sleep. Part 2 will be posted soon. <3 REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

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[svvtvenom]

Wow. I'm so speechless. This was such a good read. With each sentence I read, I feel like I could imagine the scene because it's so detailed. Your writing is very balanced and I love the way you describe things. it's so very amazing and I'm super excited to read the rest of this series!!

[si3rren-deactivated20260204]

My Best Enemy — Nishimura Riki

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ex!bsf!nishimura riki (ni-ki) x fem!reader | enemies to lovers | mutual pining | ex-best-friends | club setting | confessions | yearning | inspired by “Ma Meilleure Ennemie” (arcane tv series)

WORD COUNT. 6k

WARNINGS: rough grinding, clothed pussy rubbing, desperate dry humping, neck kissing, lip biting, thigh riding, possessive touches, filthy talk (soft + breathless), hair pulling, public setting, mutual desperation, built-up tension release

SYNOPSIS: Two ex-best-friends who learned to hate each other finally collide on the dance floor, and in one ruined kiss remember they were always each other’s favorite wound.

masterlist | wattpad

⛧ ⛧ reblogs and comments are appreciated

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The bass hits you before the cold air can.

It’s one of those clubs that doesn’t even bother with a sign outside—just a narrow door, a red stamp on your wrist, and then all at once: heat, smoke machines, bodies, strobing lights, and a French song leaking through the walls like a heartbeat.

You tug your skirt down the tiniest bit and steady yourself as Yunjin clamps an overexcited hand around your wrist.

“We’re late,” she half-shouts over the music, eyes already glittering. “Sunoo’s been blowing up my phone.”

“I told you,” you yell back, “eyeliner perfection takes time.”

She rolls her eyes but you catch the fondness there. “Okay, Miss Perfection, let’s go before Ni-ki starts sulking in a corner and scares everyone away.”

Your stomach tightens at his name. You don’t respond—just let your expression turn neutral, practiced.

Yunjin notices. Of course she does. “You can still bail, you know,” she says, softer now. “I’ll tell them you got a migraine.”

“And miss free drinks and watching Jungwon embarrass himself on the dance floor?” you say lightly. “Never.”

She huffs a laugh and pushes the door to the main floor open.

The club swallows you whole.

Lights slice through the dark in sharp blues and flickers of gold. The dance floor throbs with moving bodies, strangers pressed chest to chest. Somewhere near the DJ booth, a familiar whoop pierces through; you spot Jungwon standing on a couch, arms in the air, while Sunoo tries to drag him down, laughing too hard himself to succeed.

You let yourself look everywhere but where you know he is.

It doesn’t work.

You feel him before you see him—like a shift in gravity, something in the room tilting. The music drops into a new track, the opening notes threaded with a soft, melancholy synth, a male voice sliding in French over the beat.

Your best enemy, the translation whispers at the back of your mind. The one you loved so much you had to learn how to hate.

You clench your jaw.

Yunjin nudges your side subtly. “Bar,” she mouths.

You nod and follow her, weaving through the crowd until you reach the long stretch of polished counter. Sunoo pops up from a barstool like some glittery jack-in-the-box.

“There she is!” he cries dramatically, throwing his arms wide. “Our ex-dancer turned communication major turned emotional menace.”

You laugh and let him hug you, the familiarity grounding. “Hi to you too, Sunoo.”

“Nice skirt,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “You’re going to give someone a crisis tonight.”

“She already does,” another voice says behind him, flat and annoyed. “Existing is enough.”

You don’t need to turn to know who it is.

You do anyway.

Nishimura Riki is leaned against the other end of the bar, half in shadow, like the club itself is hesitant to touch him. Black hair, messy but intentional. Dark shirt rolled to his forearms, silver chain catching the light when he shifts. One hand loosely around a bottle; the other in his pocket, jaw sharp, eyes even sharper.

He looks at you like you are something he’s spent months trying not to dream about.

You make sure your face gives him nothing.

“Hi, Ni-ki,” you say, crisp as the ice in the glass the bartender slides you.

His mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “You’re late.”

You shrug, lifting your drink. “Didn’t realize I was on your schedule.”

Sunoo shifts between you both like someone in the splash zone. “Okayyy,” he says, voice high. “So that’s still a thing.”

Yunjin smacks his arm. “Shut up.”

Ni-ki takes a slow sip from his bottle, eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, and there’s something else under it. Something quieter.

You match his tone. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

His jaw tics once.

Jungwon barrels in then, sweaty and grinning, throwing an arm around Ni-ki’s shoulders and the other over yours. “My two favorite people,” he announces, oblivious to the sharpness in the air. “Group photo!”

He holds his phone out, and for a second, all three of you are forced into frame. You feel Ni-ki’s shoulder brush yours when Jungwon yanks you close, the brief contact burning through thin fabric.

The photo snaps. The flash goes off. Jungwon pulls away, scrolling through his camera roll and cackling to himself.

The spell breaks.

Yunjin leans in to your ear. “One drink, then we dance,” she says. “Ignore him.”

You wish you could.

You nod anyway, tipping your head back to swallow half your glass. The alcohol slides hot down your throat, chasing the anxiety and years of tangled history.

You and Ni-ki have not been “ignore-able” to each other for a long time.

_________

It used to be simple.

Two kids in a studio with scuffed floors and mirrors that didn’t quite line up, learning how to move in ways that made their lungs burn and hearts race. Two teenagers syncing perfectly without needing to speak—your bodies instinctively catching each other’s weight, finishing each other’s lines, building routines that won competitions and attention and promises of maybe, someday, something bigger.

You remember his hand pulling you up from the floor after a particularly brutal combo. His grin, breathless but easy. “Again?” he’d asked, eyes bright.

You’d groaned and then nodded, because that was what you did. You said yes to him. Always.

Then there was the night you didn’t.

One offer. One scholarship. One spot.

You took it.

He found out from the poster, not from you.

You still remember the look on his face that day—the way his pride carved itself into something sharp and ugly, how his voice went cold as concrete when he said, “Congratulations,” like it was a curse.

You tried, later. Messages unsent. Calls declined. Apologies half-formed, swallowed.

He cut you off cleanly. Blocked. Unfollowed. Walked past you in the hall like he’d never spent hours tracing choreography over your skin, breath on your neck, laughter echoing between the mirrored walls.

You lasted two months at that academy.

Two months before you realized you hated the environment, the competition, the hollow praise. Before anxiety wrapped around your lungs every time you stepped into the practice room, making your chest tight and your throat dryer than any desert.

You quit.

He didn’t know that part.

You never really told him anything after.

_________

“Hellooo?” Yunjin waves a hand in front of your face. “You go somewhere murderous just now?”

You blink, coming back to the present. The music around you has shifted into something more upbeat, but still threaded with a strange melancholy—male and female voices trading lines like confessions and accusations.

“Just thinking,” you say.

“Don’t,” she replies promptly. “It’s your birthday weekend celebration, not a therapy session. Come dance.”

She drags you toward the center of the floor before you can protest.

Bodies press in on all sides, the heat immediate. The beat vibrates through your ribs, and you let it drag you along, let your limbs remember what it’s like to move without an audience. Yunjin shrieks laughing when you spin her; Jungwon appears between you both, doing some ridiculous half-remembered choreography from a trend, and you follow, matching his rhythm with muscle memory.

For a few minutes, you almost forget.

Then you feel it again: that pull.

Like gravity, but sideways.

You glance up.

Ni-ki is standing at the edge of the dance floor, half-obscured by shadows and other people—and still he looks like he’s the only one here. His eyes are fixed on you. You can tell even with the distance, even with the strobe lights jumping across his face.

He’s holding another bottle, untouched now, fingers tense around the glass.

His gaze follows the line of your body as you move, the way your hips catch the beat, the way your hands skim down your own sides. It’s not subtle. It never has been, with him. Even when you were just friends, his attention felt like a spotlight.

You miss it like you miss air underwater.

You look away first.

You shouldn’t have, because a second later a stranger slides in behind you, hands landing boldly on your hips.

“Hey,” he shouts near your ear. His breath smells like cheap vodka and mint gum. “You dance crazy good.”

You stiffen, stepping forward, but his grip tightens. The music is loud; the crowd is thicker now. Yunjin and Jungwon are a few people away, laughing at something Sunoo’s doing. They don’t see.

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, trying to twist out of his hold.

He doesn’t let go. “C’mon, just one dance—”

And suddenly there’s another hand, firm and unyielding, wrapping around your wrist and pulling you back.

You collide with a chest you know better than your own reflection.

Ni-ki’s voice is a low, flat warning at your shoulder. “She said she’s good.”

The guy scoffs. “Who are you, her boyfriend?”

The word hits the air like a taunt. Under the flashing lights, Ni-ki’s expression doesn’t change—but something in his jaw does, a quiet clench.

“No,” he says calmly. “I’m the one who’ll break your nose if you don’t take your hands off her.”

There’s a stillness in his tone that makes it worse than shouting. For a second, the guy clearly considers arguing. Then he glances up, really looks at Ni-ki—the set of his shoulders, the way he stands, the fact that he looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks and would absolutely welcome an excuse to release it on someone.

The stranger grumbles something under his breath and lets go.

He disappears into the crowd.

Ni-ki doesn’t.

His grip has shifted from your wrist to your hand without you noticing. His palm is warm, fingers long and sure around yours. He starts moving, towing you toward the edge of the dance floor, away from the crush of bodies and up the small set of stairs that leads to a balcony overlooking everything.

You don’t protest until you’re at the railing, the whole club spread beneath you like a heartbeat.

Then you yank your hand back.

“I had it under control,” you say.

He turns to you, a disbelieving laugh leaving his chest. “Sure. That’s why you were tensing up like you were about to cry.”

Your shoulders flare with indignation. “I wasn’t—”

“You hate being touched when you’re not ready,” he interrupts, like it’s obvious. “You always have.”

The you always have is what does it.

“Don’t pretend you still know me,” you snap.

For the first time tonight, he looks truly angry. Not cold. Not blank. Angry. “Don’t pretend I forgot everything just because you decided to disappear.”

“You blocked me,” you remind him, heat rising in your chest. “You cut me off.”

“After you took the only spot we were both working for and didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face?” he throws back. “Yeah. I did.”

You exhale slowly, fingers wrapping around the metal railing. The music below swells, voices tangled in French, sliding over the beat like an argument turned into a confession.

“Do you seriously think it was that simple for me?” you ask, quieter now. “That I just… left?”

“That’s what you did.” His eyes are dark, reflecting the swirling lights below. “One day we were planning sets together. Next thing I know, your name’s on the scholarship board and you’re gone.”

“I panicked,” you admit, the words tumbling out quicker now that you’ve started. “They told me I had twenty-four hours to accept. Everyone kept saying I’d be stupid not to. I wanted to tell you, I did, but I thought—if I said it out loud, you’d look at me like I was stealing something from you. And I couldn’t—”

“You thought I wouldn’t be happy for you,” he says flatly.

“I thought it would hurt you,” you correct, staring down at the dance floor so you don’t have to see his face. “And I was cowardly. So I took the offer first and tried to figure out how to explain later. By the time I worked up the courage, you’d already decided I was the villain.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat.

You push on, because if you stop you might never start again.

“And then the academy was—” You swallow, throat suddenly tight. “It wasn’t what I thought. It stopped being about dancing and turned into numbers, rankings, who could stay the thinnest on the least sleep. I hated myself more every week. So I quit.”

That makes him look at you sharply. “You… quit?”

“Months ago,” you say. “Came back, switched majors, pretended like that whole chapter never happened. Except every time I saw a dance clip on my feed or heard some song we used to practice to, it felt like there was a ghost finger drawing your name on my ribs.”

His jaw works silently for a moment, like he’s chewing on words that won’t quite come out.

“You didn’t tell me any of that,” he says finally, and there’s no accusation now—just this quiet, wounded confusion.

“You didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address,” you point out, trying to keep your voice light. It comes out strained. “And every time we were in the same room, you looked through me like I was a stain on the floor. Kind of killed the vibe for, ‘Hey, by the way, my life fell apart.’”

The music below changes.

The beat slows, stretching out, heavy and deliberate. The French lyrics swell into a new, aching section—two voices braided together, one smooth, one softer, singing like they’re pulling at a knot that won’t come undone.

Ni-ki’s eyes close briefly, lashes grazing his cheeks as if he’s bracing himself.

“I was an idiot,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I was… hurt, yeah,” he admits. “But I also used that as an excuse to hold onto the worst version of you in my head. The one that left. It was easier than thinking maybe I’d pushed you into it. That if I hadn’t been so obsessed with winning that stupid scholarship, you wouldn’t have felt like you had to choose between us.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did,” he insists, opening his eyes again. They’re bright in the half-dark, emotions raw and unhidden. “I made everything a competition. Every combo, every audition, every compliment from the coach. I kept saying we were a team, but in my head it was always you vs me vs the world. I treated you like my rival because it was the only way I knew how to deal with wanting you to choose dance and me and our plans over everything else.”

Your heart stutters. “Wanting me?”

He exhales a small laugh, hoarse. “You really didn’t know?”

“Know what?” you ask, but the answer is already pounding in your veins.

He looks away, down at the writhing mass of people under the lights. “I told myself I was mad because you betrayed me,” he says. “Because you chose yourself. But the truth is, I was mad because you didn’t trust me enough to say, ‘Riki, I want this. I need this. Help me figure it out.’”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“And I was terrified,” he adds, softer. “Terrified that if you went somewhere bigger, somewhere that wasn’t this little studio with cracked mirrors and bad speakers, you’d realize you didn’t need me anymore. That I’d become just some boy you used to dance with.”

You feel like the floor has dropped from under you, leaving you standing on air and adrenaline.

“I never didn’t need you,” you say. The words come out steadier than you feel. “That was the problem. I didn’t know how to want something without dragging you into it too. And when I realized the scholarship only had space for one of us, I panicked. I chose it. And I hated myself the whole time I was there, because every time I looked at my reflection in those pristine mirrors, you weren’t in it.”

The song swells below, voices calling and answering like two versions of the same person split down the middle. The lights on the dance floor shift—rows of LEDs outlining a long, narrow path through the crowd, like the club itself is carving out a stage.

You don’t know who starts moving first.

You just know that suddenly, you and Ni-ki are no longer pressed against the balcony railing. You’re walking down the stairs side by side, the music thrumming in your bones, people parting instinctively.

It’s absurdly cinematic. It would make you laugh if your chest wasn’t so tight.

The crowd thins right in the center, leaving an open space marked only by light and expectation. Your friends are on the edges—Sunoo’s eyes wide, Yunjin’s hands over her mouth, Jungwon bouncing on his toes like a kid at a fireworks show.

They all know.

Of course they do.

Ni-ki stops at the edge of the cleared space and turns to you. His expression has sharpened into something focused, determined, threaded through with an ache that has nowhere left to hide.

“You trust me?” he asks.

It’s the same question he used to ask before trying out new lifts.

You meet his gaze. “I always have.”

His throat works. Then, slowly, he offers his hand.

You take it.

___________

The beat drops.

Your body remembers him before your mind catches up.

He pulls you in with a force that feels like gravity, one hand splaying against your lower back, the other catching your fingers and guiding them up, around his shoulder. The music wraps around you both, the French lyrics turning dense and dizzying, like spinning while staring at the same point on the wall.

You move.

It’s not choreography. Not really. It’s something older than that—all the hours you spent in the studio, all the fights you didn’t have, all the things you didn’t say, pouring out through muscle and instinct.

He leads you backward, feet matched to yours in perfect mirror. You let your weight tip just enough that he has to catch you, his hand tightening at your waist. Your head falls back, hair brushing the air, and when you arch up again you’re inches from his face.

You see it then, up close: the dark circles under his eyes, the faint scar near his right brow from that time he fell off his board, the way his gaze drops to your mouth like it’s a habit he forgot to break.

You spin away.

He follows, of course. His fingers trail along your arm, catching your wrist and using your momentum to whirl you back to him. You slam into his chest, palms spread there to steady yourself. His heart is racing under your touch, too fast to be just from dancing.

For a moment, it almost feels like a fight.

You push off him, throw a sharp step to the side, shoulders cutting through the air like knives. He matches it, a mirror—but his version is softer at the edges, absorbing your impact instead of reflecting it.

You throw challenge after challenge at him: a risky turn with your weight pitched wrong, a sudden drop that could leave you sprawling if he’s half a beat off. He catches you every time, hands sure and firm, jaw clenched not in anger now but in concentration.

Around you, the club blurs. The crowd is just color and heat, your friends’ faces streaks of light at the edges of your vision. It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

The song hits its bridge, instruments peeling back until it’s mostly voice and distant percussion, a confession whispered into a void.

Ni-ki steps in closer.

You feel it, the shift—from playful adrenaline to something heavier, more dangerous.

His hand slides up from your waist to your ribs, fingers spreading just under the curve of your chest, not quite touching anything they shouldn’t and somehow making it worse. His other hand catches your jaw, thumb pressing gently at the hinge, guiding your face up to his.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, he rests his forehead against yours.

You’re suddenly sixteen again, breathless in a studio lit by cheap fluorescent lights, staring at him while sweat drips down his neck and thinking, Oh. Oh, I’m in trouble.

Your breath mingles in the small space between you, synced to the slow thud of the bass.

“I hated you,” he says, so quietly you feel it more than hear it. “Or I tried to.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I hated you too.”

He huffs a tiny, humorless laugh, the air of it brushing your lips. “Liar.”

“Okay,” you exhale. “I resented you. Every time I stumbled or got criticized at the academy, I’d hear your voice in my head, telling me what to fix. Every time a song we liked came on, I’d automatically think of what combo you’d choreograph to it. It drove me insane.”

His nose bumps yours, faint and accidental. “I couldn’t go near our old studio,” he admits. “I’d stand on the other side of the street like an idiot, listening to whatever track they were playing and imagining you in there. Even when I knew you weren’t. Even when I told myself I didn’t care.”

You close your eyes.

The beat creeps back in, stronger now, drums and synth building like a held breath.

“I’m tired,” you say, throat thick. “Of pretending you’re just some guy I used to know.”

His fingers flex against your ribs. His breath stutters. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t look for you in every crowd,” he replies. “That every time someone else tries to touch you, it doesn’t feel like—”

He cuts himself off with a quiet curse under his breath.

The chorus crashes back over you both.

You don’t remember who moves first.

One second, your foreheads are touching. The next, his mouth is on yours.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s months of swallowed words and sharp glances and grief and craving all exploding at once. His lips crush against yours, slightly clumsy from urgency, and you gasp into him, fingers yanking him closer like you could pull him under your skin if you tried hard enough.

He makes a sound low in his throat when you open for him, a half-growl, half-whine like he’s the one drowning. His hand leaves your jaw to cradle the back of your head instead, fingers threading into your hair, angling you so he can kiss you deeper.

You lean into him, into the solid line of his body, letting his chest take your full weight. His other hand slips down your spine, settling firmly at the small of your back before dipping lower, dragging you flush against him.

You feel the hard plane of his thighs, the heat at the front of his jeans pressing against your lower stomach. Your breath stutters; your hands bunch in his shirt.

This isn’t a dance anymore.

This is desperation rearranged into tongue and teeth.

He backs you up, blindly, until your shoulder blades hit one of the support pillars at the edge of the dance floor. The contact sends a jolt up your spine, and you break the kiss on a gasp, head tipping back against the cool surface.

Ni-ki doesn’t waste the opening.

His mouth drops to your jaw, then your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive skin there before he sucks, just once, hard enough that you’ll definitely see it tomorrow in the mirror. The possessiveness of it shoots straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

Your fingers slide up to the back of his neck, nails scratching lightly at his skin. “Riki,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.

He shudders.

“I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like that for so long,” he murmurs against your neck. His voice is roughened, edges frayed. “You have no idea.”

You do, though. Because you’ve thought about this—much more than you’ll ever admit out loud. Nights alone, headphones in, scrolling past videos of him dancing at tiny gigs with friends. Imagining his hands where they are now. Imagining his mouth lower.

His knee slides between your thighs.

It’s almost incidental, driven by the way he shifts closer, but the feel of his leg slotting there punches a quiet noise out of you. It’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.

His hands freeze.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head. The lights catch on his lips, swollen and flushed, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low but clear. There’s a question there that has nothing to do with old fights and everything to do with right now.

This is what he’s always been like with you, you realize. Even when you were younger and stupid and ambitious, he’d never pushed you into a lift you weren’t ready for, never tried a trick without making sure your feet were set.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His pupils blow wide.

“Then hold on,” he says.

You do.

He braces one hand against the pillar beside your head, the other gripping your hip. And then he starts to move.

It’s a slow grind at first, his thigh nudging up, coaxing your body to follow the rhythm. The friction is dulled by fabric but somehow that makes it worse, the drag of denim against the thin material of your skirt sending electric sparks across your nerves.

You bite your lip, eyes fluttering half-closed. Your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, pulling him even closer so there’s no space left between you from chest to knee.

You match his tempo instinctively—hips rolling forward as his leg presses up, your body catching his and then pushing back. The music around you turns into background noise, the French lyrics blurring into something that feels like a confession being sung directly into your bones.

“Fu—” he cuts himself off with a shaky exhale against your ear. “You still move like you’re trying to kill me.”

You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “You’re the one who put your leg there.”

“Biggest mistake of my life,” he says, and then proves it’s a lie by doing it again, slower, harder.

Your head thumps back lightly against the pillar. You focus on the feeling instead of the fact that you’re doing this in public, that your friends are somewhere nearby, that anyone could look over and see the way his hand squeezes your hip in time with the grind of your bodies.

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re talking,” you manage, words coming out uneven with each roll of your hips. “Who knew you had so much to say?”

He laughs, quiet and breathless. “You make me say stupid things.”

“Good,” you whisper.

His hand leaves the pillar to drag up your side, thumb skimming the curve of your waist, the flare of your ribs, the dip just under your chest. It hovers there, respectful and maddening, as if he’s drawing the border of everything he wants and isn’t taking.

Yet.

Your skin prickles with goosebumps where his fingers trace, every nerve ending tuned only to him.

“You have no idea how many times I imagined this,” he admits in a rush, words tumbling hot against your neck. “Pulling you in when you were being annoying in practice. Shutting you up like this instead of arguing. Feeling you—” His thigh lifts again, angle hitting just right, and your quiet gasp cuts him off.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Riki,” you say again, but it’s not a warning this time.

It’s a surrender.

His breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to see your face properly. Your lipstick’s smeared, your eyes are blown wide, and you know you must look wrecked in a way you can’t even blame on the dance.

He looks like he’s memorizing it.

“If we keep going here,” he says, voice threaded with frayed restraint, “I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

You swallow around a dry throat. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His answer is a half-strangled groan. He drops his forehead to your shoulder for a second, collecting himself, his body still pressed flush to yours. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, the heat in every inch where you touch.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he mutters. “You know I’ll call your bluff.”

The thing is—you do mean it.

You mean all of it.

You slide a hand up, cupping his jaw, guiding his face back to yours. His eyes search yours, something raw and hopeful flickering there between the shadows.

“Then don’t make me bluff,” you say quietly.

His breath leaves him in a rush.

For a moment, the world shrinks to the inch between your mouths, to the weight of his hands, to the promise hanging heavy in the air like the last note of a song waiting to be resolved.

He kisses you again, slower this time but deeper, less collision and more claiming. His tongue slides against yours in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out, and his thigh shifts automatically to take more of your weight.

The club roars around you—music, voices, lights—but it all feels far away. Distant. Unimportant.

Right now, there is only this:

Ni-ki’s hands firm on your body.

Your fingers lost in his hair.

The press and grind of fully clothed bodies that are too old for innocence and too young to be this jaded.

The taste of him on your tongue—bitterness from the beer, sweetness that’s just him.

And the knowledge that this is not the end of anything.

It’s the start.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing hard, air between you hot and shared.

“Come home with me,” he says, low and rough, the words sounding like they’ve been scraped out of him with sandpaper. “Not like before. Not just to practice, not to pretend we’re ‘just friends who dance.’ Come home with me because I haven’t stopped wanting you since the day you first rolled your eyes at me in that stupid studio.”

Your chest aches.

You nod, small and sure.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But this time, we don’t run away when it gets hard.”

A slow smile curves his mouth, equal parts relief and something darker that makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Deal,” he says. “I’ll even let you steal my scholarship if you want.”

You snort despite yourself. “That is not how scholarships work.”

He kisses you again for that, quick and fierce, like he can’t help himself.

Down below, the song slides into its final chorus—voices twining one last time before breaking apart, strings swelling under the beat. The lights above you both flare and then dim, casting you in a softer, golden hue.

Ni-ki’s fingers lace with yours, tight and unshakable.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you.

He doesn’t mean just the club. You know that.

You squeeze his hand back.

“Lead the way,” you say.

And as you push through the crowd together—his body a shield at your front, yours a tether at his back—you can still feel the imprint of his thigh between yours, the phantom drag of friction, the promise of more written in every bruise his mouth left on your skin.

Your best enemy, you think, glancing up at him as you hit the cool air outside, the night folding over you both like a new beginning.

Not anymore.

Not after tonight.

__________

The club’s bathroom is dim, gold-lit, quiet—like the world decided to slow down just for the two of you. You don’t remember who pulled who in first. You just know that your lips are already parted when the door clicks shut behind him, and Ni-ki is there, breathing hard, looking at you like you’re the last decision he’ll ever get to make.

You don’t wait.

You grab fistfuls of his shirt, yanking him in like your body’s answering a call that never even needed words. His mouth crashes into yours, still messy from the dance floor, lips bruised from wanting. His kiss is deep immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a desperate claim, not a question.

He moans low into your mouth when your hands travel beneath the fabric, fingers skating over the heat of his back. Your touch makes him twitch, like your palms leave behind static. He fists the hem of your skirt without hesitation—but doesn’t push it up. Not yet.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this here,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Then don’t,” you breathe, and you kiss him again like it’s a dare. “Just let me feel you.”

He groans, teeth dragging across your bottom lip, and then spins you toward the sink. You grip the edges, your breath fogging the mirror. Your reflection blinks back at you—lips swollen, pupils blown, your hair a mess from his fingers, his kisses. And behind you: Ni-ki, his arms bracketing yours, his chest heaving with restraint, his voice like gravel in your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “God, I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you tonight. That fucking skirt, the way you moved.”

You gasp softly when he rolls his hips into you, still fully clothed, the rough drag of denim catching between your thighs. He does it again—slow, grinding, heavy.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your knees tremble. The pressure is maddening, indirect, not enough—but it’s also everything. The thick ridge of him presses through his jeans, slotting right where you need it most. You tilt your hips into it instinctively, desperate for more friction.

“Oh my—fuck, Riki—” you gasp.

He growls again and grabs your waist, holding you firmly in place. “Keep grinding. Just like that.”

You do. It’s almost painful—how badly your pussy aches from nothing but friction and heat and fabric and years of wanting. You grind against him in slow circles, your ass rolling back to meet every rut of his hips, the seam of your panties catching on your clit just right.

Ni-ki’s breath is ragged behind you, his hands sliding up under your shirt to hold your waist directly, skin to skin. He’s trembling too.

“I’m gonna come just from this,” he mutters like he’s mad about it. “You don’t even fucking know what you’re doing to me.”

You whimper, fingers scrabbling on the cool porcelain of the sink as he thrusts forward again, harder this time—making your entire body jolt.

You can’t help it—you rock back, meeting him halfway.

“Riki,” you gasp. “I need—more—”

“Shh, I got you,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to slip between your thighs. Not inside—just cupping you over your panties.

You cry out.

“You’re so wet,” he says, almost in awe, rubbing you slowly through the fabric. “All that from dancing with me?”

“No,” you manage, breath catching. “All that from wanting you for years.”

He goes still.

Then he growls.

And then his fingers are rubbing tighter, circling your clit through your soaked panties as he keeps grinding into you from behind, his cock straining hard and thick against his jeans, right up against your ass.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Good,” you sob, humping his hand now, grinding against his palm and his thigh and his cock, chasing friction from every angle. “Lose it with me.”

His teeth graze your shoulder through your shirt, his breath burning down your neck.

“I’m gonna come in my jeans like a fucking teenager,” he whispers, rutting harder, his hand pressing up, palm grinding you down like he wants you to break apart in his grip.

“Me too,” you whimper. “I’m—Ni-ki—don’t stop—”

Your thighs shake, heat rising sharp and uncontrollable up your spine as your clit pulses and your hips buck.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Fucking come on me. Let go, baby.”

And you do.

You cry out, hips stuttering as pleasure cracks through you—sharp, wet, overwhelming—your pussy throbbing against his hand even through the fabric. He holds you through it, eyes locked on your reflection, watching you fall apart.

And then he thrusts once more, low and deep—and you hear him moan, see the way his face tightens as he presses hard against you and groans through his release, cock twitching in his jeans.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of your breathing.

Then he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

“We’re not done,” he whispers.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “I know.”

And you smile.

Because this time, neither of you is running.

_________________

a/n: was rewatching Arcane

perm taglist - @yourislandgirl @luvr4gyu @staarflowerr @whattlulu @chae-rries @mariegibeau @wonuziex @iris65 @toastmenace @saraabbas @kaykay11sworld @en-boyz @strawberrykkk1 @nshmrarki @xoseos @rosepetalsO9 @candidupped @choeryyxyz @pebblejazz @123hees @wonniesjungdimple @jenlunes @h3esdo11 @leesayyy @choeryyxyz @diameuwu @wonniesluvr24 @ddeonuswife @kristynaaah @rikisonline @esmioriki @wonnieswife @f-nari @hoonsocks @enstarzzi @blindingvenomss @hoonskis @hoonnri @drkbl00d @enhlux @gardenwonn @6371797261 @jungwonluveren @kookiesnkim @mailovesreading @eisaissante @jaylaxies @aamirazx @leesayyy

© si3rren 2026. all rights reserved.

[svvtvenom]

I'll have you know when I saw this notification, I immediately started jumping for joy

[jaysbaefie]

clueless | sjy

synopsis: in which your best friend finally stops pretending, and one confession ruins your oblivious friendship for good.

genre: best friends au

pairing: best friend!jake x oblivious!reader

warnings: jealous!jake, possessive!jake, touchy!jake, hard dom!jake, dub-con-ish, jake is strong, manhandling, groping, messy makeout, biting, tit play, oral (f.rec), spanking pussy + tits + ass, face slap, clit play, fingering, masterbation (m.), cock slapping? he cums on readers face, light bondage, unprotected p in v, creampie, some cuteness at the end to tie it all together!!

wc: 11.7k+

a/n: yall asked and yall have received. this one by a LANDSLIDE on the pole i put out a few days ago and lucky yall i was already like 3/4 done w this fic anyways. this is literally pure filth and i had sm fun writing this. bsf jake is literally what keeps me going istg. anyways…hope yall enjoy! as always notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!

.ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ

you're sitting cross-legged on jake's bed, a carton of pad thai balanced dangerously on your knee, ranting about your latest situationship like it's a normal tuesday night and not a personal attack on his blood pressure.

jake is leaning against the headboard beside you, one arm casually draped behind your back—not even touching you, just hovering, like he's ready to pull you into him at any second.

he's acting like he's listening, nodding at the right beats, but his eyes keep dropping to the hem of your shorts. they're barely shorts at this point, basically denim underwear, and every time you shift, they ride up higher. he's suffering quietly.

"so then he ghosted me for two days," you say, stabbing your fork into a noodle like you're reenacting a murder. "and suddenly he texts me like nothing happened. men are insane."

jake's jaw ticks in mild frustration, he forces a shrug. "yeah, he sounds... busy. maybe he has a lot on his plate."

i don't care. i don't care. i don't care. his mind is in absolute shambles right now.

you blink at him, annoyed. "you told me last week that guys who disappear like that 'should step on a lego and rethink their life choices.'"

"well," he says slowly, eyes flicking to your bare thigh before snapping back up, "maybe stepping on a lego would give him perspective. doesn't mean he's bad. just... confused."

he's giving terrible, contradictory advice on purpose, trying to gently sabotage any chance of you forgiving this man. but you miss all of it, too focused on your rant and your noodles.

you shove another bite into your mouth and keep talking, oblivious. jake's hand drops from behind you to your thigh, warm and heavy as he gives it a little squeeze—casual, friendly, like he's always done that. because he has. because jake has made touching you look normal for years.

you don't even flinch when you feel his grip tighten on you slightly. "do you think i should give him another chance?"

jake stares at you, expression flat. "no." that shouldn't even be a question, you shouldn't give any man who isn't him a chance.

"but you just said—"

"i lied," he says plainly. "don't date him. he's... not your type."

"you don't know my type."

jake scoffs, watching a noodle you failed to keep on your fork land on your thigh. "i know everything about you." he watches your expression morph into one of defeat before he's reaching his fingers out to grab the stray noodle and sneak it into his mouth.

and he does, jake knew you like the back of his hand, painfully so.

you stretch your legs out, half laying against him, your head dropping onto his shoulder like it's instinct. jake stiffens for half a second before melting, his body curving around yours like he was designed to hold you.

"ugh," you groan. "why can't i just find someone normal?"

jake stares at the top of your head, his fingers brushing absently along the inside of your knee, tracing small circles like it's nothing. like he isn't one wrong move from losing his mind.

he clears his throat. "maybe you're just looking in the wrong places."

"where am i supposed to look?" you mumble, mouth full again.

"i dunno," he says, gaze locked on the way your lips wrap around your fork, "maybe... closer."

you don't catch it, of course you don't.

instead you just scoot even closer to him, thigh pressing against his, stealing some of his fries like you always do. jake lets you, leaning into the touch, smelling your shampoo, watching as another stray noodle falls onto your shirt. he plucks it off without hesitation, choosing to flick it away this time.

you laugh. "thanks, mom."

"i'll remember you said that next time you're crying about someone ghosting you."

you hit his arm lightly but he catches your wrist, fingers wrapping around it, thumb rubbing lazily over your skin. he's smiling but his eyes are sharp, warm, lingering—like he's memorizing the way you feel under his hand.

but you don't notice a thing. you're already going on about another red flag your situationship displayed, gesturing wildly while still half in his lap.

jake just watches, letting you rant, letting you lean into him, letting you stretch out across his bed like you own it. like you own him.

and honestly? you do.

"you're too good to me," you sigh dramatically, looking over at your best friend. 

jake laughs under his breath, low and a little bitter. "yeah," he says quietly. "i know."

your phone buzzes beside your thigh.

jake's eyes snap to it before you even glance down. the name flashing on your screen makes his entire body go rigid. it's the situationship idiot —the one who's been ghosting you, breadcrumbing you, ruining jake's sanity for weeks.

you reach for the phone but jake is faster. he snatches it first, holding it above his head like a relic he plans to yeet into the sun.

"jake!" you shout, scrambling into his lap to grab it. "give it back!"

the position shouldn't be normal. it shouldn't be casual. but you've done this a thousand times— climbing over him, knee pressed between his legs, one hand braced on his chest as you stretch up to reach.

your t-shirt barely hides the curve of your chest, you were practically smothering his face—and jake didn't mind it one bit.

jake swallows so hard he might choke. "why do you need to text him back right now?" he asks, voice too calm to be real.

"because he messaged me," you say, fingers grazing the phone but not grabbing it.

jake's eyes flick down, you're straddling him. you don't notice but he absolutely does.

his hands curl around your waist automatically, steadying you like he's afraid you'll fall—or like he's afraid he'll let go.

"you can reply after we finish eating," he tries again. "or in... a week."

"jake."

"what?" he says, blinking innocently. "i'm helping."

you finally get a grip on your phone and tug it out of his hand. he lets it go, but reluctantly, like he's handing you a loaded weapon.

you drop back onto the bed, legs still draped over his, and open the message.

jake leans over your shoulder immediately, chin practically resting on you. "what'd he say?" he mutters, eyes narrowed like he's assessing a threat.

you read aloud, "he said: sorry i disappeared, things have been crazy at work. i wanna make it up to you. drinks this weekend?"

jake exhales sharply. "wow. romantic. he's really outdone himself."

"you're being dramatic."

"i'm being honest," he shoots back. "he's a loser. you shouldn't go."

you look up at him. "and why not?"

he holds your gaze for a beat too long—warm brown eyes, pupils blown a little, intensity simmering just below the surface.

then he shrugs, voice low. "you're gonna get your feelings hurt. again. and then i'll have to listen to you cry. again. and you ugly-cry, so that's an extra layer of torture for me."

you gasp. "i do NOT ugly-cry."

jake just raises a brow. you don't, you look pretty when you cry. jake quite enjoys the flushed look on your face, but it aches him that your crying over losers and not because his dick isn't down your throat.

you throw a pillow at him. he catches it, smirking, then lays down fully on his back, arms spread like he's claiming the entire mattress.

you fall beside him automatically, head splayed over one of his arms.

he turns his head toward you, eyes soft. "don't go."

you freeze. "what?"

"don't go on the date," he repeats softly, almost gentle. "just... stay here instead. with me."

you laugh it off, nudging his shoulder. "jake, i'm not ditching someone for movie night."

"ditch him for me," he says, no hesitation. "you do it all the time."

you blink, he's right. you absolutely do.

you've cancelled plans—actual plans—because jake didn't want to watch a movie alone, or because he was bored, or because he wanted boba at midnight and didn't want to walk alone.

but that was different, that was friendship. obviously.

"you're being clingy today," you tease lightly, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt.

"i'm always clingy," he says. "you just never notice."

he says it like a joke, but it lands too heavy.

your phone buzzes again. before you can even move, jake flips onto his stomach, throws an arm across your waist, and physically pins you to the bed.

you let out a small squeal at his sudden actions, squirming in his hold.  "enough," he mutters into your shoulder. "if he texts you one more time, i'm blocking him."

"you can't just—"

"watch me."

you're half laughing, half exasperated, half aware that his entire body is pressed over yours, warm and solid and familiar.

you shove at him weakly. "get off, you menace."

"no," he mumbles. "you're comfy."

"jake..."

he lifts his head slightly, eyelashes brushing your skin. his voice drops to something almost vulnerable—something that slips out before he can stop it.

"just stay with me tonight."

your breath stutters and he feels it. he looks away immediately, pretending he didn't say anything real. you pretend you didn't hear something real.

the phone buzzes again. jake tightens his arm around you, jaw clenched.

you don't move this time and jake... jake notices.

jake's arm is still wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm, like he's trying to anchor you to him. you should probably get up or at least check your phone.

but you don't and that tiny decision ruins his self-control.

you feel him exhale against your neck, slow and shaky, like he doesn't want you to notice. his fingers—resting right at the curve of your waist—start tracing thoughtless circles into your shirt. lazy, slow, claiming circles. the kind that send a little shiver down your spine.

jake feels it. his hand stills for half a second... then starts again, softer this time, more deliberate.

you're too busy pretending to scroll through food delivery apps to process it.

"what're you doing?" you mumble, a subtle flush coating your cheeks.

"touching you," he answers bluntly, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

it is normal for him, he's always touchy. always grabbing your wrist, fixing your hair, pulling you by the waist, resting his head on your lap when he's tired.

you don't think twice. but tonight? tonight he's different.

his hand slides from your waist to your hip, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shorts. not enough to be inappropriate, just enough to make your breath catch.

he hears it. "you okay?" he asks, voice low, almost smug.

"just hungry," you lie, a terrible lie at that. you had just devoured take away minutes ago.

he laughs softly against your shoulder, his nose brushing your skin. that alone sends heat shooting straight through you—something you ignore immediately.

"hungry for what?" he teases, catching onto your lie.

you shove his arm weakly. "food, idiot."

"mm. sure."

he doesn't move away. instead, he shifts closer—practically molding himself to your side. his thigh slides against yours, his knee nudging between your legs just slightly as he gets comfortable. accidentally. or maybe not, you can't tell.

your heart stutters. jake notices everything, especially things you don't realize you're doing.

he props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you a bit, his hand brushing your ribcage as he pushes your hair out of your face.

"you got sauce on your cheek," he murmurs.

you reach up to wipe it but he catches your wrist mid-air.

"i got it."

and then—way too gently—he uses his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth. except his thumb lingers, longer than necessary. brushing your lip once, twice, slow enough that you swear he's doing it on purpose.

your chest tightens, you force a laugh. "okay mom."

jake's eyes flick down to your mouth. his thumb leaves your lip, but he doesn't pull his hand away. he lets it drift along your jaw, curling lightly behind your ear, like he's pushing your hair back just to keep touching you.

"do moms do this?" he asks quietly. the tone—warm, teasing, dangerously soft—makes your stomach flip.

he leans in just a little closer. close enough that you feel his breath when he talks.

"or this?"

his hand slides from behind your ear, down your neck, thumb stroking your pulse point for the briefest second.

you freeze. your phone buzzes. again.

jake's jaw flexes, and his hand drops to your waist, grip tightening possessively.

"you gonna get that?" he says, barely masking annoyance.

"i... dunno," you mumble.

"good," jake whispers, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours. "don't."

his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt this time, barely there, just the pads of his fingertips brushing your bare waist. testing. waiting to see if you'll pull away.

you don't and that's all he needs.

he lets out a small breath—relief, disbelief, hunger—then slides his hand fully onto your skin, warm and steady on your waist, thumb tracing slow circles again, this time deliberate. claiming.

"you're staying with me tonight," he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges.

you swallow hard. "jake..."

"no," he says, shaking his head just slightly. "don't say my name like that."

"like what?"

"like you don't know what you're doing to me."

your heart stops. the room feels too quiet. too warm. too intimate. and jake... jake is staring at you like he's wanted to say that for years.

your heart is beating stupidly fast. the room feels too quiet. too warm. too charged.

jake's hand is still under your shirt, his thumb tracing slow, burning circles on your bare waist. he's hovering over you, eyes pinned to yours, and for a second—just a second—you swear something is about to happen. something irreversible.

his gaze drops to your lips and your breath catches.

you don't move and jake—jake looks like he's seconds away from doing something he's been holding back for years.

"jake..." you whisper.

his fingers press a little deeper into your skin. "yeah?"

you open your mouth—

RIIIING RIIIING RIIIING.

you both jump.

your phone lights up between you two, vibrating violently against the mattress like it's possessed. the moment snaps in half. the tension dissolves like it never existed.

jake curses under his breath and jerks his hand away from your waist like he touched a hot stove.

you sit up way too fast, hair messy, face flushed, pretending you weren't about to let your best friend climb into your bloodstream.

"oh—uh—my mom's calling," you blurt, even though you haven't even looked at the caller ID.

jake scoots back immediately, expression neutral but ears bright pink. "yeah. yeah, answer it."

you grab your phone, awkwardly clearing your throat. "h-hello?"

jake stands from the bed like it's on fire. he runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little, avoiding eye contact like the plague.

you talk to... whoever... on the phone, but you're barely listening. your mind is spinning.

did that just happen?

no. no, it couldn't have. it was jake. your jake. clingy, touchy, overly affectionate jake who once held your hand for thirty minutes because you saw a spider and screamed.

this is normal. he's always like this.

he wasn't gonna kiss you. that's crazy.

meanwhile jake stops pacing just long enough to glance at you—your flushed cheeks, your dazed eyes, the way you're tugging nervously at your shirt.

his jaw clenches, he looks away again. when you hang up the phone, the room is weirdly silent. awkward in a way it's never been.

you try to laugh it off. "okay, wow, that was... dramatic."

jake forces a smile. "your ringtone scared the fuck out of me, not gonna lie."

"same," you giggle. "i thought something exploded." you wait for him to make a joke. tease you, say something flirty and dumb like he always does.

but he just nods. "yeah."

you tilt your head. "jake... are you good?"

he blinks once. twice. then shrugs way too casually. "yeah. why wouldn't i be?"

"you're... acting weird."

"no i'm not."

you squint at him. he avoids your eyes, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie like it suddenly became fascinating.

you shrug, letting it go. "okay, whatever. do you want the rest of my noodles?"

jake finally looks at you—soft, fond, longing. too much. he covers it instantly with a smirk.

"yeah," he says, ruffling your hair like he didn't just have his hand under your shirt two minutes ago. "give them."

you laugh and shove the container into his hands, the moment already fading in your mind.

because that's just jake, he gets weird sometimes. touchy. clingy. possessive. but he's your best friend, so none of it means anything.

right?

jake sits beside you again, shoulder pressed to yours, stealing a bite of your food like nothing happened.

but his hand stays firmly on his thigh now, not daring to slip his hand to rest somewhere on your body.

and you don't notice—but he doesn't look at you again for the rest of the night.

.ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ

you don't even notice when jake closes the distance again.

one second you're scrolling through your phone while waiting for your friends to arrive; the next, jake is suddenly behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder like he belongs there. his arms wrap around your waist as if it's the most natural thing in the world, sliding under your hoodie and settling warm against your stomach.

"you're early," he murmurs, breath brushing your neck. you squirm slightly at the feeling, your neck feeling tingly.

"and you're clingy," you laugh, leaning back into him without thinking. "as always."

jake smiles into your shoulder—except it's tight, a little strained. because across the room, one of your friends is watching with raised brows, mouthing see? he's so into you.

you roll your eyes at her, whispering, "no he's not, he's just touchy."

jake's arms tighten around you immediately, like he heard even though you were whispering. which he probably did—he always seems to hear when it involves him.

"what're you talking about?" he asks casually, playing innocent as he nuzzles your neck, his lips brushing your skin way too much to be "friendly."

"nothing," you wave off, patting his forearm. "they think you like me or something."

jake freezes for half a second—barely noticeable —before smoothing his expression again.

"crazy assumption," he hums, though his thumb is rubbing slow circles into your hip, his chest pressed flush to your back like he's trying to merge into you. "i just like being close to you. that's all."

your friend across the room gives you a look. jake, still pretending not to notice, tightens his hold again.

and then it gets worse—or better, depending on perspective.

you move to the couch, and he moves with you; you sit down, and he pulls you onto his lap like it's routine. he doesn't even give you time to think, just a gentle tug at your waist and suddenly your thigh is slotted between his, his hand splayed over your leg protectively.

"jake," you whisper, half-laughing, half-confused, "i can sit next to you, you know."

"yeah," he shrugs, resting his chin on your shoulder again, "but why would you do that?"

your friends stare. one of them raises their brows so high they practically touch their hairline. you wave them off, whispering, "he's always like this, don't even start—"

"always like what?" jake asks, his breath warm on your ear. you jump—he heard that? you said it so quietly...

"clingy," you say, poking his forehead. "you know. you're a koala. it's your whole thing."

jake's hand on your thigh slides just a little higher. "only with you," he says simply.

you blink and the room goes quiet for a moment. your heart skips—not because you think he means anything by it, but because you're flustered.

"you mean... because we're close," you correct yourself out loud, nodding firmly, like you're reassuring yourself more than him.

"mm," jake hums noncommittally, but the hand on your thigh squeezes gently, possessively, like he's claiming the entire limb.

the conversation in the room starts up again, but jake doesn't let you move an inch. he's touching you everywhere—knee, thigh, waist, hip, shoulder. every time someone talks to you, his hand finds a new place to rest. at one point he tucks your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your jaw a little too long.

you don't question it but everyone else does. finally, one of your friends cracks. "okay, i'm sorry, but jake, babe? you're acting like she's your girlfriend."

your breath catches—but not as much as jake's does. he smiles—slow, lazy, almost smug—and tightens his arm around your waist.

"am i?" he asks lightly, but his eyes are sharp. "hm. didn't notice."

your friend snorts. "oh, please. you're practically—"

"he's just like this," you cut in quickly, panicked embarrassment hitting you all at once. you swat at jake's chest. "tell them. you've always been touchy."

he looks at you, really looks at you, something soft and frustrated dripping underneath it.

"yeah," he finally says, voice dropping lower, more intimate, "i guess i have."

you grin, relieved. "see? nothing new."

your friend gives you a 'you cannot be serious stare'. jake presses a slow kiss to your shoulder— not fully a kiss, more like the ghost of one and whispers, "nothing new."

but the way he says it...it's a confession you don't hear. because that's jake, your jake. clingy, chaotic, glued to your side.

totally harmless.

right?

he hopes you figure it out. he hopes you catch on. he hopes you feel any of this. he was basically slamming his undying love for you in your face.

but as you shift in his lap and lean into him without realization, he knows. you don't. not yet.

and jake? jake's coming undone faster by the minute.

you don't even realize how long you've been sitting in jake's lap until your leg starts to fall asleep. you shift a little, trying to wiggle out of the pins-and-needles feeling in your thigh, but jake's hands tighten instantly, fingers digging into your hip like he's anchoring you in place.

"hey—" you laugh, elbowing him lightly. "i gotta move, my leg's numb."

"then move," he says, chin still on your shoulder. "i didn't say you could get up."

you snort, assuming he's joking—because jake jokes, that's what he does—but when you try to get off his lap, he doesn't budge. he actually pulls you back, one hand sliding up your waist, the other locking around your thigh, guiding you back down firmly until you're flush against him again.

your breath stutters. "jake—"

"where're you going?" he asks softly, almost amused, but there's something else simmering under it—something dark and territorial.

"i just need to stretch," you say, trying to twist out of his hold. jake holds in a groan when he feels you shift over his crotch, eyes shutting briefly before he's trying to think of thoughts that would kill his boner.

boner or not, he doesn't let you get up.

with one swift motion—fast enough you barely process it—he shifts you sideways, turning you so your legs drape over his thigh instead, your side pressed to his chest. the entire movement is so smooth and confident that a little gasp escapes your lips.

you freeze, your friends who've been watching this whole ordeal go down freeze.

jake acts like nothing happened. "better?" he murmurs, one hand casually rubbing your outer thigh, thumb brushing bare skin where your shorts ride up.

you swallow. "y-yeah. sure."

your friend across the room mouths, 'HE PICKED YOU UP?? HELLO??'

you glare at her, mouthing back, 'he didn't PICK me up, he just—' you gesture vaguely, as if that explains anything.

she looks like she's about to scream. jake feels your glare move off him and immediately refocuses you by nudging his nose into your neck. not subtly, not gently but like he's reminding you: look at me.

"you're tense," he says into your skin.

"because you tossed me like i'm a little dog—"

"you are little," he says, deadpan. "and you fit on me. so stop fighting it."

your cheeks burn. "i wasn't fighting—"

"you were," he says quietly. "don't. i want you here."

your brain short-circuits for a second. your friends are staring like they're watching a crime unfold.

you clear your throat and try to steer the attention away. "okay, anyway—has anyone heard from lena? she said she was coming—"

"she texted me," one friend says, but her eyes stay glued to you and jake. "she's—uh—running late."

jake's hand trails up your thigh again. slow. intentional. claiming.

"good," he mutters under his breath.

you assume he means because you're all here longer, hanging out. because jake likes group nights, right? he always shows up. he always sticks close.

"anyway," another friend says loudly, clearly trying to save you, "should we order dessert?"

your phone lights up in your hand at that exact moment.

it's your situationship, the one you like. the one you vented to jake about last week.

your thumb barely lifts before jake's hand closes around your wrist—gently, but firmly enough to shock you.

"who's that?" he asks, eyes trained on your screen.

"oh— it's just—"

"him?" jake interrupts, his jaw tightening and his teeth grinding. if you hadn't been so shocked at his behaviour you would've found this hot, cross that, you still did.

you laugh nervously. "don't start—"

he doesn't let go of your wrist. "what does he want?"

"jake," you whisper warningly, "you're being weird." you looks over at your friends who're trying their hardest to not stare at the scene unfolding in front of them.

"i'm being normal," he says calmly. except he's not. he's staring at the name on your phone like he wants to burn the pixels off the display.

"maybe he got my message," you say, shrugging.

"what message?"

"just— i told him i might be free this weekend. maybe."

jake goes completely still behind you. still like he's holding his breath, still like he's about to break something.

"you're busy this weekend," he says quietly.

you blink. "since when?"

"since... now."

you turn toward him, brows furrowing. "jake. i didn't make plans with you."

he finally meets your eyes—and it's the first time tonight he's fully let the intensity show. all that simmering jealousy he's been swallowing. all those territorial touches he pretended were casual. it's all right there, unfiltered.

"you're not going out with him," he says, voice low. your heart jumps at the tone—serious, possessive, steady.

"jake—"

before you can finish, he grabs your waist again, pulling you tighter against him, one arm banding across your middle like he's shielding you from someone only he can see.

"he doesn't want you," he says. "not really."

you frown. "you don't know that—"

"i do," he snaps, then softens his tone when you flinch. "i do," he repeats, quieter. "i know men. i know what that look means when he talks to you. i know what he's in it for."

you blink, confused. "...what?"

he leans in, lips brushing your ear as he whispers: "he wants what's mine."

your breath leaves your lungs. immediately, you laugh because it's jake—your jake—and he says dumb things all the time.

"oh my god, you're so dramatic—"

but the room is silent, your friends have turned to stone and jake? jake is staring at you like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

like the truth slipped. like he wants it back, but can't.

he swallows hard. "jake," you whisper, suddenly flustered. "you're... you're joking, right?"

he opens his mouth—you won't know what he would've said because suddenly someone knocks on the front door. loudly.

everyone jumps. the spell breaks. jake's hand loosens on your waist. your phone buzzes again.

and you exhale, convincing yourself: he didn't mean it. jake always says intense stuff. he's just clingy. that's his personality.

right?

meanwhile jake sits behind you, jaw locked, chest rising and falling too fast, fingers flexing like he's resisting the urge to pull you back into him.

this is unraveling faster than he planned and you still don't see it.

.ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ

you don't realize it, but you've created a monster.

ever since that night in his lap—the one where he said too much and almost let everything slip—jake has stopped pretending he's subtle.

he's touchy. clingy. bolder than before. not hiding it anymore.

he wants you to notice. he needs you to notice.

but you don't. and every day, without meaning to, you throw gasoline on the fire.

it starts when you get ready for a party.

your dress won't zip, so you call for him—because of course you do.

"jakey? can you come here?"

he nearly punches the wall. that nickname has turned into his personal trigger. he walks into your room and stops dead.

you're standing in front of your full-length mirror, dress half-open, back bare, hair pinned up. you look over your shoulder and smile like you didn't just stab him in the chest with a look.

"help?" you ask sweetly. he should turn around. take a breath. be normal.

he doesn't.

he walks behind you, slow, deliberate, hands coming to rest on your waist before he even touches the zipper.

you tense—just barely—but don't pull away.

you never do. his fingertips drag lightly up your spine as he takes the zipper between two fingers, pulling it up inch by torturous inch.

your breath shivers. he notices.

he leans in, not even pretending anymore, and murmurs, "you should really ask someone who can handle this."

you blink at him in the mirror. "huh?"

"nothing," he says, zipping the last inch with a soft tug. "turn around."

you do, confused—and jake's eyes slowly drag down your body with zero shame. "you look good," he says, voice low, warm. "too good."

you laugh, flustered. "it's just a dress."

he steps closer, his tongue jutting out of his mouth to swipe over his lips. "you have no idea how you look."

you should catch it. the tone, the stare, the tension.

but you don't. you just pat his chest and grab your shoes and he swallows the frustrated groan he wants to let out.

later, at the pregame, the living room is crowded —which is your excuse.

"jake, there's no space," you say, scanning the couch. he shakes his head. "come here."

"where?"

he stares at you like it's obvious.

"here," he says, patting his thigh. you watch his thigh flex under his blue jeans, your eyes widening when he spreads his legs wider—inviting you.

your brain short-circuits for a moment—because he's never this blatant—but you go anyway, dropping onto his lap without thinking.

jake inhales sharply. then his hands are on your waist. holding you in place. possessive. claiming.

"good girl," he mutters under his breath.

you don't hear it—but your friend next to you almost chokes. you shift, adjusting your weight—and he grips your hips tighter, fingers digging in.

jake feels as if god was torturing him, your ass was directly over his crotch and your wriggling was killing him.

"stop moving," he murmurs into your shoulder. "you're driving me insane."

you laugh lightly. "sorry, your pants are slippery—"

"they're not," he says flatly. you shrug. "well, i'm sliding."

"you're staying," he corrects.

your cheeks warm. "you could've sat next to me, you know."

"why would i," he asks softly, lips brushing your ear, "when i can have you right here?"

you freeze and your friend mouths silently, 'HELLO????'

you pretend you didn't hear him but he knows you did.

the next morning, his patience finally snaps.

you walk into his kitchen wearing one of his hoodies—the one that barely covers anything—and nothing else.

he turns from the fridge and chokes.

"morning," you say, stretching your arms above your head. the hoodie lifts, your thighs show and jake actually sees black for a second.

"you—" he clears his throat. "you're not wearing shorts?"

you look down like you're shocked. "it's long enough."

"no," he says immediately. "absolutely not."

you roll your eyes and steal the jar he's holding. "open this."

he stares at you. at your bare legs. at your smile.

"say please."

you blink. "...jake."

"say it," he repeats, stepping closer. "please."

you groan. "open it, jakey."

the lid pops off with a violent twist. you laugh, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "thanks."

his eyes close for a moment—because if he looks at you, he might lose control. "you can't walk around like this," he says, voice tight.

"like what?"

"like you're mine."

you freeze. "huh?"

he straightens instantly. "eat your breakfast."

you shrug it off, confused and jake watches you walk away, hoodie swaying, thighs soft and bare and his hoodie swallowing you whole.  he almost slams his head into the counter.

.ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ .ᐟ

you're halfway through the movie when it happens—that slow, sleepy slump you always do, the one jake pretends he doesn't wait for every single week.

your head drops against his shoulder first. then his chest. then, like it's the most natural thing in the world, you curl into him, knees tucked up, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt.

and jake... jake stops breathing. because you're not even awake, and you're already ruining him.

his arm is draped around you—like it always is—pulling you against him so snugly it's almost indecent. but tonight is worse. tonight you're extra clingy, extra tired, extra soft.

"you good?" he whispers, even though you're clearly far gone.

you don't answer, obviously, but your hand fidgets again, fingertips brushing the warm skin of his stomach.

jake silently thanks every god he's ever heard of.

he glances at the screen, trying to focus, but every time you exhale against his chest, it punches air out of his lungs. your cheek is warm through his shirt. your thigh drapes across his lap like it belongs there.

and he lets it. he lets every second of it melt him down into something pathetic.

then—then the real problem starts.

you shift. innocently, mindlessly, stupidly dangerous.

you drag your leg over his, body sliding up slightly as you readjust in your sleep, and suddenly you're straddling his thigh. not fully, but enough that your weight settles on him—soft, warm, perfect.

jake's whole body locks up. his heartbeat goes ballistic.

you murmur something incoherent, nuzzling into his chest deeper, fingers gripping at his shirt like you're holding onto him in your dreams.

he is going to combust. his hands hover uselessly in the air for a full second before he grips your waist—carefully, firmly, but maybe a bit too tight —because if you move again, he is not going to be normal about it.

you're half-asleep, breathing slow and sweet, completely unaware that you're sitting directly on his thigh like you own it.

you shift again. just a tiny roll of your hips— unconscious, searching for comfort—but to jake it's catastrophic.

his jaw clenches so hard it aches. his eyes squeeze shut and his brain turns into static.

he whispers, strangled, "oh, my god... baby, please don't do that—"

you're not awake enough to hear him. or maybe you are, but you're you—which means you're clueless.

your fingers slide higher, brushing his ribs. your lips part against his shirt as you breathe.

jake has never known true fear until now. he's sweating. he's trying not to move. he's praying you don't feel how tense he is, or worse, how much he's struggling to keep himself together because you're on him, touching him, sleeping on him like you're trying to kill him without even trying.

you wiggle again. he chokes on air and that's what wakes you.

you lift your head slowly, eyes hazy and unfocused as you blink at him.

"jakey?" your voice is soft, raspy from sleep. "why're you... so red?"

he stares at you like you've asked why water is wet. you're still sitting on his thigh.

he can feel the heat of you through your little sleep shorts. his hands are still on your waist, thumbs pressing into your hips like he forgot how to let go.

"m'fine," he says, voice not fine at all. "you were just—uh—moving a lot."

you frown, still half-asleep, still oblivious, still sitting exactly where you shouldn't be sitting.

"oh... sorry," you mumble, and instead of getting off him, you lean forward and wrap your arms around his neck in this slow, sleepy hug that absolutely destroys whatever sanity he had left.

your chest presses against him. your lips brush his collarbone. you melt into him like you belong there.

his voice comes out low, tight, dangerous. "you're really trying to kill me tonight, huh?"

you blink. "what? i literally just woke up."

he laughs—breathless, disbelieving, windows-fogging kind of laugh—and slides one hand up your spine, fingers splayed, possessive, like he can't help himself.

"yeah," he murmurs against your ear, "that's the problem."

you shift again, confused, and jake's grip tightens automatically, almost like he's anchoring you, holding you in place, keeping you where he wants you without thinking.

you finally look down and see exactly where you're sitting.

your eyes widen. "oh."

jake groans—actually groans—head falling back against the couch. "yeah. oh."

you scramble to move, but his hands clamp around your waist, not rough, but firm, guiding you back down in one slow, controlled motion that sends shivers through your whole spine.

"don't—" he says quietly, voice wrecked. "don't move so fast. you'll make it worse."

you freeze. he stares at you, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, chest rising and falling way too quickly.

and then—soft, low, dangerous, "you have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

your breath catches. you're finally—finally—a little aware.

but jake? jake looks like he's one second away from picking you up, putting you exactly where he wants you, and showing you everything you've been too oblivious to see.

you try to move again. you really do—you lift your hips maybe an inch, ready to scramble off his thigh and pretend none of this ever happened.

but jake doesn't let you. his hands—big, warm, shaking just a little—slide from your waist to your hips, and he drags you right back down onto his thigh with a slow, controlled pull that makes your breath stutter.

"jake—" you whisper, shocked.

"no," he breathes out, forehead pressing to yours, eyes dark and wild. "stay."

the way he says it—low, rough, like he's been holding it back for months—freezes you completely. you blink at him, stunned, hands lightly resting on his shoulders.

"i— i didn't mean to—" you start.

"i know you didn't." his fingers tighten around your hips, thumbs digging in as if grounding himself. "that's the problem."

his grip shifts, sliding down the sides of your thighs before pulling you in closer—not indecent, but confident, deliberate, like he's finally done pretending.

you gasp softly at the sudden closeness, at how easily he moves you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively grab his shoulders. his hands instinctively stay exactly where they shouldn't.

"jakey—" you breathe.

he groans—shuddering, almost pained. "don't—don't call me that right now," he mutters, voice shaking with restraint.

"why?" your voice is soft. confused. innocent. he stares at you like that's exactly what broke him.

then he grabs your waist—firmly, possessively—and shifts you forward another inch, guiding your body with both hands like he's claiming you without permission, without shame, without fear.

his breath stutters when you end up chest-to-chest with him, thighs tightening around his.

you can feel every muscle in his body lock.

"because," he whispers, almost growling, "you're sitting on me like this, half-asleep and touching me like you always do, and you still... still don't get it."

your heart skips. "...get what?"

that's what finally snaps him. he exhales sharply, almost a laugh, almost a curse, and suddenly you're moving—gently but firmly—because jake has had enough.

his hands slide up your back, gripping under your arms as he shifts positions. in one smooth, practiced, entirely-too-strong motion, he lifts you.

you gasp as your body rises—not far, just enough that you feel light in his hands—and then he sets you back down on his lap, straddling him properly now, chest to chest, no space left between you at all.

your breath leaves your lungs. "j-jake..."

he doesn't let you pull back. one hand stays on your back; the other cups the back of your thigh, holding you in place, thumb rubbing slow circles that feel far too intimate.

his voice drops to a low, broken whisper against your cheek. "i like you."

you freeze. "i've liked you. for months. longer, honestly. more like years."

your lips part in stunned silence. his fingers tighten on your thigh—not rough, but desperate.

"and you keep... doing things. leaning on me, wearing my clothes, calling me jakey, sitting on my lap, stretching in front of me—" he shakes his head like he's spiraling, "—and i swear i've tried so hard to be normal about it."

you open your mouth, but he keeps going—the dam is broken and the truth is pouring out.

"i touch you because i want you. i get possessive because i can't help it. i'm obvious on purpose because i'm hoping—" he swallows, jaw clenching. "—god, i'm hoping you'll finally see it."

you breathe out, barely a whisper. "jake..."

"and tonight?" his thumb presses into your hip. "you don't know what you're doing to me. you never do."

you stare at him—his flushed cheeks, blown pupils, the way his chest heaves like telling you this has shattered him open.

your voice trembles. "why didn't you tell me?"

his grip pulls you closer—impossibly closer—his forehead pressing into your jaw, breath hot on your neck.

"because," he admits, voice barely a whisper, "if you didn't feel the same, i wouldn't survive it."

your hands lift shakily, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

"jake," you whisper, softer than you've ever spoken to him, "i didn't know."

he lets out a breath that sounds half laugh, half agony. "yeah, sweetheart..." his fingers slide up your spine, anchoring you against him, voice low and raw. "i know."

his confession still hangs in the air—hot, heavy, suffocating—and you can barely breathe with how close he is. your legs are still wrapped around him from when he dragged you into his lap, your hands still shaking on his shoulders.

his chest rises and falls against yours, unsteady, like he ripped his heart open and now he's waiting for you to crush it or cradle it.

you swallow hard. "jake... i like you too."

he blinks. slowly. like the words didn't compute at first.

"what?" he breathes.

you nod, nervous but honest. "i've liked you for a while."

everything stops. his hands, which had been warm and steady at your waist, suddenly grip tighter. not painfully—but enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs squeeze around him involuntarily.

his jaw flexes. "how long," he says quietly.

you look down at his chest, trying to avoid eye contact. "...since last year."

jake lets out a sound that doesn't even sound human. you can't tell if it's a laugh or a groan or a curse, but it vibrates through his whole body— and yours.

his grip on your waist tightens, thumbs pressing into your skin like he's seconds away from snapping.

"last year," he repeats, voice dangerously soft.

you nod, bad idea. because the second you do, jake suddenly grabs your hips, lifts you off him for half a second, and then slams you right back into his lap, pulling you flush against him.

you could feel him, his cock molding perfectly against your cunt.  you gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance.

"jake—!" his face is inches from yours. too close. way too close.

"you liked me since last year," he says again, like he's trying to rewrite reality, "and you didn't tell me?"

your voice shakes. "i— i didn't know if you liked me back—"

he laughs again, breathless, incredulous, pained.

"sweetheart," he says, squeezing your hips as he drags you even closer, "i've been losing my mind over you."

your heart jumps. "jake—"

he cuts you off by grabbing the back of your neck, guiding your face closer, his forehead pressing hard against yours.

"you wore my hoodies with no pants," he mutters, voice rough. "you'd climb into my lap during movie nights. you'd call me 'jakey' when you wanted something. and you thought it was FRIENDLY?"

your face heats. "i— i thought you were just being you—"

his fingers dig into your thigh. "being me?" he echoes, eyes darkening. "sweetheart, I was obsessed."

your breath catches. he inhales sharply, like he's trying to keep control—and losing.

"you let me touch you," he says, hands sliding up your sides, over your ribs, gripping, groping, exploring. "you let me hold you. you let me spoil you. and I thought—" he breaks off, shaking his head, "I thought any minute you'd pull away and tell me I was crossing a line."

you stare at him, breathless. "...i liked it."

his eyes snap to yours—sharp, hungry, disbelieving.

"say that again."

"i liked it," you whisper.

that's when he snaps. your back hits the couch cushions before you process what's happening— not rough, but fast, controlled, like he's been restraining himself too long.

he cages you in with his arms on either side of your head, body pressed firmly against yours. your legs instinctively wrap around him again and he lets out an unsteady breath at the movement.

his hands slip under your thighs, lifting, adjusting, pulling you exactly where he wants you.

you gasp, mind fogging instantly. "j— jake—"

"no," he says, breathing heavily, "you don't get to look at me like that and say you liked it."

his fingers slide up your waist again, slower this time, tracing the shape of you like he's memorizing it. exploring. claiming.

"you made me crazy," he whispers against your cheek. "every day. every little thing you did. and you knew."

your eyes widen. "i didn't know—" he grabs your chin, turning your face to his.

"you knew enough," he growls softly. "you knew how you affected me. you just didn't want to admit it."

your breath trembles. his hand slides down, gripping your hip, dragging you closer until your chest is flush with his, until your thighs squeeze around him again without you meaning to.

his voice is low, ragged. "you liked me," he murmurs, "and you kept it a secret. you let me suffer over you."

his fingers trail dangerously slow up your side, over your ribcage, to the underside of your arm— not touching anywhere explicit, but enough to make your whole body arch into him.

"jake... i'm sorry," you breathe, barely able to think.

"don't apologize," he says, eyes locked on yours. "just—don't lie anymore."

"I like you," you whisper. "i've always liked you."

something in him breaks open. he exhales shakily, hands sliding down your waist, gripping harder, pulling you tight against him like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his hold.

"good," he whispers, voice trembling with relief and hunger.

"because now," he murmurs, leaning down, lips brushing your jaw without quite touching it, "i'm done holding back."

his hands slide lower—firm, bold, claiming— guiding your body exactly where he wants you.

your breath hitches and your mind goes blank.

his mouth crashes down on yours before you can even breathe.

it's not gentle. it's not sweet. it's filthy—all hungry, open-mouthed kisses that taste like desperation and salt and him. he sucks on your bottom lip, hard, before biting down just enough to make you gasp, and then his tongue is in your mouth, claiming you, owning you, consuming you. you can taste the mint of his toothpaste and the heat of his want.

he sucks on your tongue, drawing it into his mouth, and you moan, the sound vibrating through both of you. his hands are everywhere—one tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to arch your neck back, the other sliding down your side, gripping your waist so hard you know you'll feel the shape of his fingers tomorrow.

"mine," he growls against your lips, breaking the kiss only to dive back in, sloppier, wetter. "all fucking mine. you understand? you're not texting anyone else. you're not looking at anyone else."

"jake—" you pant.

"say it," he demands, biting at your jaw, then sucking a harsh, wet kiss into the skin right below your ear. you feel the sharp pull of his mouth, the promise of a mark.

"yours," you gasp, and he groans, the sound wrecked and satisfied.

"fuck yeah, you are."

his hand leaves your hair and slides down, two fingers pressing against your lips. "open."

you do, without thought, and he pushes his fingers into your mouth. you suck instinctively, your tongue swirling around them, and his eyes go black with lust.

"look at you," he breathes, watching you. "taking me so good. always so good for me." he pulls his wet fingers out with a soft pop and uses that same hand to yank your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion.

your bra is next—he doesn't bother with the clasp, just hooks his fingers under the front and pulls it down, baring you to him completely.

the cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is on you, hot and voracious. he licks a broad stripe over your nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth, his tongue flicking relentlessly. his other hand kneads your other breast, thumb rubbing over the peaked nipple.

"so perfect," he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled. "fuck, i've wanted to do this forever." he bites down gently on the peak, then soothes it with his tongue, before moving to the other side, giving it the same rough, worshipful treatment. he's leaving dark, possessive marks all over your chest—hickeys blooming like violets, the faint imprint of his teeth.

you're writhing under him, your hips rolling up, searching for friction. he grinds his own hips down against yours, the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection pressing right where you need it, and you cry out.

"jake, please—"

"please what, sweetheart?" he lifts his head, his lips swollen, his chin wet. he looks destroyed, beautiful. "tell me what you want."

"you," you whimper. "just you."

his grip on your waist tightens, surely hard enough to bruise. "you've got me. you've always had me." he leans down again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. you can taste your own skin on his lips. one of his hands slides down, over the curve of your stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts. "gonna mark you up everywhere," he promises between bites at your lips. "gonna make sure you feel me for days. every time you move, you'll remember who you belong to."

his fingers dip lower, and you arch off the couch, a broken sound tearing from your throat as his fingers slip under your waistband. you're so ready for him, so desperate, you think this is it—but he doesn't go where you want. instead, his hands slide down to the hem of your shorts, gripping the fabric with a possessiveness that steals your breath.

"these," he says, voice gravelly, "are in the way."

in one rough motion, he yanks your shorts and underwear down your legs, leaving you bare beneath him. the cool air kisses your skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looks at you. his dark eyes rake over you, from your heaving, marked chest down to the apex of your thighs, and he lets out a low, approving groan.

"fuck, look at you," he murmurs, his hands sliding back up to grip your hips. "all mine. finally."

he doesn't kiss you again. instead, he pushes your thighs apart, his gaze locked on the wetness he finds there. a slow, predatory smile spreads across his lips.

"you're dripping for me, sweetheart. after all this time... you're gonna make up for every second i spent thinking you didn't want me."

before you can answer, he drops his head between your legs.

the first lick is a broad, slow stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you jolt, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. it's sloppy and messy immediately—he doesn't bother with finesse, just eats you out like he's starving, like he's claiming this part of you too. his tongue fucks into you, deep and wet, and then swirls around your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth.

you arch off the couch, your hands flying to his hair, gripping the tousled strands. "jake—oh, god—"

he hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl. he's relentless, licking and sucking, his stubble scratching the tender skin of your inner thighs. you're already so close, teetering on the edge, and he knows it. he pulls back just as you're about to cum.

"no," you whine, tugging at his hair. "don't stop, please—"

he lifts his head, his chin glistening with your arousal. his eyes are dark, a flicker of that old frustration in them. "you kept this from me," he says, his voice rough. "all that time. you let me think i was just your friend while you squirmed in my lap. you think that's cute?"

before you can answer, his hand comes down—not hard, but sharp—right on your cunt.

the slap stings, a bright, shocking pain that melts instantly into a wave of pleasure. your whole body clenches, your hole fluttering around nothing, and a choked sob escapes you.

jake watches, fascinated. "look at that," he breathes, using his pointer and middle finger to spread you open to his eyes. "look how pretty you clench for me. all pink and needy."

he does it again, his palm landing firmly on your swollen flesh. the sound is obscene in the quiet room. your skin flushes a deeper shade of pink, and he groans, leaning down to lick over the spot he just spanked. "so fucking pretty. wanna see this color everywhere on you."

he moves before you can process it. one hand pins your hip to the couch as he leans up, his other hand coming down in a sharp, stinging slap on your breast.

you cry out, the mix of pain and pleasure making your head spin. he does it again to the other, watching the skin bloom red under his palm before he ducks his head to suck the tender peak into his mouth, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"jake," you plead, writhing, "please, i need—"

"i know what you need," he interrupts, his voice a low growl. he manhandles you, turning you onto your stomach with a strength that leaves you breathless.

he lands three sharp, successive spanks on your ass, each one making you jerk and moan into the cushion. the heat spreads through you, pooling low in your belly. he kneads the warmed skin, his fingers digging in. "gonna be sore tomorrow," he murmurs, almost to himself. "gonna remember my hands every time you sit down."

he flips you back over, his body caging you in again. his eyes are wild, hungry. he leans close, his breath fanning over your face. "you're mine," he whispers, and then his hand comes up—not to hit, but to cradle your jaw. his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "all of you."

then he slaps your face.

it's not brutal, but it's firm, a sharp, claiming sting that leaves your skin tingling. your eyes water, and you stare up at him, stunned, incredibly turned on.

he circles your clit with two fingers, his touch suddenly teasing, infuriatingly light. "this is mine," he says, watching your face. "this pretty cunt that drips for me. this smart mouth that lied to me for a year." he pushes a finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, and you whimper, trying to buck your hips to take more. he holds you down. "you don't get to decide the pace anymore, sweetheart. i do."

he adds a second finger, curling them deep, and your back bows off the couch. "there it is," he croons, scissoring them slightly, stretching you. "that tight little hole that's been waiting for me. you gonna come on my fingers? gonna make a mess for me?"

"yes—jake, please—" you're babbling, lost in the sensation of his fingers pistoning inside you, his thumb now pressing rough circles on your clit.

"say it," he demands, his own breath coming in ragged pants. he's still fully dressed, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs, and the contrast is maddening. "say who you belong to."

"you!" you sob. "i belong to you, jake, only you—"

"fuck yeah, you do." he kisses you, hard and sloppy, biting at your already swollen lips. his fingers speed up, driving into you with a punishing rhythm. "gonna make you come so hard you see stars. then i'm gonna do it again. gonna ruin you for anyone else."

the coiling tension in your gut snaps. pleasure detonates, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating out from your core. you scream into his mouth as you clench around his fingers, a hot rush of wetness soaking his hand and the couch beneath you. your hips jerk uncontrollably, and he fucks you through it, his fingers relentless, drawing out the spasms until you're trembling and oversensitive.

he pulls his fingers out slowly, watching the way you twitch at the loss. he brings his soaked fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a dark, satisfied hum. "sweet," he murmurs. "and all mine." he grinds his hips down, letting you feel the massive, hard length of him straining against his jeans. "but we're just getting started, baby. you think i'm done with you?"

he groans at the look on your face, his hips grinding down against you one more time, the rough denim a cruel tease. "just getting started," he repeats, a dark promise in his eyes.

then he's moving, pushing himself up off you, kneeling on the couch between your spread legs. his hands go to the hem of his own shirt, and he yanks it over his head in one violent motion, revealing the muscular, taut plane of his chest and stomach. you reach for him, eager to touch, to feel all that heat under your palms.

he catches your wrists before you make contact, his grip like iron.

"no," he says, voice low and final. he smacks your hands away, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "you don't get to touch. not yet. not after what you've done."

"what i've done?" you breathe, confused, aching for him.

"you made me wait," he snarls, leaning over you, his dark eyes blazing. "you made me think i was crazy. you sat in my lap and wore my clothes and looked at me with those fucking eyes and said it was nothing. so now?" he unbuckles his belt with a harsh, metallic rasp, pulling it free from the loops. "now you learn."

he grabs your wrists again, pulling them up above your head. you don't fight him. you're mesmerized by the intensity on his face, the raw possession.

he wraps the leather belt around both your wrists, cinching it tight, buckling it with a definitive click. the restraint is firm, not painful, but inescapable. you're pinned.

he sits back, straddling your hips, and just looks at you. his gaze is a physical caress, hot and heavy. it travels over your bound wrists, down your marked chest, to where you're bare and wet for him. but it lingers on your face.

specifically, on the faint, warm sting on your cheek where his palm connected earlier.

a slow, wicked smile curls his lips. "look at that," he murmurs, almost to himself. his thumb comes up, brushing over the tender skin. you flinch, and his smile widens. "so fucking pretty. my mark on your face. my color on your skin." he leans down, his lips ghosting over the spot. "gonna keep it there. remind you."

then he shifts back, moving up your body until he's straddling your chest, his knees pinning your arms by your head. his erection strains against the fly of his jeans, a thick, daunting outline just inches from your face.

"look at what you did to me," he grits out, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. he frees himself, and your breath hitches. he's thick, velvety and flushed, already leaking at the tip. he fists his length, giving himself a slow, rough stroke. "all this time. hard for you. aching for you. and you played dumb."

he leans forward, bracing one hand by your head, the other pumping his cock slowly, deliberately. the swollen head nudges against your lips. "you wanna taste it, baby? wanna taste what you've been driving crazy?"

you nod, desperate, your tongue darting out to catch the bead of precum.

he smacks your cheek with the hot, heavy weight of his cock—a sharp, degrading tap that makes you whimper. "i didn't say you could." he rubs the slick head over your lips, painting them with his salt. "you beg for it."

"please," you whisper, straining against the belt. "please, jake, let me taste it."

"not good enough." he strokes himself faster, his hips beginning to piston slightly. the tip prods at the corner of your mouth. "tell me why you want it."

"because it's yours," you sob, the humiliation and need mixing into a potent fuel. "because i need it. i need your cum, please, i need to taste you—"

"on your face or in your mouth?" he demands, his rhythm becoming erratic.

"my face," you beg, the filth of the words thrilling you. "mark my face, please, jake—"

that does it. a guttural groan tears from his throat. his hand moves punishingly fast on himself. "open your eyes. look at me. watch me ruin you."

you force your eyes open, locked on his wild, dark gaze as he tips over the edge. hot stripes of cum land across your cheek, your lips, your chin. it's thick, copious, and the scent of him—musky and uniquely jake—fills the air. he rides out his orgasm, shuddering, his release painting you as his.

he collapses forward for a second, breathing heavily, before pushing himself up. he looks at his work—your face glazed, marked, utterly claimed—and a look of profound, possessive satisfaction settles on his features.

"fuck," he breathes. "perfect."

then he's moving again, unbuckling the belt from your wrists with quick, efficient tugs. before you can even rub the feeling back into them, he's flipping you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up, pushing your knees apart. his hands are rough on your sore ass, kneading the flesh he'd spanked earlier.

you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock nudge against your entrance, slick with his cum and your own arousal.

"you want this?" he grinds the tip against you, not pushing in. "this fat cock you made so desperate? you wanna feel it split you open?"

"yes! god, jake, please, fuck me—"

"beg harder."

you're crying now, tears mixing with the mess on your face. "please, i need it, i need you to fuck me, please, i can't wait anymore, please—"

he drives into you in one brutal, sheathing thrust.

you scream, the stretch overwhelming, the fullness divine. he doesn't give you a second to adjust. he sets a punishing pace immediately, each snap of his hips slamming you forward into the cushions. his hands grip your waist, surely leaving bruises, holding you in place for his use.

"tight," he grunts, his voice strained. "so fucking tight and wet for me. this cunt was made for me. say it."

"it was—ah!—made for you, only for you—"

"gonna cum in this greedy hole," he promises, his thrusts becoming deeper, more focused. "gonna fill you up so deep you taste me for days. you want that? want me to breed this pretty pussy?"

the crude words send you spiraling. "yes! yes, i want it, fill me up, please, jake, i'm gonna cum—"

"come then," he snarls, one hand snaking around to rub rough circles on your clit. "cum on my cock. squeeze me while i pump you full."

the dual sensation breaks you. you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically on his length, a broken stream of pleas and sobs falling from your lips. he fucks you through it, his own groans getting louder, more ragged.

"gonna cum," he warns, his hips stuttering. "gonna mark you inside. take it. take it."

with a final, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and lets go. you feel the hot, pulsing rush of him flooding your core, claim upon claim. he holds himself there, shuddering, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he empties himself into you.

for a long moment, there's only the sound of heavy breathing.

slowly, he pulls out. you whimper at the loss, the sudden emptiness, the slick drip of him and you onto the couch.

he turns you onto your back again, his eyes immediately dropping between your legs. he watches, fascinated, as a thick trickle of his cum leaks out of you.

"look at that," he murmurs, voice husky with satisfaction. he pushes two fingers back inside you, easily, scooping the escaping fluid. he pushes it back in, stuffing you with his fingers, keeping his claim sealed inside. "keeping it in you. where it belongs."

everything slows down.

the room is quiet except for the sound of breathing—his, yours—still uneven, still catching. the adrenaline drains out of your body in waves, leaving you warm and shaky and strangely floaty.

jake is the first to move. not rushed. not rough anymore.

his hands, which were gripping you like he was afraid you'd disappear, loosen. they slide up your sides slowly, almost reverently, like he's checking that you're real. that you're okay.

"hey," he murmurs, voice hoarse but gentle now. "look at me."

you do. his eyes are softer than you've ever seen them—still dark, still intense, but no longer sharp around the edges. there's something almost fragile there, like everything he's been holding in just cracked open.

he brushes his thumb under your eye, catching a tear you didn't realize slipped out.

"did i—" he stops himself, jaw tightening. "...you good?"

you nod, still catching your breath. "yeah. i'm good."

he exhales, long and shaky, like he's been holding it in since the moment he confessed.

"okay," he says quietly. "okay."

he shifts closer, pulling you against his chest. this time it's careful—an arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling your head, tucking you into him like he's afraid to squeeze too hard.

you melt into it instantly. your cheek presses to his collarbone. his heartbeat is loud and steady under your ear.

for a moment, neither of you says anything. it's not awkward. it's heavy. charged. real.

"i didn't mean to scare you," he says eventually, barely above a whisper.

you lift your head. "you didn't."

his brows knit together. "i was... angry. not at you exactly. just—" he huffs a quiet laugh, embarrassed now that the heat's gone. "at myself. for wanting you that bad and thinking i was insane."

you trace a slow line over his shoulder with your finger. "i should've said something."

he shakes his head. "we both should've."

his thumb rubs slow circles into your arm— grounding, soothing.

"i just didn't think you'd ever see me like that," he admits. "i figured if i pushed too hard, you'd pull away. so i stayed... half-in. miserable."

you're quiet for a beat, then softer, "i was scared too."

he looks down at you. "of me?"

"of losing you," you correct.

that does something to him. his grip tightens just a little, like instinct. "you're not losing me."

you search his face. "promise?"

he doesn't hesitate. "promise."

another quiet moment passes. then, tentative, "so... what does this mean now?"

you smile faintly. "i was wondering the same thing."

he tilts his head, considering, then says, very plainly, "it means i don't pretend anymore."

your stomach flips. "means i get to be honest when i'm jealous. when i want you. when i don't want anyone else near you." he pauses, watching your reaction. "only if you want that."

you don't even think about it. "i do."

his lips twitch—not smug, not cocky—relieved.

"okay," he murmurs. "then it means you're mine."

you raise a brow. "possessive much?" he smirks, but there's warmth behind it now. "you already knew that."

you laugh softly and tuck yourself back into him.

his chin rests on top of your head. one hand stays at your back, steady and protective, like it's exactly where it belongs.

"i'll be better," he says quietly. "gentler. when you need it."

you hum, blushing softly. "i don't mind when you're not."

he snorts, remembering your moans and pleas for more. "yeah. i figured."

silence settles again—comfortable this time.

outside, the night feels different. not tense anymore, just open. and for the first time, jake’s not wondering what you feel.

he already knows.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[svvtvenom]

never knew possessive Jake was something I needed to read in life. holy moly this was soooooo good

[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): another long chapter, although i think this one is justified as it’s our last, alcohol consumption, smut, unprotected and semi-public sex as they did it in a car? it was in the middle of nowhere but well

PART FINAL｜11.7K｜PREVIOUS PART

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

STILL IN CHOTEAU

(Christmas Day)

You woke to the feeling of lips against your temple.

You made a small sound at it, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the blankets, and earning a quiet laugh from Jongseong

“Ribbons,” he whispered, and even through the muddle of sleep, you could hear the smile on him, that soft deed turning his voice warmer. “Wake up.”

You mumbled something unintelligible even for you, not opening your eyes. The cabin was still dark beyond your eyelids, the bed was warm, and Jongseong was reaching for your face, his fingers slightly cold against your skin but definitely there.

“I have something for you,” he said. “Come on, my love, please?”

You were not sure if it had been the endearing name or the tiniest please at the end of the phrase, but you cracked one eye open, and then the other, finding him not in the bed, but crouched at the side of it.

The dying embers in the fireplace cast just enough light for you to see his face — eyes bright, smile soft, hair falling into his eyes because he hadn’t put anything on it.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“A little past three.”

You stared at him. “Jongseong-”

“I know,” he said, and you could see how hard he was trying to look apologetic but failing because he simply couldn’t stop smiling. “But I went to Jim’s.”

He paused, giving you a moment to process.

“Is the BMW fixed?”

“No — not the BMW,” he said quickly. “But Jim has a friend — a guy who runs a small farm outside town. He had a truck he was willing to lend out for the holidays, and—” his grin widened. “I went over to pick it up. It’s outside right now.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest then, expanding and contracting all at once, and making you dizzy.

“Are you serious?”

“I am,” he confirmed. “We can leave whenever you’re ready. We can drive to Seattle today. You can be home for Christmas.”

Home.

The word echoed through you with unexpected force. Home for Christmas. With your family and the chaos and the decorations and your mother’s cooking. Everything you had been aching for since New Year’s.

You didn’t remember making the decision to move, but suddenly you were scrambling out of bed, your feet hitting the cold floor and making you shiver, but even so — you didn’t stop. You didn’t bother with shoes or a coat, just rushed to the door in the pajama set you had slept in and yanked it open.

The winter air came as a shock — sharp and clean and so cold it stole your breath. But there, parked in the small clearing in front of the cabin, was a dark blue pickup truck. It was older, clearly well-used, with a dented bumper and rust spots along the wheel wells, but it was definitely there — sparkling underneath the porch light as snow had already begun to settle on its hood in a thin white layer.

“You got us a car,” you said, your voice coming out thicker than you expected. You turned back to find Jongseong standing in the doorway, wearing only his jeans and sweater, arms crossed against the cold as he watched you. “You went out at — what, two in the morning? — and got us a car?”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” he said with a small shrug.

And you couldn’t believe it — how casual he spoke about something that meant the world to you.

You crossed the porch in three strides and threw your arms around his neck, not caring that you were both freezing, not caring about anything except the feel of him solid and real against you. He caught you easily, his arms coming around your waist, lifting you slightly off your feet.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his neck, the skin shivering as your words landed. “Thank you, thank you-”

“If you keep thanking me,” he said. “I am going to start thinking you actually like me or something.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face. His cheeks were cold under your palms, his eyes very dark in the porch light.

“I more than like you,” you said, and watched something flicker in his expression, too fast for you to in fact comprehend, but it didn’t matter anyway because it had been there and before he could respond, you kissed him.

He made a small sound of surprise against your mouth, his hands splaying at your back, as he kissed you too, his lips warm against yours despite the cold, his body solid and real and there. You could taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue — he must have been awake for hours — and beneath that, something that was just him.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“When can we leave?”

“Now, if you want,” said. “Or-”

“Now,” you interrupted. “Let’s go now. I want-” Your voice cracked slightly. “I want to go home.”

His lips curved with a quiet warmth that reached his eyes, softening every angle of his face and making something in your heart squeeze, because it felt like something meant only for you.

“Then let’s go home,” he whispered.

❄︎

Leaving took less time than you expected, mostly because neither of you had properly unpacked in the first place — carry-ons still loaded and giving you only the trouble to make the bed, get dressed, and leave a note to Cara.

And by the time the first hints of dawn began to creep across the horizon, painting the snow-covered landscape in shades of pink and gold, you had long been on the road.

The truck was nothing like the BMW. The heat took longer to kick in, the radio was stuck on one local station, and the suspension made every bump in the road feel like a small collision. The bench seat was worn smooth in places, the fabric splitting at the seams, and there was a persistent smell of motor oil and pine needles.

Yet — you loved it.

Maybe it was just the relief of moving again after two days stuck in Choteau. Maybe it was the knowledge that every mile brought you closer to home. Or maybe it was the way Jongseong looked driving it — relaxed in the same way he had been in the BMW, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching across the gearshift to rest on your thigh.

The sun rose slowly as you drove, painting the snow-covered landscape in shades of pink and gold. Montana stretched endless around you — mountains in the distance, fields rolling away on either side, the occasional farmhouse or barn breaking up the white expanse.

“Tell me about Christmas,” Jongseong said at one point, his thumb tracing idle circles against your jeans.

“What about it?”

“Your family,” he clarified. “You said everyone comes to your house, four generations and it is a mess — what do they do?”

You thought about how to explain it — the chaos and noise and love all tangled together in a way that was overwhelming and perfect.

“It’s loud,” you said finally. “Really loud — my mom comes from a big family, a bunch of cousins and they all have kids, and some of those kids have kids now. So we are talking maybe thirty people crammed into a house that was built for a few. Everyone brings food even though my mom insists she has it covered, so we end up with three different potato dishes and not enough room on the table. My grandmother gets into the wine early and starts telling stories that get progressively more embarrassing as the night goes on.”

“And jazz dancing.”

“And jazz dancing,” you agreed. “One of my uncles always tries to organize some kind of game — charades or Pictionary or something — and it always devolves into people arguing about the rules. We had forbidden UNO because of this.”

“The kids run around screaming until someone inevitably cries. And through it all, my dad just sits in his chair like the eye of the hurricane, drinking his whiskey and smiling at the chaos.”

“It sounds-”

“Insane,” you supplied, but you were smiling. “You will see. You are going to be completely overwhelmed.”

His hand stilled on your leg for a second, barely the length it took for you to draw in a breath, but you felt it. “Am I going to see?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, suddenly uncertain. “I mean — you’re coming to Christmas dinner, right? Unless you don’t want to, which is totally fine, I just assumed-”

“I want to,” he interrupted. “I just didn’t want to assume I was invited.”

“You’re invited,” you said firmly. “I would never heard the end of it if you tried to skip it. My mom has already talked about meeting you.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

“Then I better not disappoint.”

You drove in comfortable silence for a while after that, watching the landscape change as you moved west. The radio played White Christmas for what had to be the fourth time that morning, and you found yourself humming along without thinking about it.

“Your turn,” you said eventually.

“My turn of what?”

“Tell me about your Christmas. What’s it usually like?”

Jongseong was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working slightly. You wondered if you had made a mistake bringing it up — if even after all those days, he wouldn’t open up about it because talking about Christmas meant talking about his father.

But then, he spoke.

“Quieter than yours,” he said. “We can’t even say that we commemorate it — it’s usually just me and my mom and my dad-” He paused slightly on the word but pushed through. “My dad — we just have dinner together, nothing fancy, a lot of times it had even been a Chinese takeout,”

“We never even traded presents,” he continued. “Sometimes we would buy each other something because we saw it during an errand close to Christmas and brought it, but we never really waited until the Christmas morning.”

You slid your hand over his on your thigh, lacing your fingers together. He glanced at you, and squeezed.

“Last year I was still in New York,” he continued. “Mom called and said Dad wasn’t feeling well, that it would be alright for me to just stay there.” His voice roughened. “I didn’t come home then. Everything is crazy this time of the year, and I thought there would be time — I thought we had next year.”

“Jongseong,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said. “I know I can’t change it. I know I need to — to let it go. It’s just hard.”

“It’s allowed to be hard,” you told him. “You don’t have to let it go yet. You just have to-”

“Keep going anyway?” he supplied.

“And allow yourself to feel,” you said.

He lifted your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“I will be there,” you said.

The words hung in the air between you then — a promise that brought up questions you both were too afraid to fully ask yet.

What happens after Seattle? What happens when the road trip ends and real life starts again?

But you allowed those questions to hang.

Right now, you had Montana stretching endless ahead and Jongseong’s hand warm in yours, and that was enough.

❄︎

You stopped for gas and terrible coffee somewhere outside Missoula.

The truck’s fuel gauge had been creeping toward empty for the last thirty miles, and you had both been eyeing it nervously, aware that gas stations out here could be few and far between.

The station was small and clearly family-run, with two pumps and a building that looked like it had been there since the 1950s. A faded sign advertised Hot Coffee and Fresh Donuts, though the donuts in the case looked like they might have been there since yesterday at least.

Jongseong bought them anyway, a chocolate for him and a strawberry for you — though when you traded bites, both just tasted like flour and sugar to you.

And when he leaned in and kissed you over the gearshift, he too, tasted like flour and sugar.

“We should go,” you said reluctantly. “We have still got a lot of miles to cover.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but he kissed you once more before finally starting the engine.

❄︎

You crossed the state line just after noon, and something in your chest loosened at the sight of the Welcome to Washington sign because you were almost there.

The landscape changed gradually — becoming greener even in winter, the mountains rising closer, the air carrying that particular scent of pine and salt water that meant home. You had been away less than a year, but it felt longer. Perhaps another life because if the girl who had left for New York was someone else entirely.

“I forgot how beautiful it is here,” you said, watching the trees blur past the window.

“Me too — New York has its moments, but it’s not-”

“Home,” you finished.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Home.”

When the Seattle skyline finally appeared on the horizon — the Space Needle piercing up through the clouds, the Sound spread out gray and endless — you actually gasped. Your hands flew to the window like a child, pressing against the glass.

“Look,” you said unnecessarily, because of course Jongseong could see it too. “Look, we are here — we actually made it.”

“We made it,” he confirmed, but his voice had gone tight, and when you turned to look at him you saw the tension had returned to his shoulders, his jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel because home meant his father’s house. Home meant walking into a space where his father should be but wasn’t anymore.

You reached across the seat and covered his hand with yours. “Hey. You don’t have to do this today. We can — we can go to my place first, figure it out, or-”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, I need to do this. I have been putting it off for nine months. It’s time.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at you, and something in his expression softened. “I am sure.”

The as long as you were here wasn’t said, but you heard it in his voice, sticky with a little possessiveness, new and exciting. You saw it in his eyes, a little bit too soft before he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

❄︎

When his house appeared at the end of the curve, he eased his foot off the gas like the truck had reached the end of the world.

It was exactly as he had described and yet not at all. It was a two-story craftsman with wide steps, a deep porch, and a Japanese maple in the front yard, its bare branches etched black against the snow. Warm light shone from the windows, soft and steady. Someone had wrapped a strand of lights around the porch railing with the same level of care his hair usually got.

He parked in the driveway and turned off the engine.

The sudden silence settled heavily.

You could hear the tick of the cooling motor. The faint squeals of the kids on the other side of the cul-de-sac underneath the sound of his breathing.

“I haven’t-” he halted. His hand stayed on the keys, knuckles white. “I haven’t been here since the funeral.”

“I know,” you said.

“I kept telling myself I would come back,” he went on, staring straight ahead at the front door. “Every month. After the next deal. After the next quarter. After I felt — less like it was going to rip me in half.”

“And it never felt like that,” you said softly.

He let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh. “It still doesn’t.”

You watched his throat work as he tried to find the next sentence.

“What if it’s like he just walked into the kitchen for a second?” he whispered. “And I’m the only thing that’s different? Or worse, what if nothing of him is left? Just—” He broke off, the words snagging. “Just dust and-”

You squeezed his hand.

“Then that’s what we find,” you said. “And if you can’t do it, we walk back out. Breathe in and out, remember?”

He nodded once, too sharply.

For a moment, he didn’t move. But then — very carefully, he took his hand off the keys and reached for you instead. His fingers found yours and gripped like he was testing how real you were.

“Okay,” he said, not entirely convincingly. “Okay.”

You climbed out first, boots crunching on the packed snow of the driveway. By the time you reached his side, he was standing with the truck door still open, staring at the house like it might vanish if he blinked.

“Ribbons,” he said quietly, without looking at you. “If I freeze in there—”

“I’ve seen you in a snowstorm on a highway,” you said. “You can freeze all you want. I’ll just keep talking until you un-thaw.”

That startled a faint smile out of him. He shut the door and let you lace your fingers with his as you walked up the path together.

The porch steps were dusted with a light, perfect layer of snow, just enough to show no one had left in the last hour. The welcome mat was slightly crooked. There was a dent on the left side of the doorframe, about knee-high — the kind of mark kids and bikes and long summers made.

His gaze snagged on it. You watched something flicker across his face — a tiny flash of a boy in shorts, a crash, a scolding, a laugh that wasn’t his.

His hand tightened around yours.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached for the doorknob, but the door was already opening from the inside.

His mother stood there, small and straight-backed in a soft cardigan, like she had been standing just behind the wood with her hand on the knob, waiting for the exact sound of his boots.

For one suspended moment, no one spoke.

Then she called for him. The name was simple, but it seemed to land on him like weight and air both.

“Hi, mom,” he managed, his voice cracking on the second word.

She drew in a sharp breath, a sound you felt in your own lungs. Then she stepped forward, closing the distance between them in three strides, and wrapped him in her arms.

His body stayed stiff for a heartbeat — maybe two. You could see the held back grief in each reluctant muscle. Then something in him dropped. His arms came up around her, pulling her in. His chin found the top of her head the way it must have done a thousand times when he’d grown taller than her.

You looked away, the intimacy of it like a hand pressed over your own heart.

Your eyes landed instead on the hallway opening up behind them.

The house smelled like soy and ginger and something sweet baking. Shoes lined the edge of the entryway, some neatly paired, some abandoned. A coat you recognized from his New York closet hung on the hook, like he had just forgotten to take it with him on a short errand.

“Come in,” his mother said finally, pulling back slightly but keeping one hand on his cheek. Her eyes were wet but steady. “It’s too cold to cry outside. You’ll both get sick.”

Only then did she look at you properly.

“You must be-” she began.

“Yes, ma’am,” you said. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

She studied you for a moment, gaze dropping to where your hand was still linked with her son’s. The corner of her mouth lifted.

“Come,” she said again, and this time you did.

❄︎

The hallway opened into a living room that was so thick with their lives it almost hummed.

Family photos climbed the walls — school portraits, vacations, random blurry shots of everyday moments. A much younger version of him, bowl-cut and front teeth missing, grinned at you from one frame, his hands covered in what looked like cake batter. In another, he stood on a small stage with a guitar almost too big for his body, eyes closed, mouth open mid-song.

Your attention snagged on the mantel.

A large photo sat in the center — his parents together at what looked like some formal event, both in suits, his father’s arm around his mother’s shoulders. He had Jongseong’s eyes and his smile. There was a deep laugh line at one corner that you could suddenly imagine in motion, crinkling when he said something shameless.

Beneath the photo, the surface was a study in arrested motion.

A set of reading glasses folded neatly. A small stack of mail, the top envelope yellowing at the edges.

Your chest tightened.

“Shoes off,” his mother reminded gently, setting an example as she stepped out of her slippers. “He was always getting yelled at for tracking mud in here. He should not start again now.”

A strange sound came out of him — half laugh, half choked breath as he toed off his shoes.

You bent over to take off your own boots, but Jongseong was already bending on a knee, fingers reaching and fumbling through the laces of it and removing them, one at a time.

His mother gestured to the couch. “Sit,” she said. “I will make tea. And something to eat. You both look like you have been living on gas station food.”

“That’s because we have,” you said.

“See?” she replied, already heading toward the kitchen. “I am right.”

As soon as she was out of sight, the silence in the living room changed into a thicker aspect.

You sat, and the cushions sank in the middle in the way that said the same bodies had used this spot for years. He stayed standing a moment longer, fingers flexing at his sides, as if the floor might buck.

“Come here,” you murmured.

He sat down beside you, a little too carefully but even so, his knee bumped yours, but he didn’t move away as his gaze roamed again, catching on details like tripwires — the quilt folded over the back of the armchair. A chipped coaster. The corner of a music stand peeking from behind a plant.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly, echoing the question he had asked you in airports, in cars, in diners.

“No,” he said, just as quietly. “But I’m here.”

“That counts,” you said.

His eyes drifted to the mantel again, to the photo.

“He hated that picture,” he murmured. “Said his suit was too tight. Mom loved it. She said it was the only time she’d ever seen him keep his tie on for a whole night.”

Your thumb brushed circles on the back of his hand.

“He would’ve liked you,” he said abruptly.

“Your dad?”

He nodded, and you knew without knowing that there was a story there, the echo of a conversation you never quite catch, but you let it slip and slide as he turned silent.

“I wish I could’ve met him,” you said, and you meant it.

“Me too,” he said, his voice raw. “I keep — I keep thinking I’ll have one more chance to introduce him to people. But it doesn’t work like that-”

He took in a breath — holding it in as if he noticed he was spiraling and it was such a novelty — to see Jongseong being the one spiraling.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am talking to much.”

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

It was just the echo of his words on your lips, but it got him smiling then, barely line of light breaking the shadows of his face, but surely there. And you knew that he knew that answer, but he shook his head anyway.

“I have no idea,” he said.

“Megan Cunningham.”

From down the hall, a kettle whistled faintly, and he turned away.

“My dad’s office is back there,” he said, nodding toward a half-open door. “I haven’t gone in since-”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to, you already had understood it.

“Do you want to?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know which is worse — leaving it closed, or opening it and seeing his handwriting on something stupid like a grocery list.”

You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “We can drink tea. We can leave. We can come back tomorrow. This house has been waiting for you for nearly a year. It can wait another hour.”

He stared at the door.

“I will be with you, if you want me to,” you said.

He nodded.

Before either of you could move, his mother reappeared, carrying a tray.

“Tea,” she announced. “And tteok. You need something warm in your stomach. You are both too thin. Especially you.” She tipped her chin at you. “New York is not feeding you properly.”

“Tell that to my rent,” you said.

“I will,” she replied. “It will listen to me.”

The conversation tugged his attention back to the present. You watched some of the faraway look recede from his eyes.

His mother set the tray down and poured tea into three mismatched cups, her movements practiced. The steam carried the scent of roasted barley and something faintly floral.

She asked about the trip then, and you told her about the cancelled flight, sleeping in the middle of nowhere in Ohio, and Chicago — that part she seemed really happy about. It was his father’s favorite city. You told her about Andrea, the BMW breaking down, the cabin in Choteau, and your mini Christmas’ Eve supper. Jongseong filled in the parts you missed, his voice becoming a tiny bit steadier as he spoke, and his mother listened with the kind of attention that said she was hearing not just the words, but everything underneath them.

She studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and then she said something in Korean — a full sentence, rapid, fluid, and making Jongseong choke on his cup.

“Mom,” he pleaded.

“What?” she replied, switching back to English. “I am just saying she seems very nice. And it was about time you brought someone home.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped then, and even Jongseong’s mouth twitched despite his obvious embarrassment.

But he cleaned his throat then, going a bit more straight into his seat.

“Mom,” he called. “Can I — go see his office? For a minute?”

“Of course,” she said. “I left it like he did. I couldn’t-” Her mouth pressed inward. “I will be in the kitchen. Take your time.”

She stood and squeezed his shoulder once, then yours, then vanished quietly.

The house felt very still again.

He looked at you.

“I’m right here,” you said.

He nodded, then stood, still holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him.

The office door creaked when he pushed it open.

The room smelled faintly of paper and old coffee and whatever cologne his father had worn. A desk sat under the window, half-buried in papers — not a dramatic chaos, but the modest, everyday mess of someone who fully intended to return to the same work in the morning.

A mug, ring of dried coffee at the bottom. A pen uncapped beside an open notebook. A calendar on the wall still frozen on the month he’d died, days marked with neat, square handwriting.

Your chest squeezed.

Jongseong stepped inside like he was crossing a threshold into some sacred place.

For a moment, he just stood there. Then he moved to the desk, reached out, and touched the back of the chair with his fingertips, the gesture so tentative it made your throat ache.

He pulled the chair out and sat down slowly.

His hand hovered over the open notebook. There, in neat Korean, was a list. It wasn’t anything dramatic — groceries, maybe, or chores, or things to remember — just a bunch of words lined on the paper. But his fingers traced the curve of each character as if they were relics.

He pressed his palm flat over the page and bowed his head.

You stayed by the door, giving him the space of a son with his father’s things and the support of your presence all at once.

After a long moment, he wiped his eyes with the heel of his free hand.

When he came back to you, you opened your arms without thinking. He stepped into them, folding himself around you, his forehead tucking into the familiar place between your neck and shoulder.

You could feel the stutter of his breath. The silent, shuddering way grief moved through him.

“I thought if I came back here,” he whispered into your sweater, “it would mean it was really over. That he was really gone. That I’d — failed him by not being here.”

You tightened your hold. “He doesn’t love you less because you have gone to New York,” you said. “I bet he had been proud of you.”

He let out a broken sound that still somehow managed to be a laugh.

“Thank you.”

“That’s what you get for rescuing me from airports and snowstorms. Emotional labor in perpetuity.”

He laughed then, for real. A wet, shaky thing, but laughter nonetheless.

When you finally stepped back out into the living room, his face was blotchy, his eyes red.

You thought he had never looked more like himself.

His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tea towel in hand.

She wiped her hands and then, without preamble, stepped forward to gather both of you into her arms — one arm around her son, one around you, the three of you swaying slightly in the middle of the living room that had held so many versions of this family.

“He would be very happy you are here,” she said into his shoulder. “Both of you.”

And for some reason — you believed her.

❄︎

By the time you left, the winter afternoon was already fading into evening, the sky turning that particular shade of blue-gray that meant snow was coming.

Jongseong’s mother walked you both to the door, and when Jongseong bent to hug her, she held him tight, her small frame somehow containing all the strength in the world before she moved to you, and to your surprise — pulling you into a hug as well.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words coming so quiet, you almost didn’t hear them. “For bringing him home.”

“He brought me home too,” you replied.

She pulled back — but not letting you go, her hands slipped through your arms, finding your hands and giving it a squeeze.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.”

You walked back to the trunk, his hand still in yours as you both stood there for a second.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

He let out a long breath, watching it puff white in the air.

“Like someone opened a window in a room I had sealed shut,” he said slowly. “It still hurts. But I can breathe.”

You slipped your arm through his. “Good,” you said.

“Do you want to take a break before going to my h-”

He huffed out a laugh.

“No,” he said. “I am dying to see the four Christmas trees.”

❄︎

Jongseong drove with a single hand as his other threaded with yours on the gearshift, thumb rubbing absentminded circles on your skin. His shoulders weren’t loose, exactly, but they were no longer drawn up around his ears.

“You know,” you said, watching the streets slide by — the park where you had learned to ride a bike, the diner where you and your friends had spent hours in high school. “We’ve done so much of this trip moving toward my life. New York, the library, my apartment, my parents. I — I’m really glad we stopped here first.”

He glanced over, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Me too,” he said. “If we had gone to your house first, your grandmother would have adopted me on the spot and I might never have come back.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warned. “You still have to survive her third glass of wine.”

He turned onto your street, and the familiar surge of home rose up in you.

The neighborhood was similar to his but slightly older, the houses smaller and closer together, their yards filled with the detritus of family life even in winter. Bikes propped against garages, sleds abandoned on porches, a basketball hoop with its net frozen stiff.

You pointed at your house, and Jongseong pulled the truck.

To say the house was blazing, might have been an understatement. Every window glowed, warm and gold, and the eaves were strung with lights — white and colored both, twinkling in complicated patterns. There was a wreath on the door, and another on the garage, and in the front window you could see one of the Christmas trees, its ornaments catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny sparkles.

You could hear music, something jazzy and upbeat, and the occasional burst of laughter.

“That’s-” Jongseong started, but you were already climbing out of the truck.

“Chaos,” you supplied.

The front door burst open before you even made it up the walk, and your mother appeared, her face bright with joy and relief.

“You’re here!” she cried, and then she was rushing down the steps, heedless of the snow, and pulling you into a hug so tight you couldn't breathe. “Oh sweetheart, you’re here, you actually made it-”

“Hi, mom,” you managed, your voice muffled against her shoulder.

She pulled back, holding you at arm’s length and looking you over like she was checking for injuries. “Are you alright? Was the drive okay? We were so worried-”

“I am fine,” you assured her. “We are fine. Mom, this is—”

But she had already turned to Jongseong, standing awkwardly at the end of the walk, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Jongseong!” your mother exclaimed, like they were old friends. “Oh, it’s so good to finally meet you properly. Come here, come in, you must be freezing-”

She ushered you both inside, still talking a mile a minute about the drive and the weather and how glad she was that you were safe, and then you were in the warmth and noise of home.

Your house was — there was no other word for it — flaring with Christmas.

Every available surface was decorated. Garland wound up the banister, interspersed with lights and ribbon. The dining table was already set for a feast, the good china out and gleaming. The kitchen smelled like a bakery and a turkey and something alcoholic all at once, and from the living room you could hear your father’s deep laugh mixing with your grandmother’s cackle.

“Grandma’s already started on the wine,” your mother said apologetically, catching your look. “You know how she is.”

“It’s barely five,” you said weakly.

“It’s Christmas!” your grandmother’s voice called from the other room, and it took you a moment to notice she was replying to you rather than being just excited about the conversation she was having. “That makes it legal!”

Jongseong looked at you, his eyebrows raised, and you could see him fighting a smile.

“I told you,” you said. “Chaos.”

Your father appeared then, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and his face split into a huge grin when he saw you.

“There’s my girl!” he said, pulling you into a hug, and you could smell the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the rosemary he must have been chopping. When he released you, he turned to Jongseong and stuck out his hand. “And you must be the young man who got her home safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Jongseong said, shaking his hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Oh, none of that sir business,” your father said warmly. “We are all family here.”

“Are you staying for dinner too?” your mother said suddenly, her eyes bright. “I am making plenty-”

“I couldn’t-” he began. “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Oh, foolishness,” your mother cut.

“We would love to have you,” your father agreed. “And your family — have them come over too. The more the merrier!”

Your mother was already nodding enthusiastically. "Yes! Oh, that would be wonderful. It’s Christmas, no one should eat alone—"

“That’s very kind of you,” Jongseong said, and you could hear the genuine warmth in his voice. “I will surely inform my mom.”

Your parents beamed, and your mother immediately started planning out loud about table settings and extra chairs, and your father disappeared back into the kitchen, and you just stood there, trying to process the whirlwind that was your family.

Jongseong stepped closer, his hand finding yours again.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you said.

It was perfect.

❄︎

You introduced Jongseong to a few relatives who had already arrived, almost immediately making him fall on the trap of joining their team for the later on games.

And by the time you finally managed to make them stop fussing over him, you both stepped outside onto the front porch.

The air was sharp and clean, and you could see your breath. The street was quiet, most of your neighbors already inside with their own families, and the Christmas lights from all the houses created a soft glow against the gathering darkness.

Jongseong stood at the porch railing, his hands gripping the wood, his shoulders tight with tension you hadn’t noticed inside.

“Hey,” you said softly, moving to stand beside him. “What is it? — were they too much for you?”

“I am sorry about those cou-” you continued out of his silence, but Jongseong snorted then, shaking his head.

“No, I-” he began. “I was just wondering if you truly want me to come for dinner — I mean, now that we are in Seattle, if you-”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your mind struggling to process what he was saying. That he thought you might not want him here. That he thought you were only being polite. That he thought Seattle was an ending instead of a—

You reached for him, your hands finding his sweater and pulling him toward you until he had no choice but to turn, to face you fully.

“I want you here,” you said. “Not because I feel obligated. Not because we drove across the country together. Not because my parents invited you. I want you here because I-” You halted, the words catching, and suddenly you were kissing him, hard and desperate and probably too much for your parents’ front porch where any neighbor could see, but you didn’t care. You kissed him like you could pour every feeling you didn’t have words for into the press of your mouth against his, and when he gasped against your lips, you kissed him again.

His hands came up to frame your face, and he kissed you back just as desperately, his fingers trembling slightly where they touched your skin.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Come to dinner, and bring your mother,” you said. “Please.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, and you thought that — maybe he finally believed you.

“What should I wear?” he asked, and you blinked at him, confused. “Formal or not formal? Is there an specific color for which I should-”

You kissed him again.

“Whatever you like,” you said. “One of the uncles will be on full suit and tie, but the other will be in a Sounders jersey — just, come.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

❄︎

When Jongseong arrived later that evening, his mother wasn’t with him.

You heard the doorbell ring as you were upstairs, your grandmother’s voice calling that she would get it before you could even think about moving your fingers from the laces of the dress your mother had arranged to you after you mentioned you had already used your only one on the night previous, your digits struggling with it as your hair still fell damp from the shower you had finally taken.

Your name was shouted across the wall then, followed by a your man is here, darling.

And this got you moving.

By the time you made it to the top of the stairs, Jongseong was in the entryway with your grandmother, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

He had changed too, you noticed. The jeans and sweater from earlier had been replaced with dark slacks and a button-down shirt underneath his coat, and his hair — his hair was slicked back again, though not as severely as usual, just enough for it not be falling on his eyes.

And he looked nervous. His shoulders were tight, his smile a little too careful, and when your grandma took the items from him, his left hand moved to his chest, subtly pressing it as if he was trying to physically contain it.

You sprinted through the stairs, reaching out for him, taking that same hand, and bringing it to your own chest.

“You came,” you whispered.

Maybe it had been the startle, maybe it had been the sweetness of your perfume, and the way you had turned the full force of your happiness into his direction. But instead of replying, he just stood still, blinking at you for a couple of seconds before he finally replied.

“You asked me to.”

“I did,” you agreed. “Where’s your mom?”

“She is coming,” he said. “She sent me ahead because — apparently I was pacing so much I was going to wear a hole in the carpet.” He smiled. “I think she wanted to give me a head start to calm down.”

Your grandmother cackled.

“I like this boy,” she announced to no one in particular. “He is honest.”

“I brought whiskey for your father, and flowers for your mother,” Jongseong said, pointing at the items still with your grandmother. “I didn’t know — I didn’t know if-”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted, and he took in a breath — holding it in as he noticed he was spiraling once again.

“They are in the kitchen, I will take you there,” you said. “Let’s just take off your coat first.”

He nodded at you, and you reached for his shoulders, slipping your hands beneath the heavy coat and removing it. He shivered when you did and your gazes caught — suddenly turning you aware of how bare you were standing there.

You haven’t finished lacing your dress, nor have you bothered to get a pair of shoes. And your hair — God, you suddenly could feel the droplets rushing through the length of it and falling into your chest.

Your grandma cleaned her throat, handing you the flowers and the bottle of whiskey to him, reminding you that your parents were in the kitchen.

❄︎

Your parents were exactly as effusive as you had expected them to be.

Your mother buried her nose in the flowers and declared them the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Your father examined the whiskey label and announced that Jongseong had excellent taste. They both insisted he call them by their first names — none of this ma’am and sir business, you’re practically family already — which made Jongseong gasp at nothing at all.

There was a pause, a moment lost for everyone, and you took the opportunity to tug Jongseong’s hand, pulling him toward the stairs.

“We’ll be right back,” you called over your shoulders. “I need to finish getting ready.”

You heard your mother’s laugh follow you up the stairs. “Don’t take too long now! Dinner is ready in twenty!”

Once you were in the hallway, safely out of sight of the kitchen, Jongseong moved.

His hands found your waist, and suddenly you were in his arms, your feet leaving the ground as he lifted you effortlessly. You made a small sound of surprise, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance, and he smiled against your neck.

“Jongseong-”

“You are barefoot,” he murmured. “Which one’s your room?”

“Last door,” you managed.

It was still open, but Jongseong halted in front of it, as though there was some type of obstacle.

Your room was exactly as you had left it when you moved to New York — frozen in time like a museum exhibit of your teenage years. The walls were still the pale pink you had painted them in high school. Your bed still had the same quilt, worn soft from years of use. Your bookshelf was crammed with paperbacks and textbooks, and your desk still had the same lamp, the same cup full of pens you suspected that didn’t even work anymore — but still — were yours.

“You can come in,” you whispered, and only then, he did, then allowing you to stand on your feet.

You watched as he walked around, a single finger running through the furniture as if he was cataloging it, from the desk under the windows, to your bookshelf, reading a few titles before he moved to your drawer, and stopped, catching sight of your old collection of ribbons.

There must have been tens of them at least, maybe more — every color imaginable, from pale pastels to jewel tones to deep, rich hues. Satin and grosgrain and velvet, wide ones and narrow ones, some plain and some patterned. They hung in a cascade of color, a rainbow of silk and fabric that caught the light from your bedside lamp.

He moved toward them slowly, reaching out to touch one — a deep burgundy velvet that you had worn for your senior year school photo.

“You kept them all,” he said quietly.

“I did,” you replied, suddenly feeling exposed. “I don’t know- it’s silly-”

“It’s not silly.” He turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. “I used to look for you every day just to see which ribbon you were wearing.”

“You did?”

“Always,” he said simply, and the honesty of it made something within your chest burn.

He crossed back to you, his hands gentle as they brushed your hair behind your ears.

“Your hair’s still wet,” he observed, and before you could respond, he was looking around your room, his eyes landing on the towel you had draped over your desk chair.

He brought it back to you, echoing the night previous as he guided you to sit between his legs at the edge of your bed before he started rubbing your hair.

His touch was as gentle as you remembered. He didn’t pull — didn’t rush, just worked slowly and steadily until your hair was only slightly damp instead of soaking.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your eyes drifting closed at the feeling.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

He set the towel aside, and you felt him move, heard the soft rustle of fabric. When his hand appeared in your line of vision, he was holding one of the ribbons — the pale pink one, satin and simple, that you had worn more than any other.

“Can I?” he asked softly.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

His fingers gathered your hair, dividing the upper part and weaving the ribbon through. When he was done, he tied it off with a careful bow and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Perfect,” he whispered against your skin.

You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cup his face, and kissed him.

It was soft at first, gentle and sweet, but when his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, it deepened into something more. His tongue swept against yours, and you made a small sound that you would have been embarrassed about if he hadn’t responded by kissing you harder, his fingers tightening on your hips.

Your hands slid into his hair, messing up all his careful styling, when you heard a pointed cough from the doorway.

You broke apart to find your grandmother standing there, one hand on her hip and a glass of wine in the other — fully filled again.

“I am not going to tell you not to do anything,” she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I am just going to say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You stared at her for a moment, then felt a helpless laugh bubble up.

“Grandma, that leaves the options pretty wide.”

She gave you a look — the kind that said exactly — and then reached for the doorknob, pulling the door closed with a click.

For a moment, you and Jongseong just stared at each other, and then you were both laughing, the tension breaking into something lighter.

“Do not disturb sign,” he remembered.

“We surely need these.”

“Your family is-” he started, but couldn’t seem to find the word.

“I know,” you said. “I know.”

He kissed you again, quick and sweet, barely a touch of lips before he glanced at the closed door. “We should probably—”

“Yeah,” you agreed reluctantly. “Dinner’s probably almost ready.”

❄︎

Downstairs, everything was happening there already. Children laughed as they ran through the rooms, and adults scattered themselves on the tables, and couches talking above their cups with an enthusiasm that only came from too much happiness, alcohol — or both.

Jongseong halted for a second, and you reached for him, your fingers intertwining as you guaranteed he would do fine.

“It’s just-” he began.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything I should know?” he asked “About your relatives?”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, the uncle in Sounders’ jersey — he would dislike me if I ever mention that I think that the Portland Timbers is better.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” you said.

You have never been much of a sports girl, you only came to know the Sounders was a football team because your uncle would occasionally talk about it.

“It’s no a test, Jongseong — you can fail,” you said instead.

“I don’t want them to dislike me.”

“They won’t — You will do fine.”

And he did seem fine, you realized as the evening unfolded. Better than fine, actually. He shook hands and smiled and answered questions about the drive and New York and his job with genuine warmth. When your cousin's three-year-old crashed into his legs, he crouched down to her level and let her tell him a long, rambling story about her new doll. When your grandmother patted the seat next to her on the couch and demanded he sit, he went without hesitation.

“So you are the boy who drove my granddaughter across the country,” she said, studying him over the rim of her wine glass. She was already pink-cheeked, on at least her third glass, her holiday sweater featuring a sequined reindeer that was slowly losing sequins.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jongseong said.

“That girl knows what she likes and she’s not afraid to show it. That’s rare. You should pay attention to a girl like that.”

Jongseong glanced at you, something warm in his expression. “I am paying attention.”

“Good,” your grandmother said firmly. Then she leaned closer to him, her voice dropping to what she probably thought was a whisper but was actually perfectly audible. “I like you better than the last one. That Matthew boy was all flash and no substance. You’ve got kind eyes.”

“Thank you,” Jongseong said, and you could tell he was trying not to laugh. “That’s — that’s very kind of you to say.”

Your gazes locked across the room, and you whispered a tiny I am sorry, but if anything, he only shook his head, giving you his boyish grin, before turning his focus back to your grandmother.

“I am old,” she said. “I can say whatever I want. It’s one of the perks.” She patted his knee. “You take care of my girl.”

“I will,” he said — so seriously that you could swear something within your chest had stopped working. Your lungs perhaps or your heart — or perhaps both.

Your grandmother studied him for another long moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now go get me another glass of wine. The red, not the white — the white gives me heartburn.”

You rescued Jongseong a few minutes later, steering him toward the relative quietness of the kitchen under the pretense of helping your mother.

She was there with Jongseong’s mother who had arrived not much earlier yet both of them were laughing about something as though they had known each other for decades.

“There you are!” your mother said when she saw you. “Perfect timing. Can you two start carrying things to the dining room? We are almost ready.”

You and Jongseong ferried dishes from the kitchen to the dining room — roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, three different kinds of salads, a basket of rolls that were still steaming. The prime rib came out last, your father carrying it ceremoniously while everyone applauded.

The dining room table had been extended to its absolute maximum capacity and was still barely big enough. You ended up squeezed between Jongseong and your cousin, who immediately started asking him invasive questions about his job and his apartment and whether he thought Brooklyn or Manhattan was better.

“Brooklyn,” he answered diplomatically. “But I might be biased.”

“That’s because you have taste,” she declared, although you were not sure why — she had never set foot in New York. “Manhattan is for tourists and finance bros.”

“I am technically a finance-adjacent bro,” Jongseong pointed out.

“Real estate doesn’t count,” she said dismissively. “You are helping people find homes. That’s noble. Finance bros are helping rich people get richer.”

Across the table, Jongseong’s mother was deep in conversation with your aunt about something that was making them both laugh. Your mother kept jumping up to get things people needed — more butter, extra napkins, another bottle of wine — until your father physically held her chair and told her to sit and let people fend for themselves for five minutes.

Your grandmother called for a toast halfway through dinner, standing up with her wine glass raised. Everyone quieted, forks pausing mid-bite.

“To family,” she said, slightly swaying. “The ones we’re born with and the ones we choose. To another year together, to the people we’ve lost,” she paused, “-and to the new faces at our table. “She looked directly at Jongseong. “May they become old faces soon.”

Jongseong’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. You squeezed back.

Dinner was long and loud and chaotic in the best possible way. Conversations overlapped, people reached across each other for dishes, someone spilled gravy and three people rushed to clean it up while somehow making it worse. Your cousin’s baby started crying and was passed around the table until she ended up in your grandmother’s arms, immediately calming.

Jongseong’s hand had found comfort on your knee at some hour of it, the soft pressure of his thumb drawing tiny circles through your skin as he laughed at your uncle’s terrible jokes and complimented every dish and seemed genuinely, truly happy to be there.

And this was what you had wanted. This feeling of home and family and belonging, with him woven into it as he had always been there.

Nothing happened between the main course and the dessert, and by the time people started to disperse from the main table, scattering back through the house, you leaned in closer to him, your cheeks almost touching his so you could whisper although you knew that it would make any difference at all. There were so many things happening still that no one would notice if you screamed at him, but you liked how his perfume was everything you could breathe, all woody and sweet. You liked how when he breathed, he almost gave you a taste of the whiskey he had tried.

“Take me somewhere?” you asked.

Jongseong looked at you, and you knew without knowing that he intended to ask if it would be alright to simply leave like this. But when your gazes encountered, christmas lights reflected through your eyes, glistening the color with a goldish light that made you feel like part of the dream rather than a material thing and everything he could do was nod, using your already connected hands to pull you away and into Seattle’s night, none of you carried to get coats, and once the air hit on you, you shivered, making Jongseong hug you from behind, legs tangled and messed through the driveway, until you had reached the pickup.

He drove you further and further through the roads, taking a path so isolated the headlights only illuminating as far as the next turn until you were so far from the town that all you could hear were the soft whispers of the night once he had turned the engine off.

“Look to the sky,” he asked. And you did, looking up through the window.

In the cities there were always streetlights to obliterate the stars, but here, you could always get a glimpse of them, but there, so up through the hills, the stars were so bright they almost formed a river, a stream of light against the dark.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“It really is.” You turned to look at Jongseong, but he had his gaze already fixed on you, his eyes gleaming, lips curling on a fond smile. He had no embarrassment in letting you know he had been like this for the whole while. And when you reached for him on the gear stick, spreading your palm through the back of his hand, Jongseong promptly moved beneath your touch, turning his palm into yours and intertwining your fingers.

“What are you thinking?” you asked. “It just occurred to me that you still own two dumps.”

“I already told you about liking you since school time,” he said. “It was a huge dump.”

“Alright,” you conquered. “And what about the last one?”

“I am thinking,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand.

“About?”

“About New York,” he said. “About after the holidays.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest, a stutter-step that made it hard to breathe for a moment.

“Oh, what do you mean?” you asked, even though you knew exactly what he meant.

“I will have to give this pickup back to Jim’s friend, and get the BMW back,” he said. “Drive it all the way back to New York, and I understand if you would prefer planes, instead of going back with-”

“I thought this part was already settled,” you broke in. “I thought it was already decided that we would go back together.”

“And then?”

“And then?” you echoed.

“I mean—” He turned to face you more fully, his eyes beaming under the night’s sky. “I mean, I don’t want this to just be a road trip thing. Something that ends when we get back there.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. “What do you want it to be?”

“Everything,” he said simply. “I want — dates in New York. I want to take you to that Italian restaurant I mentioned. I want to come to the library for your events, and have picnics at the Central Park once the spring comes. I want you to meet my friends — the few I have. I want to call at your shift and ask you to read me a love poem simply because I missed you. I want-” He paused, gesturing between you. “I want to see where this goes. If-”

“Jongseong,” you interrupted. “Barely a week together and you were already planning the rest of your life with me?”

He sucked in a breath then, halting himself, his jaw working as though he was bracing himself for a rejection. But you were smiling — you couldn’t stop smiling even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

“I would like that,” you said. “I would really — really like that.”

His whole body seemed to relax, tension draining from his shoulders as he let out a breath you hadn’t realized he had been holding. His smile when he looked at you was radiant, bright enough to rival the winter sun.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, leaning across the gearshift. And Jongseong let go of your intertwined hands to cup your face, his fingers preferring to thread through your hair instead, bringing you closer so his lips could graze yours, a new kind of kiss, parted lips that were barely there.

It was slow in a way you couldn’t remember it ever being — unhurried with the acknowledgment of something none of you were going to name yet but knew that it was there.

Jongseong slid his seat all the way back, subtly pulling you to him. The pickup didn’t have the back seats, and it didn’t give much space. But you moved anyway, your knees straddling his hips, your palms pressed to his chest as the soft rhythm of his heartbeats fluttered against your touch.

“I dreamed about this,” Jongseong said.

“About us in a stranger’s car after crossing the country in a few days?”

“About you,” he whispered. “In my car — it was my car.”

“What have we done then?”

But Jongseong didn’t reply — not right away. He allowed the question to hang within the seconds, blending with the winter breeze as his gaze lingered on your face a little too long to be incidental before he took it in his hands, stroking your cheeks, your neck.

He smiled as he brushed your hair over your shoulder and leaned in to kiss you. You shivered as his lips met your, clinging to his shoulders as you returned the kiss.

Jongseong ran his fingertips up your arms and over your shoulders, across your back and down to your waist once again. Each move earning a shiver from you.

He nipped your bottom lip, dipped his tongue into your mouth and retreated, pushed and retreated, teasing you until there was nothing for you to do aside from holding him still. Your hands moving to his neck, finding that perfect spot and holding him. When your tongue met his, he moaned softly, pulling closer and you could almost swear he was smiling.

“You are insanely beautiful,” he whispered, the same words he had told you at the cabin, but it didn’t feel rehearsed, just the bare truth, and you couldn’t help but whine at it, a way too embarrassing sound but if anything he kissed you more. He took your lips, your jaw, moving down into your neck and nipping at it — surely leaving a mark that your grandma would never cease talking about tomorrow.

Yet you couldn’t find the will to complain. When his fingers caught on the laces of your dress, you just allowed him to undo it, loosening the thing threats until it no longer could hold the piece around you and fell, pooling in your laps.

Jongseong leaned in, his forehead resting gently on your collarbone as he traced the tip of his nose along the swell of your breasts, inhaling your scent for a quiet second before he caught the nipple between his lips and sucked it gently — so gently, you thought you would never stop shivering.

“Jongseong,” you called. But he only hummed in reply, the vibration of it sending another shiver through your spine, and it didn’t help that his hands slipped under you dress then, finding the laces of your panties and pulling them down.

His mouth parted from you only so he could watch as he slip them out, gliding your panties through your ankles and allowing them to fall somewhere else.

He leaned toward you once again, but you stopped him, a small your turn rolling out of your tongue as you reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them until you got impatient and went for the collar yanking the piece over his head and tossing it somewhere over the pickup’s panel.

Jongseong laughed at your doing, the echoes of it remaining in his face even as you reached for the zipper of his pants, getting him a little shuffling underneath you as you pushed it down — just enough to free him.

He reached under and took himself in hand. With one hand on you and the other on his length, the tip found the entrance of your body and he pressed against it. He didn’t enter you, though you had braced yourself for it. Instead, he rubbed along your seam, slidding through the folds of your body, and making you grow impossible wetter and wetter.

Jongseong wasn’t laughing anymore, nor the remains of it caught on his face, but he was so beautiful still — so beautiful. You felt your heart swelling for him, and you couldn’t help but reach out, hands splaying through the sides of his face, angling him to you and dropping your forehead against his.

You were not sure if you asked, or if he simply couldn’t take it anymore, but he pushed into you then, his breath hitched as he bottomed out, whispering your name, pronouncing it with the same deliberate slowness he always had and you couldn’t help but moan at the whole feel of him, head a bit thrown back.

He gave you both a moment, his hand dropping to your waist, the curve of your hips, trailing down to the back of your thighs and when he finally moved it was slow — not with the learning of the first time, your bodies trying to understand the new shape of each other, but it was slow with nothing but the simple unhurriedness, none of you wanting to be nowhere else but here.

He moved with you like there was nowhere else to be, like the entire world had narrowed to the small creak of the truck’s suspension and the hush of your breaths tangling in the dark.

At some point, the windows had fogged over entirely. The outside world disappeared, turned to a soft blur of your own making, the glass beading with condensation. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once, memorizing more than taking, reverent even when his touch trembled.

“Ribbons,” he breathed, and there was something almost disbelieving in the way he said it, like he was still catching up to the fact that this was real. That you were here. That after airports and snowstorms and empty highways, he got to have this too.

You lost track of time. It could have been minutes, could have been hours. All you knew was the way he kept finding your gaze even when your faces were close enough that your noses brushed, like he wanted to make sure you were there with him for every second of it.

And when it finally tipped over — when the careful, unhurried rhythm broke into something messier and truer — it felt less like an outbreak and more like a door opening. Like that window he had talked about earlier, the one in the sealed room. Pain and relief and joy all rushed in at once, too big for either of you to name.

You didn’t try.

You just held on.

Your body trembled with the effort of holding back, but Jongseong seemed to sense your impending release, his movements becoming more deliberate, more focused.

A soft moan escaped your lips as he pressed his lips against yours, nipping at your bottom lip.

“That’s ok, love,” he whispered. “I am here, come for me.”

Your body clenched around him, the tension built in your core finally snapping — just a few moments before Jongseong followed you.

He swallowed your last whine, catching your lips on his as he slipped out. His fingers smoothed your skin, thumbs drawing full circles as he sat you down on his thighs.

The pickup went quiet, scratched only by the soft rustle of the leaves outside, and Jongseong’s heart slowly coming into peace beneath your ear as you rested on his chest.

He took your hand in his, your hands floating between you for a moment before you adjusted your positions and brushed your fingertips on his — just like you had done at Andrea’s cabin, feeling how he was calloused there, a roughened patch of skin carved by endless hours of guitar practice.

“I should take you back before they motive he have been gone for too long,” he said out of silence. “I should take you home.”

Home.

The word hung in the air within.

After a disastrous year, all you wanted was to make it home for Christmas. But when one of the worst snowstorms 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.

For a few, you had thought it had been another wrong turn in your life — that one moment when the wind drifted the other way and you simply had to learn how to move with it, but now, you realized — you had been exactly where you were meant to be.

You made it home for Christmas after all. It just turned out that home was not only a house waiting in Seattle, but the person beside you on the road.

And it might have taken you the long way, but yes — you were home.

hello, my loves! ♡

first and most important of all, thank you so much for your support through my mini journey with the christmas we took the long way home!

i have to admit, it was insane for me. i never came up with a story this big in such a short period of time and i feel like once i read it in a few months i will encounter a bunch of mistakes and plot holes that will make me cringe and want to deactivate my existence lmao but thank you so much for staying with me and accompanying me until the very end despite it all ♡

i am sad about ending it (i am not ready to say goodbye to this Jay, giving me ten more of him, please) but i am even more sad about ending the journey with a few awesome readers! i almost gave up on updating more than once between a few chapters, but @dreamy-carat, @ot7archives, @spicxbnny, @svvtvenom, and @kwiwin kept me going on and on (with honorable mention of @bbsantc, @jjongsies and the anonie towards the last chapters) whenever i was almost sure about discontinuing it, a notification of theirs popped and i was like ok, it’s worth still and i have no words to thank those awesome people for giving me strength to finish it, so i will keep it simple: thank you so much ♡

thank you, also, for the girlies who worked behind the scenes with me, @miszes, @wonlysm, @choiwrld, and @dulcetnostalgia. the amount of brainstorming those girls had to deal with is insane! and i am so thankful for the patience they had ♡

and of course, merry christmas and happy holidays to everyone who has reached here!

(and happy birthday to me! yes, url en-ternity has officially entered her quarter life crises ₊˚ ⊹ )

[svvtvenom]

IM SO GLAD I FOLLOWED THIS STORY TO THE END. I wasn't at all disappointed!! I loved everything about this series, from the words to the vibes, and from start to finish. This entire series is going to be my personality for the next few weeks. You did so well with everything for this series and I'm so glad I was lucky enough to stumble upon it from my daily scrolling. Thank you for dedicating your time to complete this absolute masterpiece and many on here appreciate your hard work!!

MERRY CHRISTMASSSSSSS!!! Andddd HAPPY NEW YEAR

MWAH MWAH thank you so much for this and I wish you well!!

[svvtvenom]

So. There's been a problem with the release of Love Me Harder. Whilst cleaning out my drive, I may or may not, or may have accidentally deleted my ENTIRE plot piece I had going for Love Me Harder. So I need to rewrite it AND rewrite my story because I realized I messed it up halfway through writing it.

Guys, I swear. My finals week messed me up so bad that I deleted the plot description to Love Me Harder.

[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): after four chapters of pure plot, am i posting one that’s almost sheer smut? yes, i am, enjoy! :) dry-humping, fingering and oral (f. receiving), condom removal because Jongseong is our responsible king yet our reader lets her intrusive thoughts win and he is too weak for her to say no, handjob (m. receiving), shower sex

PART FIVE｜9.5K｜PREVIOUS PART

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

CHOTEAU

(Christmas Eve)

The sun was already hefty by the time you woke up, morning already giving way to afternoon, and streaming through the frost-covered windows in a dozen colors.

You watched the patterns shift and dance through the cabin with your breath hold.

Jongseong was curled around you from behind, his body fitting against yours like he had been designed for exactly this purpose — because maybe — he was. His arm was draped across your waist, his palm splayed flat against your ribs where your sweater had ridden up in the night. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips, rough against your skin. The steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. His breath, warm and even against the nape of your neck, each slow exhale stirring the small hairs there in a way that made you shiver despite the heat between you.

Sometime after Jim had left last night, you had both curled together on the couch until it had become so late, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple streaming through the cabin’s windows, and so, Jongseong had decided to carry you to the bed. You remembered the feeling of being lifted, the way his arms curled and tightened around you, the soft sound of his footsteps across the wooden floor and you burying your nose on the length of his neck. You remembered him laying you down gently, pulling the blankets up to your chin, and then — you had reached for him.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision, just an instinctive movement born from not wanting to be alone — from wanting him close in a way that felt necessary rather than optional.

Your fingers had caught in the fabric of his sweater’s sleeve, and you had whispered his name — soft, sleep-rough and barely audible — but he had heard it.

He always heard you.

Stay.

And he did, climbing on the bed by your back, one of his arms outstretched so you could rest your neck on it, hands encountering at the edge of the bed and fingers interlacing.

Now, you turned slowly — carefully, not wanting to wake him but suddenly feeling a necessity to see his face properly. The movement made the bed creak softly, the old springs protesting, and his arm tightened reflexively around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep.

In the morning light, you could see not only the results of your last night’s choice but everything.

His hair was mussed, falling across his forehead in soft, dark waves that made him look younger — vulnerable — so small that you had to prevent yourself from reaching for him, following the lines of his features and waking him.

The small freckle between his eyebrows that you had never noticed until that night in the car. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the morning light. The beauty mark on his neck, fully visible by the way he rested right now — the same one you had memorized years ago during that science class where he sat in front of you, the same one you had traced with your eyes but never dared to touch.

Until last night.

The memory of it rushed back all at once — the press of him under you on the couch, the taste of his mouth, the sound he had made when you ground down against him. The way his hands had felt on your skin, warm, careful — almost reverent, as if you were something precious he was afraid of breaking.

Heat flooded your cheeks at the memory, spreading down your neck, your shoulder and then — lower, settling low in your belly — with a slow, liquid warmth that made you suddenly, acutely aware of every point where your bodies touched. His thigh pressed between yours. His hand on your ribs, his thumb resting just below the curve of your breast. The solid weight of him against you, separated only by the fabric of your clothes.

For which you knew now, that wasn’t much.

You shifted slightly, and the movement made you brush against him — against the hard length of him — and you realized with a start that he was already aroused, his body responding even in sleep to your proximity.

Your breath caught.

And then, his eyes opened.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his gaze unfocused and soft with sleep. You watched awareness return to him in stages — first the recognition of where he was, then the realization of how close you were, and finally, the understanding of exactly what you were pressed against.

His eyes widened slightly, and a flush crept up his neck — all reactions he tried to conceal as he looked around the cabin, cleaning his throat.

“Hi,” he said then, his voice rough and low in a way that made something clench deep inside you.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Neither of you moved.

The cabin was quiet around you, the only sounds the distant crackle of embers in the fireplace and the soft whistle of wind against the windows. Outside, the sun kept moving, shafts of golden luminescent caughting on his eyes, and turning the color hazel.

You had never seen him like this.

Jongseong’s hand flexed against your ribs, his fingers pressing just slightly into your skin before releasing. 

“I should-” he started.

“Don’t,” you said, the word coming out softer than you intended, almost pleading, and it made his gaze lock onto yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.

“Ribbons,” he called, but there was no warning on it. “If I don’t move, I-”

“I know,” you interrupted, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering beneath your palm before you slipped it up — finding that perfect spot you had discovered in Chicago. “I know.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching your face for something — hesitation, maybe, or uncertainty. But you didn’t allow him to study you for too long, catching his lips on yours, mouth sweeping lazily, languidly, and a bit too innocent considering where you were leading it into.

But then, his tongue brushed against your lips, and you opened your mouth for him, letting him slide his tongue over yours, and earning a small sound in the back of your throat. It had been so small, but it seemed to undo something in him. His hand slid up from your ribs to cup your breast, his thumb finding your nipple and circling it in a way that made you arch into him.

The movement pressed your hips more firmly against his, and he groaned — a low, rough sound that you felt as much as heard.

“God,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to kill me.”

You smiled against his lips, your hand sliding down his chest to the hem of his sweater, tugging at it until he understood what you wanted.

He laughed once he did, soft and breathless, and then he was pulling away just long enough to yank the piece over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.

You had seen him shirtless last night, but somehow in the morning light he looked different — more real, perhaps. You could see the definition of his chest and stomach, the subtle play of muscle beneath skin that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You reached for him, letting your fingers trail down his sternum, tracing the line of muscles that disappeared beneath his waistband — feeling the muscles in his abdomen tense and contract as his breath catching audibly.

“Ribbons,” he said, and there it was again — that call that had no warning, and which made you look up at his face, catching the sign of a smile.

“Your turn,” he said, his fingers already finding the hem of your sweater.

You lifted your arms, and he pulled it off slowly, his knuckles dragging against your skin in a way that made you shiver. The morning air was cool against your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but then his hands were on you again — warm and sure — and the chill didn’t matter anymore.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp. His hand came up to cup your breast, skin against skin now, and the sensation was so overwhelming you forgot how to breathe.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured against your throat, and the words sounded almost reverent, like a confession. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Have you?” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “How long?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you knew it before he had even replied. “I don’t know. Forever — it feels like forever."

“I still remember the first time I saw you,” he whispered. “Pinkish ribbons to match your shirt, and it didn’t matter if the guys started teasing you by using it, you kept using it every day — until high school.”

“I thought something within me died when I caught you without it, but then you pulled one on a random Wednesday and life was back on its trails.”

“You cried at your mother’s car because of me,” he remembered. “I cried at my house because I couldn’t speak English and never could speak with you in kindergarten — if me and my mother still speak in English until today — even when there’s no one else around us, it’s your fault.”

Jongseong pinched your ear, and you gasped.

“When I saw you at the airport, I couldn’t believe it — but I also was so thankful because I regretted every day for being such a coward at school.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy but not hard for you to believe it. Jongseong was looking at you as if he wasn’t all that sure if it was real — if you were real, if you weren’t a dream, if you weren’t a mirage that would vanish at any moment and he would wake up back in New York, without ever encountering you.

His breath quicked, and you rubbed your nose against his, lingering so close that he could feel your next words.

“Me too,” you whispered, because it was true. Even when you thought he hated you, even when you couldn't understand why he wouldn’t look at you, there had been something there — a pull, a curiosity, a persistent what if that had never quite gone away.

His expression softened, and then he was kissing you again, nose pressed to your cheek, lips sliding easily over yours, and already too well practiced in the art of making you sigh.

It was dizzying to be kissed like this. Fast, open-mouthed, and noises swallowed by one another, but Jongseong didn’t move his lips away from yours, not unless it was to press his mouth to your neck instead, his tongue swirling against your skin, sucking and kissing little bruises that said everything he suppressed throughout all those years.

Your hips moved against his, seeking friction, and he groaned into your skin, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you still. 

“If you keep doing that,” he said, his voice strained, “this is going to be over a lot faster than either of us wants.”

“Maybe I don’t mind,” you said, and you watched his pupils blow wide at the words.

He breathed, and then he was rolling, taking you with him until you were on your back and he was above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped and desperate all at once.

He kissed down your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone before his mouth found your breast. His tongue circled your nipple once, twice, before he pulled it into his mouth, and the sensation moved straight through you, making you cry out.

Your hands found his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him there as he worked you with his mouth and his hands until you were trembling beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed seeking relief from the ache building between your legs.

“Jongseong.” 

“I know,” he said against your skin. “I know, love. I’ve got you.”

The endearment made something warm spread within your chest, moving outward until it felt like you were burning from the inside.

His hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the waistband of your jeans, playing with the single button of it before he halted — looking up at you with a question weighing on his brows.

You nodded, lifting your hips to help him slide them down along with your panties, but instead, he slipped his hand under the piece, the tip of his fingers blindly flirting with the edge of your panties, tracing along the laced trim before he moved further.

A gasp glided out of you as he swiped over your folds. It was a barely there touch, lazy brushes that didn’t even part you beneath the cotton of your panties, but it was enough to make you falter, your whole body shifting into him, and he smiled against your body, a way too proud grin because you were where he wanted you to be.

You were exactly where he wanted you to be.

“You are so pretty,” he said, pressing a little harder and feeling the cotton growing damp beneath the tip of his fingers. The fabric clung to you with his every move, and it was dirty in a way that would have made you burn in embarrassment if it had been with anyone else but Jongseong.

But it was Jongseong, and you were sure you could come just by the slip and slide of his finger over you, the soft circles he did on your clit, but you wanted more — you wanted Jongseong all and whole.

You were not sure at what happened, but at your thought, Jongseong pulled your panties aside, pushing two fingers inside of you with no previous note, and making you clench around him, back arching and causing Jongseong to tilt his hips against your thigh, a full curse escaping his lips.

His fingers slid and explored you slowly, carefully, learning what made you moan and what made you whimper, his fingers circling and pressing until he knew exactly how to move, how to make his name escape from your lips a little bit more frantic, and how to make you grip on his shoulders for some relief and it was almost maddening.

The knot in your stomach got tighter with no ado, each curl of his fingers drawing you closer to the loss instead, to the burning on your spine, but before you could reach it, a phone started ringing.

The sound burst in the quiet of the cabin, a shrill electronic intrusion that made you both freeze.

Jongseong squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching. 

“Ignore it,” he said, “Just — ignore.”

And it would have been easy to — so easy to pretend it didn’t exist as Jongseong kept his fingers inside of you — if it went to the voice mail and stayed there, but the ringing began again and continued — insistent and impossible to tune out. It rang and rang and rang.

You laughed despite yourself, the sound breaking free before you could halt it. “Maybe you should-”

Jongseong cursed then, pulling back with a groan of frustration, rolling off you to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to you. 

“Next time,” he said. “Next time we’re putting a do not disturb sign on the door and turning our phones off. Both of them.”

“Alright,” you whispered, the single word coming so breathy you doubted he had listened because he had said next time — he wanted there to be a next time.

The realization made you dizzy, made the room tilt slightly around you even though you were still lying down, firmly settled in the mattress. Because that meant this wasn’t just about being stuck together, about proximity and circumstance. That meant he wanted you, specifically and deliberately, beyond this cabin and this moment.

Your chest tightened with something that felt suspiciously like happiness.

Jongseong grabbed his phone from where it had been charging on the nightstand, and you watched his expression shift as he looked at the screen — frustration giving way to resignation.

“It’s my mom,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His gaze dropped briefly to your body, still bare and flushed, and you knew it took him everything to stand up. “I will-”

“Of course,” you said, pulling the blanket up to cover yourself even though part of you wanted to stay exactly as you were, wanting to see how long he could resist before giving up on the phone call entirely.

He stood, answering the call on what must have been the last ring.

“Mom,” he said, and his voice had already shifted — still rough but trying for normal. “Hi. Is everything okay?”

You watched him move to the couch, settling in as he listened to whatever his mother was saying. 

He hadn’t bothered putting his sweater back, being there bare from the waist up, and the effect you had on him still pressing up against the crotch of his jeans. His free hand ran through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, as he pushed his head back, staring at the ceiling. 

And he was so beautiful like this.

And yours.

Or at least, you wanted him to be.

You pulled on your sweater, trying to be quiet about it, and then reached for your own phone on the nightstand. The screen showed a handful of missed notifications — a text from your mother, another from your grandma, a few emails about post-holiday sales that you immediately dismissed.

You should call them.

You had texted yesterday to let them know about the car trouble, ending it with the brief promise you would update once you had news, but you between Jim’s update, and Jongseong’s existence from yesterday night to this morning, you didn’t and you knew that they would be worried by now, especially considering it was Christmas Eve.

Your finger hovered over your mother’s contact, and then you pressed dial before you could second-guess yourself.

She answered on the second ring.

“Darling,” she said, and just the sound of her voice made something break inside of your chest, a minor thing that already got your eyes teary. “How are you? How’s Montana? Is the car fixed yet?”

“No,” you said, your voice coming thicker than you expected. “No, it’s — Jongseong’s car is an imported one, and the mechanic here said he doesn’t have the pieces he needs to fix it. It’s-” you halted. “We got stuck in a small town, it would be a miracle if he did have the pieces, so we will ask for it, but with the holiday, it will-”

You broke, pressing your hand against your mouth it took you a while to notice,you were crying.

“How are things there?” you asked then. “Grandmas already arrived?”

“Just my mother,” she said. “She is already driving me crazy with all her opinions about seasonings, but your father is going to pick his in a few — your aunt also called and she is on the way with the whole troop.”

“All the cousins?” 

“Yeah, it’s Olivia’s first Christmas so- oh honey,” your mother said softly. “I know — I know you wanted to be here.”

“I am sorry, I am going to miss Christmas,” you said, the words coming out in a rush. “I-”

“It’s ok. We understand. You promised you would come every year, and you have — you tried, this year has just happened to turn out harder than we expected, but you tried.” 

From across the room, you heard Jongseong’s voice change — still talking to his mother, but quieter now, more subdued. You wondered what they were discussing, whether he was explaining about the car, about being stuck here — or whether he was explaining about you. 

He shifted on the couch, and your eyes caught, and you knew you must look terrible by the way his brows furrowed in worry.

“Your father and I just want you to be safe,” your mother continued. “We miss you terribly, of course we do, but we can celebrate when you get here. Christmas doesn’t have to be on the twenty-fifth-”

“I know,” you said.

You heard her take a breath at the other end of the line, heard the rustle of fabric like she was settling into a chair.

“And this boy — Jongseong,” she said. “How’s things going?”

“Good,” you said, although it had been way more than it.

“Good,” she echoed, and you could hear the smile in her voice. “That’s — good. Then maybe being stuck in Montana isn’t entirely terrible.”

You let out a watery laugh. “No,” you admitted. “I guess not.”

“Once you both manage to get back to Seattle — I would love to meet him.”

“I will let him know.”

“Good.”

“Good,” you echoed. 

“Listen,” she began. “It’s alright — just be sure to take care of yourself. We will be here whenever you manage to make it back.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

By the time you hung up, the tears had mostly halted, but you felt wrung out — emotionally tired in a way that had nothing to do with the interrupted moment and everything to do with the weight of homesickness you had been carrying since the New Year’s.

Jongseong ended his call a moment later, and walked back at you, his arms already outstretched so he could reach for your face faster.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I just — I was talking to my mom, and I just — I just really wish I was there,” you confessed. “But I also like being here, it’s just- I don’t.”

His face softened with understanding, and he reached out to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn't realized was still there.

“I know,” he said gently. “I know you do.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “This is silly. We’re going to get there eventually, and it’s not like it’s the last Christmas in the world-”

“It’s not silly,” he interrupted. “You wanted to be there, and now you can’t be, and that sucks. You’re allowed to be upset about it.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes against the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

“I have an idea,” Jongseong said after a moment. “If you want to hear it.”

“What kind of idea?”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “And we’re stuck in Choteau, Montana — population one thousand seven hundred twenty — twenty-two with us-”

“Are you for real?”

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate.”

“I mean-” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I mean, let’s do it properly. Let’s find a store, get some food, come back here and cook something nice. Make it feel special. Just because we’re not where we wanted to be doesn’t mean we can’t make something good out of where we are.”

You stared at him, something warm and bright blooming in your chest.

“You want to make Christmas Eve dinner?” you asked. “Here?”

“We’ve got a kitchen. We’ve got time, and-” he began, but whatever it was he let it slip and slide with a soft shake of his head. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” you said, and you found yourself smiling despite the tears still drying on your cheeks. “Okay, let’s do it.”

His smile widened, genuine and bright, and he leaned in to press a quick, chaste kiss to your forehead before standing up.

“We should get ready then,” he said. “Shower.”

The last word made you both halt — its ambiguity hanging in the air within you. As much as the first sentence could mean you both doing it at the same time, the shower could have been too. 

But he gasped then, and you took turns on the small bathroom. 

❄︎

The grocery store in Choteau was exactly what you expected from a small Montana town — a single-story building with a faded sign, a parking lot that had been hastily plowed, and a handful of cars scattered across the spaces.

Inside, it was warm and fluorescent-bright, with narrow aisles and shelves that held an eclectic mix of necessities and oddities. Christmas music played from speakers mounted in the ceiling — Silent Night’s last chords giving way to Jingle Bell Rock as you and Jongseong grabbed a cart from the stack near the entrance.

The cart had a wobbly wheel, veering persistently to the left no matter how you tried to correct it, and after your third attempt to keep it straight, Jongseong laughed and moved to stand beside you, his hand covering yours on the handle.

“Here,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

And just like that, you were steering the cart through the aisles together, your hands overlapping on the cold metal, your shoulders bumping every few steps. And it felt so absurdly familiar — so absurdly domestic almost as if you had done it a thousand of times.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe this trip — this strange, unplanned journey across the country — had compressed time in a way that made the normal rules obsolete. Maybe when you spent every waking moment with someone, when you shared panic attacks and snowball fights and sleeping arrangements, the usual progression of relationship milestones stopped mattering.

Maybe you could just skip ahead to the part where you pushed a grocery cart together and it felt natural.

And it did.

Jongseong had made a list — of course, he had, categorizing everything you would need from utensils the cabin’s kitchen failed to provide to vegetables for roasting. A bottle of wine that the cashier would definitely card you for. Butter and herbs and a package of pasta because Jongseong insisted he made a mean aglio e olio and honestly — you didn’t doubt.

The store was mostly empty, just a few other last-minute shoppers grabbing forgotten items, but there was something festive about it anyway. Maybe it was the music, or the garland wrapped around the checkout counter, or the way the cashier wore a Santa hat tilted at a jaunty angle.

Or maybe it was just Jongseong.

By the time you made it to the checkout, the cart was fuller than you had intended, loaded with enough food for several meals plus a concerning number of impulse purchases — chocolate, a bag of marshmallows, a tin of hot cocoa mix that Jongseong had insisted on because he merely liked the label.

The cashier rang everything up with practiced efficiency, barely blinking at the random assortment, and when it was time to pay, you both fell on the same old arrangement.

You tried to make the cashier split as Jongseong merely pushed you away.

“You know,” he began as you both stepped out onto the winter day. “You should stop it.”

“Stop what?”

Jongseong’s lips parted then, shaping onto whatever he was meant to say, but he stopped then, breathed in, and restarted. “I want to do those things for you.”

“From driving you to Seattle, to paying for everything and even helping you on your coat every time we walk out,” he continued. “I want to take care of you — so I would like it if you stop seeing as if I am just doing it because I feel some obligation of being nice.”

❄︎

Back at the cabin, Jongseong flubbed with an old radio until he found something he was content with as you spread the groceries across the small kitchen counter and when he was back at you, he was already lining vegetables up on the cutting board.

You found a large pot for boiling pasta, a pan for roasting vegetables, and a smaller pot that would work for making a sauce. The kitchen was tiny, barely big enough for one person let alone two, but somehow you made it work — moving around each until it gradually became smoother.

Jongseong chopped vegetables while you prepared the pasta water. You measured out olive oil and minced garlic while he opened the wine, pouring two generous glasses. The radio on the counter played quietly, some local station that was nothing but Christmas music, and between songs the DJ’s voice was warm and folksy, wishing happy holidays to various listeners who had called in.

The cabin filled with the smell of cooking — and butter and roasting vegetables, the sharp tang of wine, the earthy scent of herbs.

“Taste this,” Jongseong said at one point, holding out a spoon with some of the sauce he was making.

You leaned in, taking his wrist with your free hand and holding him still as you tasted it, and the intimacy of the gesture wasn’t lost on either of you. His eyes followed the movement of your mouth, narrowing slightly as you hummed in approval.

"Good?" he asked, his voice a little rough.

“Really good,” you confirmed. “When did you learn to make this?”

“My mother.”

She taught him when he was young, insisting that even though he would likely have people to cook for him one day, it was important to know how to take care of yourself. 

“And,” he added with a small smile, “to take care of the people we care for.”

You smiled, and he beamed at the view, looking pleased with himself.

By the time everything was ready — pasta tossed with garlic and olive oil and red pepper flakes, vegetables roasted until they were caramelized and tender, bread warming in the oven — the sun had set completely, leaving the cabin in darkness except for the warm glow of the lights and the flicker of candles you had found in a drawer, and the dimmed the overhead lights.

“I am going to get changed,” you told him.

You felt a bit embarrassed to sneak into the bathroom, trading your casual jeans for one of the dresses you had put on your carry-on for Christmas, but when you stepped out, he had changed too, his jeans traded for dress pants and the cream sweater for a button down.

❄︎

Dinner was slow and easy, the kind of meal where you talked between bites and lost track of time. The food was good — better than good, honestly, considering you had thrown it together with limited resources — and the wine made everything feel warm and loose.

You talked about everything and nothing. About childhood Christmases and family traditions. About the worst gifts you had ever received and the best ones you had ever given. About the future, hypothetically, almost carefully — what you might want to do next year, where you might want to go.

Neither of you said together, but the word hung unspoken in the air anyway, slipping from underneath your tongues just like New York. 

By the time you finished eating, you were both flushed from the wine and the warmth of the cabin, and when Jongseong stood to clear the plates, you followed him to the tiny sink, helping him wash and dry even though you could have easily left them for morning.

But the fact was — you didn’t want the night to end yet.

The radio was still playing, the music shifting from upbeat Christmas pop to something slower — Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, the Judy Garland version that always made you a little sad in a good way.

Jongseong set down the dish he was washing, suds still clinging to his hands, and turned to you.

“Come,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You dried your hands on a towel and let him pull you into the small space between the sink and the table, his arms coming around you, hands dampening the material of your dress in a way that made you shiver. 

This time, he knew where to put his hands without your guidance — not hesitating before pulling you close — until there was no space between you at all, until you could feel his heartbeat against your chest.

You swayed together in the dim light, moving in slow circles that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the simple pleasure of being close. His hand on your waist was warm through your dress, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip as your fingers played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and you felt him shiver.

“This is nice,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice vibrating through his chest into yours. “It is.” 

The song changed — White Christmas, slower and dreamier — and you let yourself lean into him fully, your head resting against his shoulder, your eyes drifting closed.

You felt his lips press against your temple, feather-light, and then his cheek rested against your hair.

“I am glad I ran into you,” he said quietly. “At the airport. I am glad we are here.”

“Even though we’re stuck in Montana?” you asked.

“Especially because we’re stuck in Montana,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “If the flight hadn’t been cancelled, I would have flown home and you would have flown home and we probably wouldn’t have seen each other for another five years. Maybe longer.”

Later on, you would find out that it wasn’t going to be it as your plane tickets had neighbors seats assigned. You were meant to encounter that day, with storm or without it, but back in the cabin, the thought sent a chill through you — the idea of how easily you could have missed this.

“I don’t want to wait another five years,” you said, the words muffled against his shirt.

His arms tightened around you. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t either.”

You lifted your head to look at him, and found him already watching you, his expression open and vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.

And you knew — knew that there was Seattle, and your families. There was the house Jongseong didn’t want to come back to, and the after. New York and everything about it.

But right now, you were slow-dancing with Jongseong Park and there was no one where else you would want to be more.

A flush of warmth crept up to your cheeks at the thought, and you dropped your gaze at his shirt.

“You’ve got something on your shirt,” you said, the lie coming out as nothing more than a whisper as you pointed at the nothing on him.

“Do I?” he asked, and you didn’t need to look up to know he was smiling.

“Yes.” You weren’t sure why you were whispering to each other, yet — you liked it, the intimacy of the moment seemed just too delicate and you didn’t want to break it, not yet. You could hear his breath, the rise and fall of his chest and the mischievous on him when he asked:

“Are you going to do something about it?”

You reached for a single buttom of his shirt, curling two fingers on it as you undid them, and then the next and the next.

You were aware he was watching you, burning you with appreciation and fondness as he accompanied every move you did yo work each button open and expose his skin for your palms to take — tracing the contours of his abdomen, feeling it tense as you brushed your hands through his whole extension until you had reached for his neck, threading your fingers into his hair and angling him to you.

“I think I am going insane.”

You felt your heart swelling, the intensity of his words making you light and overwhelmed, vulnerable and cherished. Your fingers tightened slightly onto his hair, drawing him closer. The air between you turned stuffy as you caught his bottom lip on yours, once, twice — enough times to feel brave enough to brush your tongue against it, but Jongseong was already on it, swirling his tongue against yours. He kissed you deeper, messier — needier. And if it wasn’t enough to make you whine, when he took you in his arms — was.

Jongseong scooped you up, tumbling through the space until you were laid up on the kitchen’s countertop. His hand left your waist only so he could hold your wrists above your head, all outstretched, but you couldn’t find your will to complain, not when he pushed his hips against yours and all you could do was shuddered as his body met your, the warmth of his skin, the weight of him on you and over you — it was maddening.

You were not in your jeans this time, nor Jongseong, his dress pants failed to hide his length pushing right against your panties as if trying to find its way to your opening.

Jongseong bit at the thin material of your dress, taking a single movement of his head to push it down, revealing your breasts. He ran his hand over your arms, your collar bones, reaching for your breasts, not to squeeze or to grope but simply to stroke, causing your nipples to harden against his warm palms and he moved his mouth to your sternum, lips parting to place a kiss, and then, another — subtly moving lower and lower until he was kneeling in front of you, finding the front of your panties. His fingers followed suit, fumbling through the edges of it as he looked up at you, a silent question that you only nodded for.

He took your panties off, and as much as you knew it was the moment in which you should feel exposed, vulnerable even, all you could think about was how his eyes darkened with want, how his breath hitched as he took you in. His hands slid up your thighs, deliberate and slow, thumbs tracing patterns on your inner thighs that made you tremble.

“Jongseong,” you called. Your heart hurt with the wanting, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.

“I am here, love,” he said. “I am here.”

He pressed a kiss into your folds. It had been light, barely giving him the opportunity to taste you, but you were already gasping underneath him, slightly arching your back off the counter, and making him moan, the sound of it so beautiful you couldn’t help but reach for him, fingers reaching and weaving through his hair and bring him closer.

His hands slid a bit further into you, his thumbs finding and pulling the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it, leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in again. The tip of his tongue kneaded the sensitive flesh around, lightly rubbing, and pressing it before he suckled at it — so gently it was maddening. And you duv your hands into the back of his hair and pushed your hips into his mouth.

He licked at your. The tiniest most perfect lick ever, right on the quivering tip of a nerve.

Another lick. A harder lick. The twirl of his tongue all around the edge. Then over it. A kiss. A long tender wet kiss onto it. He lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body. He pushed his tongue against the hole and pushed again until the tip went inside it. You gasped, shocked by the pleasure. He turned his head slightly to the side and kissed your labia again. To the other side and kissed you again. After that it seemed he wanted nothing more than to press his mouth into you. He pushed his tongue into your vagina again, and you lifted your hips in instinct and need.

He licked the entrance of you body again, over and over a hundred times.

And then he was sucking at your clit again, harder this time, his tongue flicking against it in a rhythm that made your thighs shake around his head. You were gasping his name, desperate and needy in a way you had never heard yourself being, and you didn’t know if it was because it had been a long time — the longest ever since you had your first time, or simply because if it was Jongseong, but when he pushed two fingers inside of you, you could swear that it never felt like this, your fingers tightening in his hair as the pleasure built and built until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

When you came, it was with a cry that echoed through the small cabin, your body arching off the counter as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. Jongseong didn’t stop, his mouth working you through it gently, sweetly, until you were trembling and oversensitive and asking him to stop

He rose slowly, his lips glistening, his eyes focused at you — sprawled across the counter, dress pushed down and bunched around your waist, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, and you could already hear the question on him, the tiny are you alright? but you didn’t give him time, you were already sitting up, hands traveling down his chest, slowly creating a trail of feather-like touches before you found the waist of his pants, hooking your fingers there — brushing through his skin, and the muscles in his abdomen constricted as you brought him impossibly closer, folding your legs around his waist.

“Bed,” you whispered.

Jongseong released a sound at your request.

But did anyway, scooping you up on his arms and walking the few steps to the bed. The old springs creaked softly under your weights, something you both completely ignored.

Your fingers fumbled on his belt, unblucking it, but his own hands moved slower, undoing the laces of your dress, sliding it through your shoulders and being discharged on the floor of the cabin silently. The cuts of it prevented you from using a bra, and the acknowledgment made Jongseong swallow. He could see every lush of your body, the shape of your legs, the swell of your breasts, and he wasn’t ready for it.

He was never ready for you.

“Fuck, Ribbons,” Jongseong sighed, and you chuckled at him, hands curling around his neck, drawing him to the mattress — to you, urging him to settle between your legs as your fingers reached for his pants, pushing it down with anything that could prevent you from feeling him fully.

“Wait,” he asked.

You were sure you whined then, perhaps cried out loud, a full protest rolling out your lips as he pushed himself away from you, walking back through the cabin, retrieving his wallet from where he had dropped it earlier.

He took a condom package from it, and you immediately felt something tingling inside of you.

Since when did he have it and why?

It’s not like you were jealous about anything that happened before the airport, and what was supposed to happen if you never encountered each other, but God — this man was supposed to be yours since school. 

Yours.

When he reached back at you, you pulled him to and into the bed, pushing his shoulders so he was the one against the mattress now.

He barely had time to sit up as you positioned yourself above him, straddling his hips, hands on his chest for balance before you took the package from his hands.

You tore it open, maintaining eye contact with him as you did, watching the way his pupils dilated, the way his breath caught. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as you rolled the condom down his length with deliberate slowness, savoring every hitch in his breathing, every twitch of his body beneath you.

Jongseong swore, low and loud, voice all rough at the feel of himself bumping against your entrance, twitching at the way you whimpered when the head of him slid against your clit. 

You took him inch by inch. And he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your eyes flutter closed, hands clutching on him on what he might have thought to be discomfort because one of his hands reached between you, wetting the tip of his thumb with your fluids, before he found your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you feeling just too good, rolling your hips experimentally against his.

A spasm traveled up your spine and down into your thighs. And you braced yourself, hands flat on his chest before you did it again.

His breath hitched, whispering your name, pronouncing it with the same deliberate slowness he had on the night previous and you couldn’t help but moan at the whole feel of him, head a bit thrown back and barely giving time before you started a slow, hard grind on his lap, lifting yourself up and down, dragging your cunt against his pelvis, his length buried deep enough inside you that the base of him caught your clit.

Jongseong’s hands tightened on your hips, guiding your movements as his own hips lifted to meet yours, driving deeper with each thrust, and making it impossible for you to not climb toward that edge again, faster this time, spurred on by the broken sounds falling from his lips and the way he held onto you.

You cried out his name, and he rolled you through the bed, slipping out for the single second it took to move you against the mattress, and you took the opportunity to stop him, your hand reaching out for his length, fingertips brushing through until you had reached the tip and pinched on the condom.

You pulled it off slowly, deliberately, and Jongseong's eyes narrowed as he watched you discard it to the side. There was a question in his gaze, a silent are you sure, for which you answered by wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed back in without the barrier between you, and the difference was immediate, overwhelming. You gasped at the feeling of him — skin against skin, nothing separating you anymore. And there was it again — that strange feeling because sex had never felt like this.

Jongseong groaned, a deep sound that came from somewhere in his chest, and his forehead dropped to yours as he stilled inside you, giving you both a moment to adjust to the new sensation. His breath was ragged against your lips, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You breathed out, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Jongseong-”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, my love-” He couldn’t finish the sentence, just pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was more breath than anything else.

When he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, and you could feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside you. It was almost too much, the intimacy of it making your chest tight with emotion you couldn't name.

Your nails raked down his back as the pleasure built again. You were already sensitive from your first orgasm, and every movement sent sparks through your body that made you arch against him, seeking more, needing more.

Jongseong hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together. And you sobbed when he clutched at the blanket, knuckles turning white as if he was struggling to not be impatient himself because you did understand. This was more than you had ever felt about anything — it was more than just your body coming apart in pleasure, but something like feeling your heart splitting at the stitchings, and it was terrifying — vulnerable.

Your fingers spread at his cheeks, angling his forehead against yours, pressing kisses to his lips, cheeks, and jaw, mumbling how it was alright if he grew impatient — it was alright if it didn’t last tonight.

It was not like it would be the only time.

But he was careful with you still, sweet nothings brushing against your temples even as your body came tight around him, your hands grabbing at his hair, desperately trying to hide the fact you were shaking as he continued to move his hips into you.

Jongseong came when you did, as defenseless and relinquished as he could be, wrapping his arms around, and holding you until both of you had driven out of your highs.

He collapsed by your side, reaching out, and sweeping a lock of hair from your cheek, and kissing your temple. You wanted to say something, but as you looked at him, you had the strange comprehension that there was nothing he didn’t already know. He had caught all your secrets through your eyes — tasted them on your lips and body, so you only reached for him.

Your hand caught his easily, tiny and softly, and he allowed you to curl your fingers around his, pulling him a little closer and burying your nose on the curve of his shoulder to take him in. Jongseong smelled like he always did: his woody perfume blended with the warm scent of the fireplace and it was starting to feel like home.

He lifted your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist, a sweet gesture that gave no hint of how he would bring the tip of your fingers to his mouth a second later, two digits being pressed to his tongue as he sucked it.

You blew out a shaky breath, stuttering out a little laugh that Jongseong was fast to follow before he rolled up, staring at the ceiling.

You rolled after him, resting up on his chest as you reached for his hair. It stuck to him with the accumulating sweat.

“I like when you wear your hair down,” you told him.

Jongseong hummed in response, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. 

“I’ll keep it down more often then,” he murmured, voice still rough from exertion, and you could feel the rumble of it through his chest where your chin was pressed.

“As easy as that?”

“Whatever you want, Ribbons,” he said “Even if I can’t fully complete it — I will try.”

And you knew it — you had felt it every single day through this absurd trip, but hearing the confirmation of it made some hum inside of you,

The cabin was warm and quiet around you, filled only with the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal and the occasional pop from the dying fire. Outside, snow was beginning to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the frost-covered windows, and you thought about how you'd ended up here — stranded in a cabin in Montana on Christmas Eve and it felt more right than anything else.

“We should take a shower,” you whispered.

And this time there was no awkwardness, no subtle meanings that could be the truth because it was. You wanted to shower together and Jongseong was fast on understanding.

Jongseong stood up first, and then he reached out to you, pulling you up on your feet.

The bathroom was small and cramped, the kind that came standard in old Montana cabins, but neither of you minded as Jongseong turned on the shower, testing the water temperature with his hand before pulling you under the spray with him.

You were not sure of what made you shiver — the sudden warm shower above of you or him — his hands spreading through your hips, slipping through your sides before he cupped your face and angled you up to him.

His kiss was slow this time, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world. Water cascaded over both of you as his thumbs traced gentle circles on your cheekbones, and you allowed yourself to melt into him.

The water was almost too hot, steam filling the small bathroom until everything went a little bit fogged. Jongseong’s hands moved with gentle purpose, smoothing soap across your shoulders, down your arms, fingers lingering on your skin like he was learning the shape of your body all over again.

He shampooed your hair, his fingers working through the strands with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You tilted your head back into his touch, eyes closed, letting him take care of you in this simple, intimate way. When he rinsed the suds away, he pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to the curve of your neck.

You did the same for him, reaching out for the shampoo,

Jongseong kneeled in front of you, with no second thoughts, he just did it — meeting your gaze through his eyelashes, water pearling on the end for a second before he closed his eyes.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, and he threw his head a bit back, his palms spreading through your hips for support. He honestly didn’t know what to do with himself there.

He allowed you to rinse his hair, only standing up when you subtly tap his hands. And then, he let you smooth over his bare skin, starting with his shoulders, and rubbing down to his chest, he groaned when you reached for his low abdomen, fingertips hovering dangerously close to his aching length.

“Ribbons,” he called. But the word left his lips with no warning.

“You are hard.”

Jongseong chuckled at your statement, leaning on you, his lips met your ears, scattering shivers through your body despite the warm water.

“It’s difficult near you,” he confessed.

“Then I should take care of it,” you said, reaching for him, hand wrapping around his length.

He cursed when you rolled your thumb through his tip, but he allowed you to stroke him at your pace nonetheless, edging him until his breaths were heavier, shorter, gasping as the only thing passing through his lips was your name.

He dropped himself forward, his face landing in the crook of your neck, and you had to ask him to move, to look at you, to allow you to kiss him tantalizingly sweet, and nothing like the way you kept touching him. Nothing like the whine you accidentally let escape.

Jongseong drew away, all of a sudden before he grabbed your thighs, lifting you easily — perhaps too easily, pressing you against the wall as your legs folded around his hips for support.

“You have been taking too much care of me, let me take care of you too,” he asked.

The bathroom felt smaller — warmer as you nodded, allowing Jongseong to push himself into you, calling your name, pronouncing each letter with an unreasonable fondness, and turning it into a mutter singing through his pulses.

His moves were careless this time, gone on all your teasing, but he still managed to make you tighten around him, fingers curling on the hair of his nape as your mouth parted against his.

Jongseong swallowed your noises, pressed kisses on your lips as he felt you shaking, spread his palms on the back of your thigh to hold you through your high, and helped you stand when you felt too weak to.

He turned the knobs, letting the bathroom fall silent before he wrapped you both in towels, his hands never letting you go as he guided you to sit between his legs at the toilet before he started rubbing your hair.

“Sorry, I don’t think there’s a dryer here.”

“It’s better this way,” you admitted, your voice almost sounding purred as you inclined your head back. Jongseong chuckled at your actions, but if anything, his fingers worked slower, rubbing your hair with gentleness until it seemed dried enough.

You weren’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to the room. The world outside felt halted through the window as you dressed yourselves.

Jongseong climbed to his bed first, subtly tapping the space at his side in an invitation, and when you followed, he pulled you against him, fitting your body to his — tangling you as much as he could into the circle of his warmth.

You leaned into him, your forehead on his shoulder, fingertips pressing against the exact place above his heart, feeling the cadence of his whole being as he exhaled, reaching for you too — curling his fingers above yours.

“Merry Christmas, Jongseong.”

“Merry Christmas, Ribbons.”

The room fell silent, just the soft hustle of his thumbs brushing the inner curve of your wrist, slowly and carefully, causing you to close your eyes. And once again, you fell asleep to the feeling of Jongseong’s beating heart.

And how peaceful it was.

[svvtvenom]

And I eat it up every time you post *inserts spaghetti by le sserafim*

[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): panic attacks, one-bed tropé (we cheer!), smut, dry-humping, nipple play (f. receiving) because yes! they are in their lovers era, and only took us 34K words! (i am sorry)

PART FOUR｜10.5K｜PREVIOUS PART

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

PINE ISLAND

(two days before Christmas)

Jongseong was still asleep by the time you woke up.

He was turned toward you, half on his back, half on his side, the quilt pulled up to his chest and one arm flung out between you like he had reached for something in the night and forgotten to pull it back. In the dim light from the embers in the fireplace, his features were gentler than you were used to seeing — all the careful tension gone from his brow, his mouth relaxed instead of pressed into that thin determined line. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. A few strands of hair had fallen out of place, soft against his forehead instead of slicked perfectly back, making him look younger and more familiar all at once.

You followed the slow rise and fall of his chest under the worn gray sweater he had slept in, the way his fingers twitched faintly now and then against the blankets as if he were chasing something through a dream. His breathing was steady — even. The sound of it mingled with the low crackle from the fireplace, the occasional creak of the old wood beams above.

Andrea’s cabin looked different in the early light.

The fire had burned down to a deep bed of coals, the orange glow turning the stone hearth into a soft halo at the edge of your vision. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, blurring the edges of furniture that had seemed so solid last night. The ladder up to Andrea’s loft was just a dark shape against the wall now. The kitchen counter with its chipped mugs and clutter of spices sat quiet and still, a mug left upside down to dry beside the sink. The windows were pale with a thin film of frost, the glass catching the faint brightness of morning outside and turning it into a muted, silvery wash across the floorboards.

You could see your boots by the door, dusted with the last traces of snow you had tracked in. Your coat hung beside his on the peg, the two of them brushing against each other every time a draft slipped under the door. An extra blanket Andrea must have tossed over you both sometime in the night had slid half off your shoulders, pooling between you where your hands had somehow stayed, fingers loosely intertwined on the shared pillow.

It felt impossibly quiet, like the whole cabin was holding its breath around the two of you, and so you did the same, trying to hold time like a breath in your chest and keep you both on this moment through the sheer force of your will. 

But of course — you couldn’t. 

Somewhere over the cabin, you heard a soft rustle of dishes echoing, drawers opening and shutting before finally the smell of coffee drifted in, dark and unmistakable Andrea’s, and waking Jongseong too. 

He stirred.

It was small at first — a faint twitch of his fingers around yours, a shift of his shoulders — and then he inhaled more deeply, eyelids fluttering before he blinked himself awake. His gaze was unfocused for a heartbeat, then two, before it settled on you, making something lurch inside of your chest. 

You stumbled for the right words, then gave up and started again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed, his voice low and hoarse, and for a second you thought he might let go — that he would notice where your hands were and pull away in that slightly-too-fast way when someone got caught on being more open than they intended because it should have felt awkward, it should have been strange, and maybe later it would. But right then, in the muted light of the cabin with the embers quietly glowing and his fingers still wrapped around yours, it didn’t. It just felt — true, and so — he didn’t move as well. 

If anything, his fingers tightened, just barely.

“You slept well?” you asked.

He nodded, exhaling slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to the space between you — to your joined hands — before returning to your face.

“More than I have in months,” he admitted.

Something loosened in your chest at that, a knot you hadn’t realized you had been holding since you had seen him outside in the snow.

“Good.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“I have no idea, but Andrea’s already awake.”

“We should-” he began.

“Yes, we should,” you agreed, carefully sitting up. Your skin protested at your move, tingling with the sudden coldness, and you had to give yourself a moment before fully moving away.

❄︎

Breakfast was a patchwork of warmth and small comforts — the kind of morning that could have felt utterly ordinary if it weren’t layered over the strange, complicated intimacy of the night before.

Andrea had already been in the tiny kitchen by the time you both appeared, moving with quick efficiency between the stove and the counter. The table was laid out with mismatched plates, a large pot of oatmeal, sliced fruit, a jar of something that looked suspiciously like homemade jam, and a basket of bread that you recognized from the night before.

“Finally,” she said when she caught sight of you, her eyes flicking from you to Jongseong, then back again. Her gaze dropped just briefly to the close distance between you — a flicker of calculation in her expression — but if she had any commentary, she swallowed it down, turning back to the pot. “I was about to send a search party. Or at least yell very loudly.”

“Sorry,” you said automatically, then winced when her eyes snapped to you with an I told you so kind of look.

“Don’t you dare apologize to me for sleeping,” she said. “It’s practically a human right.”

“She’s right,” Jongseong added quietly beside you, and the fact that they were both united in this, of all things, made you press your lips together instead of saying sorry again.

You helped set the table, brushing past him once, twice, each time aware of how close your arms came without actually touching. You could still feel the imprint of his hand on yours, the weight of his head against your shoulder in the snow.

Andrea talked. Of course she did. About the cold snap coming in later that week. About the neighbor who had tried to mend their own roof and almost fallen through it. About some new environmental lawsuit she was following.

And then — because it was Andrea — about you.

“So,” she said at one point, ladling oatmeal into your bowl with more force than strictly necessary. “Did you both sleep well?”

You choked on absolutely nothing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jongseong’s hand pause on the handle of his mug. He didn’t look at you. His face was carefully neutral, but his ears had gone just the faintest bit pink.

“The floor was surprisingly comfortable,” he replied, too evenly. “The fire helped.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed like a cat that had just spotted something interesting across the room, but she let it go — for now.

You tried a small, quiet smile into your oatmeal.

Talk shifted, mercifully, to logistics.

“How far are you going today?” she asked.

“I am thinking of covering North Dakota and most of Montana,” Jongseong said. “Get her back on Christmas Eve morning at maximum.”

“Ambitious,” she said, raising her brows. “But you’ve been doing pretty well so far. Minnesota, Illinois, Ohio all in what — three days?”

“Something like that,” you replied. Although you weren’t entirely sure. Time had started to feel slippery — measured less in hours and more in gas station coffee cups and miles and the songs that played on the radio between one stop and another.

Andrea nodded, leaning back in her chair.

“Be careful,” she said. “The roads can get nasty this time of year.”

“We will,” Jongseong said.

Your gaze drifted to him at the plural. 

We will.

You liked the sound of it more than you expected. 

By the time the last crumbs had been chased across empty plates and the coffee pot didn’t have a single sip to be nursed on, the sky had transformed itself into something else — that particular shade of winter blue that looked like hope dipped into frost, a promise of cold without meanness. 

Andrea refused to allow you help on the cleaning, shoving you out of the kitchen and telling you to get ready for the miles ahead. You and Jongseong took turns in the bathroom upstairs, bringing your carry-ons all the way up, and when you both were ready she finally emerged with some snacks.

“No,” she immediately said. “You can’t argue with me about it.”

And so you didn’t — choosing to hug her instead.

“Thank you,” you said into her shoulder. 

“I told you to stop thanking me,” she murmured back. “Don’t forget to text me once you arrive in Seattle — and if he does anything stupid, tell me. I have a pitchfork.”

“I don’t doubt you do.”

Andrea hugged Jongseong too, telling him something for which you couldn’t quite hear, but that got him nodding, surely and solemnly, before he told her that he would. 

Your heart did something strange at that — a small, traitorous lurch — and you looked down quickly, suddenly very interested in adjusting your scarf.

❄︎

The first hours of the drive were easy.

The sky was a clear, brittle blue, the kind that seemed to stretch forever, with the low winter sun glancing off the snow-covered fields in blinding flashes. The BMW hummed beneath you, the engine a steady, familiar presence. The roads, for once, were mostly dry, the snow plowed to high, dirty banks at the sides.

You took turns at the wheel — him for the first stint, you for the next — the map still folded in the console between you, because you trusted the GPS and his memory more than the thin, crinkling lines of ink.

You talked sometimes — about nothing and everything.

“You realize,” he said at one point, eyes still on the road as he shifted into sixth, “that you’re now the only person in New York I know who works directly across from my apartment.”

“You say that like the other people you know in New York are theoretical,” you replied.

He huffed a laugh.

“Most of them are,” he admitted. “Clients. Neighbors I nod at in the elevator. People at open houses who ask me if the gym is included or if the building has a pool.”

“Does it?” you asked. “Have a pool?”

“Some of them,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. They all ask anyway, even if it doesn’t say so on the brochure.”

You smiled faintly, watching the way the light skated over his profile.

“You should come to the library sometimes — there are no pools, but plenty of annoying people who ask for things they could easily Google.”

“That old man with the love poems?” he asked.

“Don’t talk badly about Mr. Hamilton.”

He glanced at you then, just long enough for the corner of his mouth to curve before he moved back to the windshield.

“Maybe I will,” he said. “For the events, of course.”

“Of course,” you echoed.

“But only if you go back to New York and make me company on these.”

Jongseong stared, eyes soft and you let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in your chest until your body burned. 

“If I go back.”

❄︎

You were still the one in the wheel when it happened. 

The road was empty, just a double line of faded yellow stretching ahead into a landscape of pale fields and darker tree lines that could be anywhere in Montana. The sky had dulled from sharp blue to a flatter, hazier gray, and there was a fine dust of snow blowing gently across the asphalt, making it look like the road itself was slowly disappearing. When a soft, sharp clunk followed by something that definitely didn’t sound like the smooth hum you had come to associate with the BMW over the past days.

“What was that?” you asked, your hands tightening reflexively on the steering wheel.

“Slow down,” Jongseong said immediately, his voice calm but sharper at the edges, the way it got in crowded highways or when a truck drifted into your lane.

You eased off the gas, your heart already picking up speed to make up for what the car was losing.

There was another noise — a higher whine now, followed by a grinding sound that made your body tense.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, pull over. Just — there’s a shoulder.”

Your fingers flexed, slick with sudden sweat despite the cold.

The shoulder wasn’t much — just a narrow stripe of packed, icy snow at the edge of the asphalt, sloping away into the ditch — but you did as he said, guiding the BMW over as carefully as you could. The steering wheel felt heavier than it had moments before. Every vibration moving straight into your hands, up your arms, into your chest.

By the time you eased the car to a stop, your heart was hammering so hard it felt as if it was trying to move out of you.

The silence that followed was not silent. It was filled with the ticking of the cooling engine, the soft hiss of wind against the windows, your own breath coming too fast, too shallow.

You stared straight ahead.

“Okay,” Jongseong said again, softer now. “It’s probably something we can fix. Maybe the-”

The dashboard lights seemed too bright all of a sudden, the car too small. The seatbelt felt like a band tightening across your chest.

“Ribbons?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

You weren’t — you weren’t.

You didn’t even have a name for the exact thought that tipped you over, but it was there.

The air in the car thickened as your lungs tried to drag it in and you gasped.

You fumbled for the seatbelt with shaking hands, the click of the release too loud, too sharp in the enclosed space, and then the door handle was under your palms and it was open, cold air rushing in like a slap.

“Ribbons-” you heard, somewhere behind you, but the sound was muffled, like he was speaking through water.

You stepped out.

The wind cut into you, slicing through your coat and scarf, but the cold felt almost good in a warped way — at least it was something your body could understand. Your boots slid slightly on the packed snow off the shoulder, but you kept walking, just far enough from the car that you could breathe without seeing the metal frame looming at the edge of your vision.

You stopped by the shallow ditch, your breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that didn’t seem to do anything. Your hands went to your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your coat as if you could force your lungs to expand by sheer force.

The sky stretched endless and low above you, the same hazy gray that promised more snow. The world felt big and you felt very, very small, and somewhere inside your ribcage, that fragile thing that had cracked at the airport seemed to splinter all over again.

You heard footsteps, a crunch of snow behind you before you felt Jongseong coming up beside you.

“Ribbons.”

His voice was closer now. You screwed your eyes shut, because if you looked at him, you weren’t sure what would happen but a second later, he was in front of you.

You felt the heat of him first, leaking through the layered December air. Then his hands — cradling your face, palms warm against your cheeks, slowly and tenderly bringing you to him. Your noses bumped almost at the same time your foreheads did, but you didn’t inch away, allowing him to press further, your bodies meeting in the middle, your coat pressed to his.

“Look at me,” he asked, and you did. Not because you were brave, but because he asked and some old reflex in you obeyed.

His face filled your vision, blotting out the endless road and the distant fields and the thin sky. His hair was ruffled from the wind. His cheeks were flushed, breath coming in visible puffs between you.

“You’re okay,” he said. “I promise. You’re okay, you just need to breathe.” He smiled, just barely. “We’ve done this before. Remember?”

You nodded, or at least tried to.

“Breathe for me,” he said, just like he had done at the airport, but there was something different in it now. Less unfamiliar kindness. More — you and him.

He exaggerated the inhale, slow and deliberate so you could follow it — his chest rising under his coat, his shoulders expanding. You tried to match him, but your lungs caught halfway, stuttering like a skipping record.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, his thumb brushing small arcs against your cheek. 

You focused on the only thing you could — him. The dark of his eyes, the way his pupils seemed almost blown in the low light, the small furrow between his brows that was somehow fond and worried all at once.

It wasn’t immediate — it never was.

Your breath snagged and stuttered, coming too fast — too shallow. And his hands settled more firmly around your face, as steadily as he could.

The first full inhale didn’t feel good. It scraped its way down, burning, and making your lungs protest at the sudden influx. But it stayed, and your body recognized that and reached for it again.

His breath moved with yours now. You could feel it — warm in the small space of winter air between you, mingling and ghosting across your lips. Every exhale of his became an invitation for your inhale. The world narrowed to that shared rhythm.

Eventually, the noise roaring in your ears began to recede.

Your vision, which had gone a little too bright around the edges, settled. The frantic pounding in your chest slowed, and the air no longer felt like a wall you were slamming against, but something you could meet halfway.

You realized, dimly, that you were standing closer than you had at the airport exit. Back then, you had been folded in on yourself on a curb and he had come down to meet you. Here, he hovered over you, bottling you into the shadows of his height as your boots sank slightly into the snowy shoulder, your toes brushing his. His scarf brushed your chin, smelling like it always did — sandalwood and vanilla, musk and cedar as you hands twisted in his coat, fists pressed to his sternum like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

“Hey,” he said again, but it was softer now. “There you are.”

You let out a shuddering laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“Sorry,” you rasped.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, his brows pulled together.

“But I think I damaged your very expensive car.”

“It wasn’t you,” he said. “Those cars aren’t made to cross the country in the snow. You had nothing to do with it.”

You shook your head, mouth parting on a ready retort, but whatever it had been, slipped and slid as his thumb moved to rest near the corner of your lips, the skin there warming under his touch.

Your hands were bunched in the wool of his coat, the fine, expensive fabric wrinkled under your grip. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your knuckles — not racing, not frantic, just there.

You weren’t sure when you had reached for him like that. Only that somewhere between the engine noise and the pulling of the seatbelt and the rush of cold air, you had decided — instinctively, desperately — that if you were going to fall apart, you wanted to do it while holding on to him.

He didn’t seem inclined to let go either. And so, you stood there, the two of you framed by an endless stretch of empty road and frozen fields, breathing each other’s air like that was the only thing keeping you tied to the world.

And then there was the sound of another engine.

It was faint at first, just a low rumble in the distance, then louder, approaching from behind. You blinked, the outside world snapping back into focus: the BMW hunched on the shoulder, the pale line of sky, the crisp edge of the road.

A pickup truck loomed into view, an old model with faded red paint and a dented bumper. It slowed as it neared you, tires crunching over the thin layer of snow and grit, and then pulled over a few meters ahead.

The driver’s door opened with a creak, allowing a man to climb out — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a worn jacket and a beanie pulled low over his ears. His breath puffed white as he approached, boots leaving clean prints in the snow.

“You two alright?” he called, his voice carrying easily in the cold air.

You realized at that moment that you were still tangled up in Jongseong — his hands on your face, your fists on his chest — and stepped back, dropping your hold as quickly as if you had been burned. The separation felt abrupt, like the snap of a rubber band.

“Car trouble,” Jongseong said, his voice steadier than you felt. He turned slightly, placing himself just half a step in front of you in that way he did, not blocking you, but there if you needed to lean. “Something started grinding. I didn’t want to push it.”

“Smart,” the man said, walking closer. His gaze flicked to you briefly — taking in your flushed cheeks, still-uneven breathing — then to the BMW. “Name’s Marcus. I live in a town a few miles up. Not much there, but my sister runs a few cabins for rent, and we’ve got a mechanic — Jim — who can take a look at your car. You’re not going to get much help just sitting out here.”

“Marcus,” you repeated, more to ground yourself than anything else.

He nodded, glancing between the two of you with a straightforward, assessing look that reminded you of your father when he was trying to decide whether someone was trustworthy, or just good at pretending.

“Place is called Choteau,” he continued. “We can tow the car later if Jim thinks it’s safer, but for now, if one of you wants to ride with me, I can bring you into town. Pick up my truck with the hitch. My sister, Cara, might have an extra cabin free, what with the holidays. She owes me enough favors anyway.”

Jongseong looked at you, a question forming in the middle of his brows, and so, you forced yourself to nod.

It’s not as if you had many options.

“Thank you,” Jongseong said. “Really. We would appreciate any help.”

Marcus shrugged like it was nothing.

“Winters out here don’t go easy on anyone,” he said. “You learn to help when you can. Grab what you need for the day — phone chargers, change of clothes, that sort of thing. Jim’s good, but if it’s serious, it might take a bit.”

You swallowed, your stomach twisting. The panic from before hadn’t fully left — it had just settled into a low, rolling anxiety at the base of your ribs.

❄︎

Choteau turned out to be the kind of town you might have missed entirely if you blinked at the wrong moment.

The main road was a short, straight stretch lined with low buildings — a diner with a neon sign flickering OPEN, a small grocery store with hand-painted lettering on the windows, a post office, and a bar whose name had once been clear but was now half-obscured by years of weather. Beyond that, a scattering of houses and cabins, their roofs heavy with snow, smoke curling from chimneys in thin, wavering lines.

Marcus’s truck rumbled down the center of it like it belonged to the place, which it did.

He had driven you in first, with you in the back and Jongseong on the passenger seat, his hand dropped through the space between his door and his seat, palm up so you could hold it, and you did, your fingers curling gratefully into the warm, calloused anchor he offered through all the path as the BMW had been left temporarily behind on the shoulder with its hazard lights blinking a lonely orange in the whitening landscape.

The plan, as Marcus laid it out in that practical, unhurried voice, was simple — drop you at his sister’s property so you could check in and warm up. Swing by Jim’s with Jongseong. Head back with Jim’s tow truck to collect the car.

“Jim’s got a soft spot for Christmas emergencies,” Marcus had said. “He’ll take a look today, even if it’s late.”

You believed him. Something about the steady way he spoke made it easy.

Cara’s cabins were tucked at the far end of town, past a stand of bare-limbed trees and an old wooden sign that read RIDGEVIEW CABINS in peeling white paint. There were four of them, all in a row — small, square structures with steep roofs and covered porches, their windows glowing warm against the gray afternoon.

Cara herself met you on the porch of the main house — Marcus’s sister in both bone structure and the exact same assessing gaze, just with a streak of silver at her temple and a knitted headband instead of a beanie.

“Got strays for you,” Marcus said by way of greeting.

“You always do around holidays,” she replied, but there was no real exasperation in it. Just familiarity. Her gaze swept over you and Jongseong briefly, taking in your road-worn coats, the tired set of your shoulders. “Car trouble?”

“Yes,” Jongseong said. “I’m really sorry to bother you—”

“You’re not,” she cut in, with the same brutal efficiency Andrea used for your apologies. “Better in here than freezing on the side of the road. I’ve got one cabin open. It’s small, but it has hot water and a working heater. For tonight, that’s what matters. You can sort the rest after Jim looks at your car.”

“Thank you,” you said, because despite everyone’s best efforts, you hadn’t learned your lesson about gratitude being suspicious yet.

She only nodded, like you had given her a weather report before she guided you along a shoveled path to the last cabin in the row, Jongseong close behind.

The door stuck a bit before it opened, complaining in a low creak that suggested it had seen more winters than you have had birthdays.

But inside, the cabin was simple yet unexpectedly charming — one main room with a small sofa, a narrow kitchenette along one wall, a table with two chairs, and a bed tucked beneath the window, covered in a patchwork quilt.

“It’s not fancy,” Cara said. “But everything works. Towels are in the bathroom, extra blankets in that chest. I’ll bring you some tea stuff later.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, and meant it.

She left with a brisk nod, and the cabin fell into silence.

“Ribbons?” Jongseong called. You spun in his direction, finding him in the entrance door still, waiting for you to reach back at him. 

He hesitated as you stopped in front of him, his gaze flicking briefly to the bed, to the small, contained space, then back to your face.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said. “If it’s bad — I’ll tell you. But either way, we’ll figure out how to get you home, okay?”

We’ll figure it out.

You nodded, because you didn’t quite trust your voice.

He stepped closer then, reach­ing out for your face. He didn’t seem to think about it, he simply did, angling you to him and dropping a kiss on your forehead, his lips pressing so briefly you would have thought you imagined it if he didn’t halt then, noticing what he had just done.

“Rest,” he said, already turning and leaving, the door shutting behind him with a small thud that seemed too loud for such a small space.

❄︎

Alone, the cabin felt both too big and too small.

You walked a slow circuit around it, almost out of habit — dropping your carry-on by the side of the table, touching the edge of the counter, opening a cupboard just to see what was inside —two mismatched mugs, a chipped plate, a jar of tea bags in a reused jam jar. Your fingers trailed over the back of the sofa, the frame of the window, the carved edge of the trunk that held the extra blankets.

Against the far wall, half in shadow, leaned an unexpected shape of an old acoustic guitar.

You blinked, crossing the room to reach it.

It was a little battered, the wood worn smooth where years of hands had rested along the body. One of the tuning pegs was slightly bent, and the strings looked like they had seen better days, but it was undeniably a guitar, sitting there like a forgotten friend.

You ran your fingers lightly along the strings. They gave a faint, slightly out-of-tune twang.

You thought of the mini guitar hanging from Jongseong’s rearview mirror. The case in his Brooklyn apartment. The way his fingers had been calloused where yours weren’t.

You thought of Friday lunch concerts in the school garden, how you had sat inside the library pretending to be engrossed in your book while you actually listened through the open window.

You plucked one of the strings again before moving on.

The shower was small but blessedly hot. The water pressure was strong enough to feel like something real hitting your skin, steam building up until the tiny bathroom was a fogged cocoon. You stood under the spray longer than you intended, letting it drum against your scalp, your shoulders, the tender spot at the base of your neck.

When you finally emerged, wrapped in one of the rough but clean towels, you felt wrung out — not fixed, but softer around the edges. You pulled on clean clothes, thick socks, and one of your warmer sweaters.

❄︎

“Ribbons?”

Your eyes snap open. 

The room was dimmer now, the light filtering through the curtains had shifted into the soft, golden-gray of early evenings. 

You had fallen asleep on the couch at some point as you waited for Jongseong.

You pushed yourself to a sitting position as he stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold, and hair mussed in a way only melting snow could manage.

“Hi,” you managed. “How was it?”

“It’s-” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair in that now-familiar gesture. “Jim says he can fix it. But a part of the suspension got damaged. Probably from all the snow and ice, maybe a hidden pothole. He needs to weld something, maybe replace another thing. It-” he halted then, his gaze dropping to your hands. You had been pinching at the corner of your nails without even realizing. “Nevermind. He will pass by later and give me more accurate feedback.”

You nodded.

“But right now, I am starving,” he said. “Marcus recommended a diner down the road. I thought we could give it a try.”

“Sounds good,” you said, allowing him to pull you to your feet. The familiar ritual of bundling up — coat, scarf, boots — feeling oddly comforting, like muscle memory now. You stepped out together into the thin, winter-darkening air.

❄︎

The town felt different after dark.

Every building was outlined in lights, sharp white bulbs tracing rooflines and windows, and making each structure look like something drawn in a children’s book. The Christmas tree in the square was now fully illuminated, thousands of little points of color reflecting off the snow, making everything around it sparkle. Garlands of holly and pine hung across the street from lamppost to lamppost, their red ribbons fluttering gently in the wind. In someone’s yard, an elaborate display of animated reindeer and elves performed a mechanical dance, their jerky movements lit first in red, then green, then blue.

The diner was exactly where Marcus had told Jongseong it would be — a squat building with wide windows, the neon sign outside buzzing a weary but determined DINER in flickering red.

Inside, it was warm and bright in a way that felt almost jarring after the quiet of the cabin.

The walls were paneled in wood that had darkened with age. The booths were upholstered in cracked red vinyl, patched in places with silver tape. A long counter stretched along one side with spinning stools, behind which a middle-aged woman in a faded Christmas sweater was topping up coffee for an elderly man who might as well have been part of the furniture.

As you and Jongseong stepped in, a small bell over the door jingled announcing your arrival and making a woman look up, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her waistband, and smiled.

“Evening,” she said. “Grab any booth you like. Menu’s on the table. Kitchen’s open for another hour.”

You slid into a corner booth, the vinyl creaking under you. Across from you, Jongseong settled in, unwinding his scarf and resting his hands on the table.

You studied the menu — simple and hearty, heavy on meat and gravy. Still, there was a veggie burger, a grilled cheese, and a side salad. You’d learned to make do with what you had.

He watched you, his gaze a little too intent for someone choosing between fries and onion rings.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just — seeing how you make decisions under pressure.”

“High stakes,” you agreed solemnly. “If I choose wrong, we might never emotionally recover.”

His mouth tugged up, and there it was again — that unguarded, lopsided smile that made the space around you feel a little brighter.

The waitress came, took your orders. A veggie burger for you. Some kind of pot roast for him. You shared fries in the middle, because even when you tried to be sensible, the smell of fried potatoes won.

Outside, the snow continued, and a small group of children — bundled in puffy jackets and mismatched hats — were lobbing clumps of snow at each other on the patch of open space between the diner and the grocery store, shrieking with laughter every time someone took a direct hit. Their cheeks were bright with cold and joy, movements uninhibited, like the night and the temperature and the possibility of wet socks meant nothing.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You turned back.

“Yeah,” you lied in reflex, then sighed. “I don’t know. I just — I don’t know.”

He nodded.

The food arrived. Comfort in the shape of melted cheese and soft buns. It helped, in the way good, simple food often does — not fixing anything, but anchoring you in your body again.

By the time you stepped back out, the kids were still outside.

If anything, they were wilder now, fueled by sugar and whatever bottomless energy reservoir children seemed to possess. Snow flew in arcs through the air, clumps breaking apart into a glitter of powder in the harsh parking lot lights. Their laughter pinged off the buildings, bright and sharp and alive.

You smiled despite yourself.

One of the children — a boy in a hat with knitted reindeer antlers — tripped, falling backward into a drift with an exaggerated oof that made the others dissolve into louder shrieks. He popped back up, shaking snow out of his collar, and immediately wound back his arm to fling another handful.

Someone’s snowball went too wide, thudding into the side of your boot with a soft thwap — wet and cold even through leather.

You looked down, then up, meeting a pair of wide, startled eyes. The kid froze, his hand still raised mid-throw, as if he had just committed some unforgivable social faux pas by hitting an adult.

“Sorry!” he blurted, red cheeks going redder. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” you said, bending to brush the snow off your boot. It clung stubbornly for a second, melting into dampness along the seam. “I’ll survive.”

Beside you, you felt Jongseong shift, the scrape of his boots on packed snow, the soft jingle of his zipper as he moved.

And you almost could feel the moment when the idea came to him.

He bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a loose ball between his hands.

You barely had time to process it before he turned, flicked his wrist, and sent the snowball sailing in a gentle arc toward the reindeer-hat boy, landing squarely — and softly — against his jacket with a muted pfft.

The kids went dead silent for half a second before they burst.

A squeal of outrage and delight rose in unison. Three snowballs were immediately lobbed in your general direction, white blurs against the darkening sky.

“You did not just do that, Jongseong,” you said, but your voice was already breaking with laughter you couldn’t contain, your breath coming out in visible puffs.

“I regret nothing,” he replied, and you could hear the grin in it — unguarded, boyish — before he was already stooping to gather more snow.

But as he prepared a single snowball, a bunch had been thrown into his direction once again, and so he only ran when you did, feet a little clumsy on the paths of snow, boots skidding just a bit on the slick patches, but neither of you really cared about what you were doing.

The cold slapped your cheeks, sharp enough to sting, and the air burned as you laughed too hard to breathe properly. Snow flew up around your ankles, dusting the hem of your coat, slipping under the edge of your scarf and sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with fear.

The peals of laughter made it worth it, the rush of winter night on your face as you left the children behind — their shrieks fading into the glow of the diner lights — but then you were tripping upon an uneven part of the street, your boot catching on something hidden under the powder, being saved only because Jongseong had reached you, his hands sprawling onto your waist as he brought you to him.

Both of you tumbled into the snow.

The impact was soft and loud at once — the muffled whump of bodies in a drift, the cold seeping immediately through fabric. Snow puffed up around you like smoke, dusting your eyelashes, sticking to your lips.

Jongseong ended above you, one knee on either side of your hips, his hands down in the snow on either side of your head, bracing himself. The snow beneath his palms squeaked faintly as he shifted, trying not to put his full weight on you.

For a second, all you could hear was your own breathing — too loud, too fast — and the distant laughter of children like it was coming from another world.

The laughter faded gradually — replaced by something else — something warm and fuzzy that seemed to hum in the winter air within the both of you.

His breath was visible, little white clouds that blended with your own. Every exhale collided halfway, dampening the space between your mouths.

Snow had settled in his hair again, on his eyelashes, clinging to the dark strands and making him look softer and sharper all at once. It melted slowly, leaving tiny wet streaks that darkened the edges of his hair, making a few strands curl where they weren’t meant to.

Your fingers were cold from the weather, but he didn’t mind it when you reached for him, palm splaying through his neck, fingertips finding the warm pulse there beneath his skin.

If anything his skin shivered where you touched it.

And he released a breath stronger, eyes fluttering closed for a brief, breathtaking second before he opened them again, his gaze locking into yours.

And that’s it. Jongseong above you. His cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion, eyes bright with that familiar proudness you have seen when you finally shift gears smoothly or hit the right note in a story.

His hands were still planted in the snow, but his shoulders had softened — not collapsing, not falling, just… yielding, like he was suddenly aware of how close you were and didn’t want to break it by moving the wrong way.

And all of a sudden you wished you were back at school — Valentine’s Day, spring, winter, any day — it didn’t matter, as long as it’s a day when you had the courage to tell him you liked him. That you liked how he seemed cold outside but had no second thoughts before helping someone. How you liked it when he brought his guitar and sang at lunch, acting like it was nothing when every girl in school knew it was something. And it hurt you that he never once looked at you.

You stayed like that, unmoving for a long second, snow melting into dampness under your back, cold beginning to seep through your coat, but you didn’t care.

Before you trailed one finger down his nose, you hesitated — not because you didn’t want to, but because the touch felt like crossing a line you had been staring at for years.

And then — his lips.

Your fingertip moved along the shape of it as he remained still, giving you as much time and space as you want — whatever you want, he seemed ready to give.

His mouth parted just slightly under your touch, and you felt his breath catch, warm against your finger despite the winter air.

“Jongseong?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Tell me what it is, Ribbons.”

Your throat went dry, and you swallowed, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet. Your heart hammered beneath your ribs, heavy and frantic, and you could feel it everywhere — in your wrists, in your throat, in the way your hips were pinned under him and didn’t want to move.

“Kiss me.”

He halted then, frozen as your words met an impasse between his ears and mind, or at least, you think he did.

His gaze flicked to your mouth — just once — and then back to your eyes, like he was asking a question without speaking it.

Watching you with the corners of his mouth tucking up before he finally — finally leaned in, slow enough you had time to regret it if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

He caught your lips as easily as if he had done this a hundred times — no, like he had dreamed about it a hundred times and it was finally here.

His mouth was warm against your cold lips, gentler than you expected, a question rather than a claim. The first touch was so soft it almost didn’t feel real, like the kind of thing that could disappear if you inhaled too hard.

But when your fingers slipped and curled into the wool at the back of his neck, tightening, pulling him down that last inch, he hummed — a tiny sound of surprise that vibrated against your mouth — before he captured your top lip with his.

His tongue licked over your own, slipping past and tasting like the hot chocolate you had shared earlier and the sugar from the cookies you had ordered to combine with.

And underneath it all, faintly — the clean bite of cold air you both kept breathing in between kisses, snow melting at the corner of your mouth.

Everything about it so sweet you couldn’t help but pull him closer, a little bit meaner as you demanded more, but if anything Jongseong smiled at you, pressing in harder, deeper, his breath turning uneven against your lips.

Until you both were out of air and he had to pull back.

Eyes closed.

He hovered his nose against your cheek, as his forehead rested against your temple, his breath coming in warm, shaky puffs that disappeared into the night.

Your bodies so close still, you couldn’t tell if he was shaking or you, or if the trembling was simply what happened when something you had wanted for too long finally stopped being imaginary.

“We should go back,” he whispered, voice low, like the words were more for himself than for you.

“Yes, we should.”

❄︎

You wondered if it would be awkward then — if the silence on the walk back would stretch too long, if the spaces between words would fill with uncertainty, neither of you knowing quite how to navigate this new thing that had shifted between you.

But it wasn’t

The walk back to the cabin was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Your hand found his somewhere along the way, fingers lacing together inside his coat pocket where it was warm. He squeezed once, gentle, like he was checking you were still there. You squeezed back.

The cabin was dark when you returned, save for the dying embers in the fireplace casting their faint orange glow across the room. You shrugged off your coat, shook the snow from your hair, and watched as Jongseong did the same, moving with that same careful precision he always had before moving to the couch.

And then you remembered.

“Wait here,” you said.

He looked at you, but didn’t argue, allowing you to disappear into the back room and returned a moment later with the guitar you had found earlier in the evening. You set it down between you, nudging it toward him with your foot.

“I found this,” you said. “Thought you might like it.”

His eyes widened slightly, that barely-there surprise that was so rare on his face. He crouched down, and lifted the guitar with a devotion you imagined all musicians had for their instruments. His fingers traced the edge of the wood, testing the strings with a gentle pluck that rang soft and clear in the quiet room.

“Could you-” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I can play something.”

You sat by his side on the couch, watching as he tested the string, and then rolled his shoulders back. 

“What do you want to hear?” he asked.

“Anything you want to play,” you said. “As long as you sing.”

He gave you a look that’s half fond, half resigned. “You’re ruthless, you know that?”

But he turned to the guitar anyway, adjusting it on his lap before his fingers found their position on the neck with the kind of ease that came from years of practice. 

You watched his face as he played — really watched it, in a way you had never been able to before.

At school, you had only ever glimpsed him from a distance, through the library window or across the garden. You had learned the shape of him in profile, the way his shoulders curved over the guitar, the tilt of his head when he concentrated. But you had never seen this — the small furrow that appeared between his brows when he found a chord, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth for just a second before he started to sing.

The song was soft, something you didn’t recognize but that felt familiar anyway — the kind of melody that seemed to have always existed, just waiting for someone to find it. His voice was lower than you remembered from those Friday concerts, rougher at the edges in a way that made it feel more intimate, like he was singing just for you.

Because he was.

He didn’t look away this time. His eyes found yours between verses, holding your gaze as his fingers moved across the strings, and something about that — about being seen while he played — made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fright and everything to do with urge.

When the last note faded, the cabin fell back into silence, but it was a different kind than before. Fuller somehow. Warmer.

“That was beautiful,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended.

“It’s one my father taught me,”  he said quietly. “When I was learning. He said every guitarist should know at least one song they could play without thinking — something their hands could find even in the dark.”

Your throat tightened at that, at the casual way he offered this piece of his father, this tender inheritance.

“Do you want to learn?” he asked then, and there was something almost tentative in the question, like he wasn’t sure if you would say yes.

“I don’t know-”

“I know,” he said, and that lopsided smile appeared, the one that made you feel like the world had tilted slightly to the left. 

You hesitated for only a second before nodding, and Jongseong shifted, making space for you between his legs as he guided you to sit in front of him on the couch, your back to his chest.

The guitar was settled across your lap, heavier than you expected before Jongseong’s arms came around you, his hands guiding yours to the right positions — one hand curling around the neck, the other hovering over the strings.

“Okay,” he said, and you could feel the rumble of his voice through your back, warm and steady. “This is G.”

His fingers pressed yours down onto the strings, adjusting your grip until the placement was right. You were suddenly, acutely aware of how close he was — the solid weight of him behind you, the warmth of his chest against your shoulders, his breath ghosting across your temple every time he spoke.

“Now strum,” he instructed.

You did, and the chord rang out — clear and bright and surprisingly right.

“Good,” he murmured, and something about the praise, about the quiet satisfaction in his voice, made heat creep up the back of your neck. “Now this one is C.”

He walked you through it slowly, patiently in a way that reminded you of the driving lessons, of every moment he had taken the time to teach you something without making you feel small for not knowing. His fingers were warm over yours, calloused and sure, guiding you from chord to chord.

“You are doing really well,” he said after a few minutes, and you didn’t even need to look at him to know he was smiling. You had heard it, the soft deed turning his voice warmer.

But you did anyway — tilting your head back to look at him, and realizing a moment too late it had been a mistake.

Or maybe it wasn’t

His face was right there, closer than you had realized, and the angle of your head brought your mouth almost level with his. You could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to your lips, the way his breath caught, his fingers tightening just slightly over yours on the guitar neck.

He was quiet for a second, not moving, as if the whole cabin had narrowed to the space between your mouths. The fire ticked softly behind you, and somewhere in the walls the heater clicked — a small mechanical sound that felt too loud in the hush you were building.

“Ribbons,” he said, your nickname sounding like a warning — or a question. You couldn’t tell.

And honestly — it didn’t matter.

You leaned in, and this time he met you halfway, his lips finding you as if they had been in that path for years without you ever noticing.

You made a small sound against his mouth, something between a sigh and a whine, and felt him smile before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours.

The cabin still carried a trace of winter — cold caught in your hairline, in the edge of your fingers — and his mouth was warm enough to make your breath hitch, warmth spreading down into your chest like you were thawing from the inside out.

When he pulled away it was just so he could place the guitar aside, carefully, as if he didn’t want to hurt it. The instrument made a soft thump against the floorboards, the strings giving a faint, accidental twang that died quickly into silence.

His hand left the fretboard to cup your jaw instead, fingers warm and careful as your own slipped from the strings to his sweater, clutching at the soft wool over his chest as you turned around, legs almost moving of their own accord so you had moved fully into his lap.

The couch creaked under the shift of your weight, that old-spring complaint that made you both still for half a heartbeat — as if you were listening for whether the world would interrupt you for daring to be this close.

But it didn’t.

He hummed under his breath, contentment in the lazy slouch of his body, and the sound of it made your hands dive into the hair at the nape of his neck, a little bit too rough, but if anything he let you be, releasing another hum as he chased your kisses.

Your heartbeat was loud in your ears. You could feel your pulse everywhere — in the small of your wrists, at the base of your spine, the spot within your tights where you were spread over him. The wool of his sweater scratched faintly against your bare skin where it had ridden up, a tiny discomfort that should have been annoying but wasn’t, not when the rest of him felt like heat.

The hand at your hip traced down, following the curve of your ass, pressing you forward and tucking you close until you could feel him, growing hard beneath you, straining against denim, and the knowledge of it — of what you were doing to him — sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

You ground down a little and he groaned around your tongue.

The sound went straight through you, a low, rough thing you felt in your chest before you heard it properly, and you thought — stupidly, wildly — that you could never come to find a sound you loved more than his laugh, but this — it could come so close to it.

You had to hear it again, and so, you ground again and again.

Until he couldn’t help it anymore and broke away from your mouth, spreading kisses over your jaw, and then to the hollow just behind your ear, earning a shiver from you. His breath was warm there, damp from the closeness, and the air against your flushed skin made you goosebump.

He smiled up at you and dropped a kiss over your neck, his lips slightly parting as he called for you — not Ribbons, but your name — your birth name rolling out of his tongue like a sigh, slow and deliberate as if he wanted to taste each letter.

It struck like a flint, sparking an answering light behind your ribs.

And you couldn’t take it anymore — you needed him — you needed this.

Your hands shook as they traveled over his chest, finding the zipper of his sweater and pulling it down so he only had to shrug it off, and he did — not even thinking about it.

Whatever you want. He was always willing to give you whatever you wanted.

But when you pushed your finger underneath his t-shirt, rippling it with goosebumps, he paused — just barely. Not pulling away. Not stopping. Just — there, breath caught in his throat like something emotional had climbed up behind the want.

His forehead dipped to yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your cheek.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice rough. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Your halted then, heart fluttering with the fact that he would ask it like that. Like you were precious. Like you were allowed to take up space and choose.

“I won’t,” you whispered, and then — softer, “Please.”

Something in his face eased, and then Jongseong was already straightening himself and reaching for the collar of his t-shirt, helping you hurl it out and to the cabin’s floor.

You were back on him, whimpering with an impatience beyond belief, the fabric of your tights catching briefly on his jeans as you shifted, the friction making you dizzy.

His hands soothed at your hips, curling around you before he moved up — slipping under the hem of your own sweater, but he didn’t push forward — not until you had whispered that tiny please against his lips again, and even then he did it slowly, as if he was giving you all the time in the world to think about it and stop him if you felt like regretting.

But you didn’t.

His palms moved until he could go no further and you had to lift your arms so he could slip the piece off you, revealing your plain cotton bra.

For a moment, he just looked at you — his gaze tracing the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulders, the plain cotton covering your chest as if it were something precious, something holy.

His breath left him in a slow exhale, visible in the chill of the cabin air near the window even though the fire had warmed everything else.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and the words came out rough, almost broken, like they had been pulled from somewhere deep inside him — the same place grief had lived last night, now turned into want so careful it hurt.

“I think I am going insane.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your sternum, then another just above your heart, his lips lingering there as if he could feel the way it raced beneath your skin.

Your fingers found his hair again, threading through the dark strands as his name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he hummed against your skin in response, the vibration rolling through you.

“Jongseong,” you whispered again, and he looked up at you then, his eyes dark and warm in the firelight.

“I am here,” he said softly, and somehow you knew he meant more than just this moment, more than just tonight. “I am here, Ribbons.”

And before you could reply, he pulled one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling and teasing, bringing it to a hardened peak. The act alone felt so pleasurable you couldn’t help but press your chest further into his mouth, hands tightening in his hair almost bitterly — but if anything he hummed again, the vibrations layering the sensation until it blurred.

The couch shifted under you as you arched, the old cushions giving in with a soft sigh.

When he grazed his teeth lightly over your nipple, you let out a sharp cry, and your hips instinctively ground down against him once again, seeking friction like it was the only motion your body knew-

When someone knocked on the door.

You both halted, gazes locked, your breathing loud in the small room — the kind of loud that makes you suddenly aware you are not alone in the world, that there are roads and towns and people outside this cabin.

Another knock came in, followed by Jongseong’s name.

Jongseong cleared his throat, the sound rough, and you felt him inhale slowly, deliberately — like he was trying to pull himself back into his body.

“Give me a second,” he called, voice tight.

“It’s Jim,” he whispered to you, eyes still on your mouth as if he couldn’t quite help it even now.

He helped you up, hands lingering at your waist for half a second too long before he forced himself to move. You both dressed in a flurry of hasty movements, clothing tangled and warm from your skin. Your hands trembled as you pulled your sweater back on, your heart still hammering against your ribs, the taste of him lingering on your lips.

Jongseong ran a hand through his disheveled hair, cheeks flushed and breathing uneven, and then he paused — looking at you for a second with something like apology, like frustration, like helpless laughter swallowed down.

He looked at you as if he wanted to say something — although he had no idea what this something was, so instead, he moved toward the door.

You stayed behind, out of the gap of sight, but close enough to hear when Jim explained about the BMW situation, about the transmission, and how he could have it fixed by tomorrow morning but-

“it’s an imported one,” Jim said. “It’s not the type of car we are used to having here. I can buy the pieces, but with the holidays, I am not sure about when it will arrive.”

Jongseong nodded slowly, jaw tightening as he processed the information. “How long are we talking?” he asked, voice carefully controlled despite the frustration that flickered across his features.

Jim shifted his weight, scratching at his beard. “Could be a few days. Maybe longer. I’ll do my best to rush it, but I can’t make any promises with Christmas coming up so soon.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

You watched from your position near the couch as Jongseong’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of the delay pressing down on him. He thanked Jim quietly, promised to check in tomorrow, and closed the door with a soft click that seemed to echo louder than it should have.

“Ribbons,” he called, already taking the few steps within, his hands cupping your face as if he were afraid you would break down.

And honestly — for a moment, you expected to.

That same old feeling pressing against your lungs— but then, nothing came.

Absolutely nothing.

Jongseong brought you to the couch, and you curled into him, heads together on the small space despite the fact that there was a queen-sized bed just a few steps away, and yes — soon Jongseong would carry you there, pull you under the blankets and start his steps toward the couch and you would reach for him, telling him to just lay down with you and sleep with you, but for now you just stayed on the couch, hearing his breath mingling with yours as his fingers played with your hair, slow and steady — like he was reminding you both that you were still here.

You were alright.

hello, my loves!

first and most important of all — WE FINALLY GOT THERE! WE ARE IN THEIR LOVERS ERA! i, myself, can’t believe it lmao i genuinely planned this story to be like 5K each chapter. i don’t know what happened and i am sorry :( i hope it wasn’t that hard to stay with me until now and that you can stay for another two!

anyway! thank you so much for reading until here! as always, don’t forget that you can always reach me through comments, and ask! i love reading what you are thinking of the story! ♡

[svvtvenom]

TEHEHHEHEHE

[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): 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 slowest (and most angst) chapter of the miniseries, but it’s important for my boy, Jongseong :(

PART THREE｜6.8K｜PREVIOUS PART

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

OAK PARK

(three days before Christmas)

This wasn’t the room you had checked into last evening.

Although the wallpaper had the same soft tone you remembered, the furniture had been arranged on the opposite side. Where there should have been the coffee table, a drawer was positioned, with a Christmas garland from which you had never seen before — its leaves shimmering with light and making something within your head ache as you pushed yourself up on your elbows, turning your gaze to the other side and — finding him.

Jongseong sat at the table by the window, already showered and dressed in a soft gray sweater and dark jeans. He had pushed his hair back — much for your deception, and looked extremely fresh and composed — what to say the least, was the complete opposite of how you were feeling.

“This-” you began, your voice sounding weaker than you had expected, but it caught his attention still. “This isn’t my room.”

“No,” he agreed, reaching out for the paper bag on top of the table, and taking out a bottle of water. He remained silent as he opened it, the sound of the seal breaking being the only thing underneath the lift of your heart. And for a moment, you thought that he would give you no explanation of how you both had ended up in this situation — if anything, he reached for the bag once again, taking out a tablet of pills this time. 

Jongseong walked into your direction, handing you the items and making sure you had a good grip before he pulled away, moving back to the table.

“This is mine,” he said. “You fell asleep in the car. I didn’t think it would be polite to go through your purse to find your keys, and you weren’t really in any state to tell me where it was in, so-” He gestured around the room. “I brought you here.”

A flush of warmth crept to your cheeks, flooding them, and you turned away, swallowing a pill with a good amount of water.

“I slept in the chair,” he clarified.

“I am sorry.”

“It’s alright, I-” he began, but halted himself, shaking his head slightly before he restarted, his eyes back into the bags. He pulled what seemed to be a sandwich now, unwrapping it partway. “The receptionist was right. The breakfast was terrible, so I went to the diner across the street.”

“What wasn’t much great either, but I managed to push them to make a vegetarian sandwich,” he continued. “Hopefully it’s not just bread and mayo.”

Jongseong extended the sandwich at you, but instead of reaching out for it, you took his wrist, forcing him to look at you. 

“I am sorry,” you repeated. “I usually don’t drink like this.”

“It’s alright, Ribbons. I have seen worse.”

“Liar.”

He shrugged, noncommittal, moving to the table once again and sitting down. You slide out of the bed, following him close behind and taking the chair in front. 

Outside, it was snowing — not the dousing of white you had been seeing through the past days, but merely a few wayward flakes, just enough to cover the cars parked outside and dust the windowsill with a thin layer of frost. The morning light filtered through the glass, pale and diffused, casting everything in a muted glow.

You shifted your gaze from the window to the table between you both, noticing his map opened at the corner.

“So,” you began. “What’s today’s plan?”

“I thought we should follow the road northwest, if we find a motel along the way,” he said. “Unless you want to stop somewhere, or know someone on the way.”

You looked at the map once again, pressing your index finger at the surface, following the road northwest. The next state would be Wisconsin, but if you could push a bit further, Minnesota was right there — and in fact, you knew someone. 

“Can we make it into Minnesota tonight?” you asked. 

“Minnesota?” he asked, already reaching for his phone. “What part of it?”

“I would need to check the address properly, but around Pine Island.”

Jongseong typed the name on his phone, taking just a couple of seconds before he placed the device back at the table, turning it so you both could see. 

“Six hours and a half,” he read. “It’s not even that bad — do you want to go there?”

“I know someone there,” you told him. “I don’t know if she will be there — last time she sent me a letter she was in Texas, protesting for the end of horse slaughter.”

“Sent you a letter,” he echoed. “Protesting for the end of horse slaughter.”

You looked up at him, and your gazes locked across the morning light. 

Jongseong had always been such a constant in your life, that it took you a moment to notice the reason for his confusion was not only because Andrea’s life updates always had been a lot to take in just a few minutes, but because there was a period of your life that you both had no idea what was going on with the other.

He didn’t even know who Andrea was — the peculiar biology student who came to be your roommate by the strange dormitory lottery and influenced you to become a vegetarian.

And so you told him — starting from when you both met at your dormitory’s room doors.

The wood was so old, it got stuck on your first try, and so she had to come to your help from the inside, telling you how to punch it in the particular way that would make it open properly — until the after — when you both had already graduated. Andrea’s journey as an activist and her letters and messages asking you to sign petitions.

“She lives in a cabin in Minnesota now,” you said. “But I don’t know if she is there right now.”

“Because she was in Texas, protesting for the end of horse slaughter,” he supplied, and you nodded at him. “She seems-”

“Peculiar?”

“If we are kindly speaking, yes,” he said, and you were not sure why, but it got both of you smiling at each other, foolish and unreasonably, almost as if you had just thrown an old inside joke. And the intimacy of it got you looking away, your face catching the morning light coming from the window.

“Do you want to go there?” he asked. 

“It’s an option aside from trying our luck for motel rooms.”

“Alright then.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

“I will call her then,” you said. “My purse-”

But Jongseong was already standing up, walking to the coat rack, and taking your purse.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, the same noncommittal motion he had as he shrugged, before settling back into his chair.

You pulled out your phone, scrolling through your contacts until you found Andrea’s name, and pressed the call.

The line connected with a soft click, followed by silence that stretched just long enough to make you wonder if she would answer at all before her familiar voice crackled through, bright and enthusiastic as you remembered.

“If it is about the last petition-” she began.

“It’s not,” you said. “I am calling to know if you were in Minnesota.”

“Yeah. I got back last week — Why? Don’t tell me you are finally taking me up on that standing invitation.”

“Actually — I am. My flight got cancelled-”

“I heard the stuff was pretty bad,” she said. “Some were considering the worst snowstorm in decades actually — but I guess it’s just because it’s taking the whole country, it’s not that bad in my opinion — but wait, how did you end up in Minnesota then?”

“I am actually in Illinois, right now — I would arrive there by the end of the afternoon if the roads cooperate.” 

“Are you driving?” she demanded, her voice coming higher than you think she intended and accidentally making another throb break through your head. “Alone?”

“No. I am with a-” you began — not really sure of how you were supposed to complete it. Jongseong was an ex-classmate, that very much had been the way you had introduced him to your parents, but suddenly it felt unkind to think of him solely like this — it felt unnatural. You both had shared every meal since the airport. Crossed more than three states together. And slept in the car in the midst of a snowstorm. You both had walked Chicago from border to border, and God — the jazz bar.

You were surely more than ex-classmates, but the word friend didn’t come as easily as you expected it would.

“You’re bringing someone?” Andrea asked then, saving you from your own sentence and you had never been so thankful for her endless speeches.

“Yes,” you said, a little more breathless than you expected. “Is it alright?”

“Of course, any friend of yours is my friend as well — except from those prep Matthew’s friends. Those guys sucks.”

“It’s not.”

“Good, then I’ll have the fireplace going and dinner ready. I will text you the address.”

“Thank-” you began, but she had already hung up. 

You looked up at Jongseong, your gazes locking.

“Minnesota?” he asked. 

“Minnesota.”

❄︎

The drive from Oak Park to Pine Island was the longest you and Jongseong had tried ever since the first day. But it didn’t feel like it — not when you kept switching places every other hour through the state of Wisconsin, and when finally, you had crossed the border line to Minnesota, Jongseong stopped at a gas station to fill the BMW.

The place was so eerily quiet that only the hum of the fuel pump broke the stillness of the cold December afternoon, and the wind hitting the colorful flyers which advertised Christmas Market - open all day. Live Music, Hot Cocoa, and Holiday Cheer!

You didn’t need to ask Jongseong — you didn’t need to say anything, it took him one look at your face to know. And when you both settled back into the BMW, he was already adding the stop to the route.

You immediately could tell the carnival had some story with the place. The food carts were old, the tint faded with the number of years the sun had been setting on them, and the tents were worn in a way that just too much handling could do, but still — it was so lovely.

String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting warm golden pools across the snow-dusted ground, and the air smelled of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and pine.

A small crowd had gathered around a makeshift stage where a local band played Winter Wonderland, their breath visible in the cold air as they sang.

“This brings me back,” you said.

"I've never been to a Christmas market," Jongseong said quietly beside you. 

“Never?” you asked, turning to look at him.

The string lights caught in his eyes as he stared at it, and for some reason, he looked young like this.

“Never,” he confirmed.

For the while of a heartbeat, there was nothing but the market sounds, the cadence of voices coming and going under the band’s song, and if it was in the beginning of this trip you would have been sure that the conversation had ended, but you learned how to feel the reticence in him, and wait, almost holding your breath until you sense the telltale of him softening for you. “My family wasn’t really the type for these things. Koreans do not celebrate Christmas — so yeah, I have never been to this type of market.”

You looked at the market ahead, and then back at him, taking one hand from your pockets and holding it out to him. 

“Well then,” you said, “we should do this properly.”

Jongseong smiled down at you, catching your extended hand, his fingers immediately curling around yours — very warm despite the December cold but you guessed, it could be you because when the market lights played across your intertwined hands, something inside you rushed and flurled, robbing your breath for a moment quiet too long before finally — your turned around, guiding him further into the market, past vendors selling hand-made christmas ornaments and wooden toys carved with intricate detail, past the hot chocolate stand where steam rose in lazy spirals. The snow crunched under your boots as you sampled vent for vent, from the roasted chestnuts that burned your fingers to hot chocos that made you feel warm all to the way down, and when you passed through a vendor of knitted scarves, Jongseong made you stop, his hand let go of yours only so he could reach for one of the cream ones, taking it and rolling it at your neck before he paid.

“Is that so I stop using yours?”

“It’s just because I wanted to give you one.”His voice came out soft, almost like a whisper, and you felt the warmth of his breath ghost across your forehead as he leaned closer. He was so close and suddenly everything felt so still — you could hear the furor of the market, the soft cadence of voices you had heard all the time, but it seemed to come from somewhere else. All you could feel was Jongseong, and the soft hustle of his breath against your skin before a cold wind blew through, sweeping your hair out of the pins and to his cheeks, causing him to lift his hand, twisting the loosened lock between his fingertips before he brushed it behind your ear.

“How long have you been together?” the vendor asked to bring you back to where you stood.

You opened your mouth to correct her, to explain that you weren’t together, but then you thought better.

“Not long enough,” you said.

❄︎

It was already dark by the time you both decided to leave the market, afternoon giving way to the night and so Jongseong was the one to take the wheel, driving through the remaining miles to Andrea.

The GPS signal failed on the last stretch — just as she had warned that it would and you found yourselves relying on her text directions as the road narrowed, winding through dense forest where snow-laden pines pressed in from both sides. 

“This is really remote,” Jongseong observed. 

“Andrea likes her space.”

“For what?”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” you said, and your gazes caught through the center console. 

Jongseong furrowed his brows for a quiet second before he realized you were joking, and then, he let out a tremendous laugh. It was a powerful thing — that laugh. He only did it once, but his eyes remained shaped like it, softening every angle of his face and making something within you do a complicated tug before you turned back at the windshield.

To say the cabin was remote was almost an understatement.

It took another fifteen minutes with a disconnected GPS before finally — it appeared through the trees — looking like something out of a winter fairy tale.

Warm light spilled from the windows, smoke curled from the stone chimney, and icicles hung like crystal decorations from the eaves.

The cabin itself was larger than you thought it would be — two stories of weathered wood and stone, with a wide porch that wrapped around the front.

Andrea burst through the front door before you had even turned off the engine, bundled in a massive coat and waving enthusiastically. Her blonde hair was longer now, pulled back in a messy bun, and she practically bounced through the snow to reach you.

“You made it!” she said, pulling you into a crushing hug the moment you stepped out of the car. “I was starting to worry. I heard it might snow tonight.”

“We are fine,” you assured her, “Andrea, this is Jongseong — Jongseong, Andrea.”

“The mysterious travel companion,” she said, extending a mittened hand to Jongseong with a grin. “Any friend of this one is welcome here, but come on — let’s get inside before we freeze. I’ve got the fire going and dinner’s almost ready.”

Andrea had always talked like that, using statements in place of questions, imperatives that sound like invitations.

Her arm curled around your waist, pulling you toward the door, and you were too embarrassed in nostalgia to deny — too happy to have a friend so close together to refuse.

Inside, the cabin was everything you imagined it would be — cozy and warm, with exposed wooden beams and a stone fireplace crackling merrily. Thick rugs covered the floors, and the furniture was an eclectic mix of vintage pieces that somehow worked together. The main room flowed into a small kitchen, and you could see a part of the area above, accessible by a ladder.

“So,” Andrea began, following your gaze around the space “I should have mentioned. The cabin’s kind of a one-room situation. I’ve got the bed up there, obviously, and the couch is pretty comfortable, but-” She trailed off, the implication clear. 

Someone would be sleeping on the floor.

“It’s fine. I can take the floor,” Jongseong said, before you could even open your mouth.  

“No!” you broke. “You already slept on the chair last night.”

Jongseong’s lips parted in a ready retort, but Andrea broke in then, saying you both could decide it after dinner with barely concealed amusement, and finished guiding you in. 

The dining table was small and round, positioned in the middle of the kitchen with a butternut squash soup, a quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, homemade bread, and what looked like a cashew-based cheese that she had apparently made herself.

“This looks amazing,” you said, and you meant it. 

“It’s all plant-based, obviously,” Andrea said, settling into her chair. “I hope that’s okay with you,” she added to Jongseong.

“Of course,” he quickly confirmed. “I am actually curious about it.”

And you were not sure if it was mere politeness, or kindness but it got Andrea beaming, explaining her process with the same enthusiasm she brought to all her passions all the while Jongseong listened, adding questions. And you found yourself relaxing — you haven’t noticed how tense you were about this encounter until that moment.

“So,” Andrea said after a while, turning to you with a knowing look. “How’s the vegan progress going? Last time we talked, I convinced you to try it for a month."

And just like that, the comfortable warmth shattered. You set down your spoon, feeling something tight inside of your chest. 

“I’m not,” you said quietly. “Vegan — I mean. I still just-”

“Oh?” 

“It’s just — it’s just hard in New York.”

“But there are so many places there like Fresh&Co or by Chloe,” she said. “I made you a whole list.”

You knew deep inside that she didn’t mean to be judgmental or rude, but it had already cut the thin thread that had been keeping you from breaking, and in the rush of the moment you talked.

“I can’t afford those places, Andrea!” you said. “I can’t afford Fresh&Co or by Chloe — I barely can afford normal restaurants, imagine these fancy vegan places or trendy spots that have just opened in Soho.”

“Do you know how expensive cashew cheese is at Whole Foods? Or how much does it cost to eat at Avant Garden or Ladybird? I’m broke. Like actually broke. Not I should cut back on lattes broke, but I ate ramen for a week straight before my neighbor interfered and started giving me food broke. And I’m sorry I can’t be the vegan you want me to be, but I’m doing the best I can-”

Jongseong’s phone rang somewhere over the pocket of his jeans, its familiar sound cutting through your spout, and making the three of you halt.

“I am sorry,” he said, pulling the device out. He glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression — not quite worry, but a tightening around his eyes. “It’s my mother. I should take it.”

“The signal is better outside,” Andrea said. 

He moved toward the door, grabbing his coat, and stepping out onto the porch.

Through the window, you could see his silhouette against the snow, the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand running through his hair in what was becoming a familiar gesture.

The silence he left behind felt enormous, a living thing that you felt on your shoulder, Andrea had never been anything but nice to you.

“I am sorry,” you said. “I didn’t-”

“You have nothing to say sorry for,” she cut. “I pushed you-”

“You had no idea.”

“Exactly,” Andrea said. “I know I am not the most reliable person when it comes to communication, and it used to be way better when we used to sleep not even two feet apart, but — I am still your friend. You can talk to me.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it,” she continued, her face changing. “You don’t have to thank me — actually, you have to stop — stop walking around like you are disturbing the world, stop saying sorry and thank you for everything — God, you are not a burden.”

Andrea grabbed your wrist. “You have always done this. Are you aware? Your parents always offered to help you, but you always denied and kept getting half-part jobs. You never allowed me to help you on anything or even the stupid Matthew-”

“Let people take care of you too.”

“I am sor-” you began, but quickly caught yourself as Andrea sighed, letting go of your wrist and straightening herself back into her chair.

“So, New York?” she asked. “Are you still working in the library?”

“Yes.”

“And do you like it?”

“I do,” you admitted. “But it doesn’t pay very well, and I am still paying my university loans so it’s hard to find a good place, you know? And I don’t know — it feels lonely.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow at you, her head dipping to the door where Jongseong had left just minutes ago “It’s — I don’t know,” you said. “We met at the airport-”

“Wait, what?”

“No,” you interrupted, suddenly understanding her urgency by the thought that Jongseong was a complete stranger. He wasn’t — at least, not really. “Our families live in the same neighborhood in Seattle — we grew up basically together, studying in the same school from kindergarten to high school, but we never talked much.”

“Never?” she asked, her confusion setting heavy on her eyebrows. “From kindergarten to high school takes what? Fourteen years? And you both never talked?”

“It’s complicated,” you said. “I thought he hated me.”

“And did he?”

“No, he was shy.”

“Like shy in general?”

“He was shy around me.”

“He was shy around you?” she echoed. “Specifically you — for fourteen years?”

“I don’t know, he is-” you began, not really not how to put everything into words.

“Nice or whatever-guy,” she supplied. “Doesn’t cross the country in his fancy car just because.”

“He also wanted to go to Seattle, it’s Christmas and his family still lives there.”

“If it is truly his mother on the phone,” she said, fully turned to the door now. “I wouldn’t say he seems very happy about anything.”

You turned to the door in time to see Jongseong pushing his head back — pacing back and forward through the snow. He had walked so far over the field that Andrea’s cabin barely could illuminate him.

“I know what I am talking about,” she said, reaching out for your empty plate and standing up, and you knew her enough to know, it was the end of the discussion, and so, you only followed her around, helping her take out the table, and wash the dishes — a silence settling within but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt familiar — nostalgic, even. 

It reminded you of the late nights in your university dorm room,with its perpetually broken heater, and forced you both to huddle under the blankets to study for exams, sharing instant noodles at 2 AM because the dining hall was closed, and you both were too tired for anything. 

Andrea had been there through everything — your worst breakdowns during finals, And you had been there for her too, through family drama and creative blocks and the endless cycle of falling in and out of love.

“Okay,” Andrea said, breaking the silence as she hung up the dish towel. “You should go shower now. The water gets temperamental after a few hours at night — something about the pipes and the cold, I don’t really understand it. But trust me, you don’t want to find out the hard way.”

“Alright.”

“And listen,” she continued. “I’m wiped. I was up early, and today was long. If I’m asleep by the time you’re done, don’t mind me. I will catch you up properly in the morning.”

“Of course,”  you said, smiling. “Thank you, Andrea. For everything.”

She gave you a look then — and it took you a while to notice the reason why, but even so, you couldn’t feel sorry for using the words she had just told you to stop using.

You were really thankful — for her allowing you to stay in the cabin for the night, for her friendship all those years, and she might have sensed it because she only smiled then, dismissing you with a small goodnight before she disappeared upstairs. 

❄︎

By the time you had left the shower, Jongseong hadn’t come back yet.

The cabin was quiet now, save for the occasional creak of the fireplace and the distant sound of wind against the windows.

Through the kitchen’s window, you could see Jongseong’s silhouette outside. He seemed to have put the phone on the speaker now, too tired to keep it pressed into his ears, but his posture was still tense in a way that made your chest tighten, your heart keening for a second.

You gave him a minute, then ten, messaging your own parents in the meantime, but as your conversation had gone through all the updates of the day, Jongseong seemed to keep going.

It wasn’t normal — you had heard him talking with his family already. Some exchanges that took just a couple of minutes, and so, you grabbed your coat, the scarf Jongseong had bought you earlier on the day and stepped out onto the porch.

The cold hit you instantly, causing a slight gasp from you, but you didn’t stop.

The snow crunched under your boots as you walked toward him, standing close enough so you could make out his voice now, low and strained in clipped words that you didn’t need to hear to know they weren’t pleasing.

But then you heard — his mother 's voice clearer than anything.

“I know you miss your father, Jongseong,” she said. “I miss him too, but I also miss you, and truly wish you could come home with a better mindset.”

There was something different in the way she said miss. A subtle shift in tone that you couldn’t quite place — the word carried a different weight, a different ache, as if one absence was temporary and the other permanent, though you didn’t understand why.

“It might feel like it because you are away,” she continued through the silence. “And I know it’s hard to imagine coming home and not having him here, but he-”

You didn’t notice you had gave another step until you heard the snow crunching under your boots once again, and this time Jongseong noticed your presence because he turned slightly, his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he looked away again, running his free hand through his hair in that familiar gesture, but you quickly noticed it wasn’t frustration, but just restraining, as if Jongseong was trying to prevent himself from feeling something.

“Mom, I have to go,” he said, already hanging up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The snow continued to fall around you both, silent and relentless, and you could see the way Jongseong’s shoulders were shaking — not from cold, but from something deeper inside of him, something he had been holding back for far too long.

Then he broke.

It started as a shudder, a sharp intake of breath that caught in his throat, and then his face crumpled. Tears spilled down his cheeks, as if they would never stop, and he pressed his hands to his face as if he could somehow hold himself together through sheer force of will.

You rushed to him without thinking, closing the distance between you in seconds as your arms wrapped around him, and he collapsed into you, his weight suddenly heavy against your body as all the strength seemed to drain out of him. His head dropped to your shoulder, and you could feel him trembling, could hear the broken sounds escaping him — raw and unfiltered in a way that made your own chest ache.

“I am sorry,” he gasped out between sobs, the words muffled against your coat. “I am sorry, I just — I can’t-”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your hand moving to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. “It’s okay, Jongseong. I am here.”

He shook his head against your shoulder, his grip on your coat tightening. “My father,” he managed, although his voice broke on those single words. “He died. Early this year. And I — I haven’t been back since the funeral. I can’t — every time I think about going home, about walking into that house and him not being there, I—”

His words dissolved into another wave of tears, his body shaking harder now, and you held him tighter, your own eyes burning as you pressed your cheek against his hair.

“I’m not ready,” he said, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I’m not ready to go back and see his empty chair at the dining table, or his office with all his things still there, or — fuck I’m not ready for any of it. But it’s Christmas, and my mom is alone, and I have to go, but I don’t know how to—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to.

You stood there in the snow, holding him as he fell apart, and you didn’t say anything — there was nothing you could say that would make this better. There were no words for this kind of grief, no platitudes that would ease the weight of what he was carrying.

Around your second year in university, there was a class where your English literature professor spent five minutes writing down classics titles before she finally turned around, her glasses reflecting the spring morning outside, and then she asked why their characters had such tragic backgrounds.

“For development,” someone had answered, and it had made sense then — safe in that bright classroom, to think that a tragedy was a narrative device, something necessary to make characters grow.

Oliver Twist never would have ended up in the workhouse if his mother had survived childbirth — nor Jane Eyre would have been sent to school. But standing here in the snow with Jongseong shaking in your arms, it didn’t feel like structure or theme or anything clever. It was just cruel.

You held him, your arms tight around him as if you could hold his broken pieces together as simply as that.

You were not sure for how long you both had been there. Eventually, his breathing began to slow, the violent shaking subsiding into occasional tremors, and you felt him pull back slightly, just enough to lift his head from your shoulder.

His face was red and blotchy, eyes swollen, and he looked utterly exhausted — like someone who had been carrying a mountain on his back and had finally, briefly, set it down.

You cradled his face, letting go of him only so you could press your palms gently against his cheeks as your thumbs moved in delicate arcs, cleaning his tears, and Jongseong inclined his face into your touch. He didn’t seem to think about the decision of doing it, he only did — inclining his face in your palms as if it was the most natural thing to do. Although he didn’t shed any more tears, you rubbed your thumbs on his cheeks once again, immediately making something stir inside of you, rapid and warm, it didn’t help that he kissed you then, his lips pressing against the skin of your palm.

“You are freezing, Ribbons,” he whispered.

“So are you.”

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

You walked back through the snow together, his hand finding yours somewhere along the way, fingers intertwining in a grip that felt less like comfort and more like necessity — like he needed the anchor of your touch to keep himself grounded. 

The cabin’s warm light grew closer with each step, a beacon against the dark expanse of the field, and you could feel the weight of everything that had just happened settling between you, heavy and unspoken.

Inside, the cabin was in the same quietness as when you had left it. 

“Andrea said the shower gets temperamental after some hours of the night,” you told him out of silence. “You should go while it’s still working — it’s upstairs, the only door at the left side.

Jongseong nodded, his hand slipping from yours with a gentle squeeze before he moved toward his carry-on and taking it upstairs. You watched him go, his shoulders still carrying tension even as he disappeared behind the door, and the soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have.

❄︎

By the time Jongseong emerged from the shower, you had already settled both of your makeshift beds, pulling blankets and pillows Andrea had arranged earlier. You had arranged the couch for him — the cushions looked comfortable enough, and you'd layered two thick quilts over the worn upholstery. For yourself, you had made do with the floor beside the dying fire, what spare blankets had remained, it seemed fair considering that you had made Jongseong sleep on the chair last night.

But when Jongseong came down the stairs, his hair still damp and wearing clean clothes, he stopped at the bottom step, his eyes moving from the couch to where you were kneeling on the floor, fluffing a pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making beds,” you said simply, not looking up. “The couch is yours.”

“Ribbons,” he called and there was something in his tone that made you halt — finally glancing up. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set in that stubborn way you had come to recognize. “No.”

“But-”

“It’s not fine,” he said, moving past you toward the couch, gathering the quilts you had carefully arranged there. “You are not sleeping on the floor alone.”

Your lips parted on a retort, but whatever the words were it slipped and slid as you watched him bringing the blankets down, kneeling beside your makeshift bed on the floor and beginning to arrange them there, creating a second sleeping space right next to yours.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you as he smoothed out the quilts, arranging the pillow beside yours. 

“We will both sleep here,” he said simply. “By the fire. It’s warmer anyway.”

“Jong-” you began, but he had already laid down, pushing the blanket up as if he was ready for sleep, and you would have believed he was if he didn't speak then.

“I am sorry,” he said. "I didn’t want to dump this on you."

“You are not dumping it on me,” you said, but Jongseong was looking at you then, his eyes searching yours with a quiet disbelief — as if he was trying to find the truth beneath your words because he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept them. “And even if you were — I have been doing nothing to you rather than dump about my tragic year — so consider it that you are even owing me two dumps.”

“Owing?”

“Yes,” you said. “I have told you about my cheating ex, my terrible apartment in Hell’s Kitchen plus that I am completely broke.”

“Wouldn’t the terrible apartment in Hell’s Kitchen be related to the broken situation?” he asked, and you shook your head, although you knew it was true, no one would live at your place if they didn’t have a reason.

“Two,” you pushed, extending the same number of fingers toward him. The act seemed childish, but Jongseong snorted them, reaching out for you and pulling it down.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” you said. You wanted to know what his father was like, what memories he carried that made going home feel impossible. You wanted to know about the house he grew up in, the empty chair at the dining table, and the office with everything still in place. How he had survived these months, carrying this weight alone in New York, and how it had been for him — the move from Seattle. If he had suffered the same way you did with the time zones, and if he sat awake in his bed at night wondering if he had done something wrong. You wanted to know if he had fallen in love there, and if the implication of what Andrea said was true. You wanted to know him entirely, making up for all those years that you didn’t — but it seemed too much to ask for so you added, “everything you want to tell me.”

Jongseong was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. And when he finally spoke, he told you about Seattle, and his father, he told you how his father worked a lot and was not much at home, but when he was, he was completely present. His father was who taught him to play the guitar, and who would sit with him on the porch during summer evenings, talking about everything and nothing while the sun set behind the trees. He told you about the cancer that came with all the signal warnings, but which his father pretended that was nothing. He told you about the chemo he started while Jongseong had just begun university and how he felt guilty for not being there, but his father refused to allow him to move back — said it would make him feel worse, and so, he only went back home for the funeral and it was unbearable.

“I am sorry for not having told you before,” he said. “It’s just — saying it out loud makes it real, and-” his voice faltered then, and you reached out to him, your fingers wrapping around his hand. He held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. The fire crackled softly beside you, and somewhere in the quiet space between his words and the falling snow outside, Jongseong turned to you, noticing that you had been crying just as much as he, and he smiled a bit, coming closer enough for you to smell the soap on him, the mint on his breath as he reached his free hand to your cheeks. And the moment felt like the meniscus of a glass, like any second it might spill over.

“You have a heart way too big for yourself, you know that, don’t you?” he asked.

“Is that some type of criticism?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You genuinely wished you could read his expression better. But his back was turned to the fire, and he was little more than a dark silhouette in front of you. And it was a bit unsettling honestly — to know, he could study you as you couldn’t do the same, so you dropped your gaze toward your still connected hands, losing your grip on it. Yet Jongseong tightened, holding you still for a second, barely the length of a released breath, before he seemed to think better and lose again. You did not slip away as you intended to, but remained there — your hands floating between you for a moment before you adjusted your positions and brushed your fingertips on his. He was calloused there, a roughened patch of skin you imagined had been carved by endless hours of guitar practice.

“Since I told you about my father and it’s related to my first dump,” he said out of silence. “I will let you consider that I still owe you two.”

“We still have a lot of miles to Seattle, I might solicit it some other day,” you told him.

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, only that you woke up sometime later to find Jongseong’s breathing had evened out beside you, his hand still loosely holding yours and lulling you through the rest of the night.

hello, my loves! i would like to thank you for staying with me for another slow chapter! i promise it’s the last one as Jongseong and Ribbons will enter their lovers era on the next one (we cheer!) and not only this, i will be gracing you with a smutty scene lmao (we cheer in double?)

anyway! thank you once again and (hopefully) see you on the next chapter!

just please, don’t forget that you can always reach me through comments, and ask with your thoughts, concerns, and screams about this story! i would love to read ♡ and if you aren’t part of my taglist and would like to, you can always join it just by asking me!!!

[vampirtown]

taglist two (♡) story special — @jakearta @ddoseoflove @yeahhemmings- @dreamy-carat @ikeulove @karynnoona @k1ttyjwon @tidbittygf @iiunique @cutehoons02 @jellymiki @jun2ki @svvtvenom @li-know @strawjayrries @sievenserz @fancypeacepersona @psyches-reid

[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.

Jongseong wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore. He had moved outside, 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 white marble sky, cracking and letting the light spill through the bands of blue, and across the snow-dusted landscape with a warmth that felt almost impossible given the season.

You settled back into your seat with a contented sigh as Jongseong 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 modest hills to the flatter, more expansive terrain that characterized the Midwest as Jongseong shifted from the fifth to the sixth gear, making the BMW impulse 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 :)

also! please, 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!!!

[svvtvenom]

OHHH THE SLOW DANCE SCENE PLESSEEEEEEE HOLY MOLY