✨Leia✨ @sxdtxwn - Tumblr Blog

Apr 5

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. — heeseung lee oneshot.

summary. You spend your 20s exactly how you planned it to be—fun, fearless, and unattached. Until your mom introduces you to her old high school friend’s son, who looks exactly like the man you spent one reckless night in another city convincing yourself you’d never see again.

pairing. heeseung x fem!reader

content / warnings. one night stand (flashback, brief), producer!hee, unemployed!reader, the moms are in this, one mention of jungwon, maeumi, nicknames!, protected p in v, oral (fem rec.), fingering, riding, nipple play, lmk if i miss anything xx

w.c. 14k

JUNE 2025

“My head’s throbbing.”

You mutter as you drive to your parents house. Your mom mentioned about inviting her old friend over, who lived across the country, in another city saying something about her staying over for a few days.

You sigh at the thought, blaming the pounding in your skull on last night’s cocktails with your girl friends and the tiny hairs still sticking to your damp shirt from a morning shower. You’re not ready for polite family small talk, questions about your job or relationship—or the endless commentary about how “you should really be settling down.”

You pull over your parents’ street, already noticing a whole luggage outside the house.

“Seems like she’s here.” You mutter to yourself, as you got out the car, quickly looking at the mirror to make yourself presentable, and totally not hangover.

Grabbing your bag, you try to summon your most convincing “I’m totally together” expression. If your mom’s friend was anything like she described, this was going to be a lot of chatter, a lot of smiles, and probably a few pointed questions about your love life that you weren’t ready to answer.

You knock on the door. “I’m home!” you annouce, and almost immediately, you hear your mom’s footsteps scampering over to open it. You chuckle at her cuteness—always so excited to see you, even when you barely had your life together.

“Finally!” she exclaimes, practically dragging you inside. “You’re just in time—she’s already here!”

You groan inwardly, bracing yourself for endless small talk and awkward introductions, but couldn’t help smiling at your mom’s enthusiasm.

When you came inside the house, in the living room, a middle-aged lady—seemingly the same age as your mom—sits on the couch, her posture polite but relaxed. She looks around with a warm smile that could make anyone feel immediately welcome, though your hungover brain mostly registered her as an interruption to your carefully curated morning recovery.

“She must be Mrs. Lee,” you say, glancing at your mom, who was practically glowing with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin despite yourself—your mom always had a way of lighting up a room, and apparently, it was contagious.

“Oh, my, she had grown up to be such a fine young lady!” Mrs. Lee greets with a smile, hugging you warmly.

You return the hug with a polite squeeze, your head still pounding from last night and your brain screaming too early for this kind of energy. “Thank you,” you mutter, secretly hoping your slightly messy hair and damp shirt weren’t too obvious.

“I’ve been telling her so much about you!” your mom chimes in, practically beaming. “All good things, of course.”

You smile faintly, wondering exactly how much she had told her friend about your chaotic, fun-filled nights out with friends—and mentally prepare yourself for a gentle roasting session disguised as small talk.

But Mrs. Lee just look at you softly, a motherly smile plastered on her face, as if she could see right through all the bravado you were trying to put on. It was the kind of smile that made you feel both warm and a little… exposed.

“What about your boy, Lee?” Your mom asks and Mrs. Lee claps her hands as if remembering a completely important detail.

“Right, right!” She laughs. “I told him to buy us some fruits at the supermarket! We can’t stay here and come empty-handed.” She smiles, in which your mom joking hits her arm. “What a hassle! But, thank you anyway,”

Mrs. Lee looks over to you. “I feel like you and my son could be such good friends too!” She grins, in which you awkwardly smile.

Great.

Another one of your mom’s friends trying to set you up with their good-for-nothing sons.

“Honey, help her get her luggage inside!” Your mom says, walking to the kitchen, already arms in arms with Mrs. Lee. You nod before walking towards the entrance.

That’s when you heard a car pull up outside.

The sound of tires against the pavement cut through the room, followed by the soft thud of a door closing. Your mom glanced toward the window almost instinctively, her face lighting up even more than before.

“Oh, perfect timing,” you can hear Mrs. Lee’s voice from inside. “That must be Heeseung!”

You decide to pay no mind to it, as you walked over to carry her luggage.

“Shit, what does she pack in here?”

“Clothes enough for two weeks.” A voice answers your little mutter to yourself.

A familiar one—deep, oh so soft, and far too recognizable—making your breath hitch as you stand straight.

“Do you feel good? Am I making you feel good?”

“Let go for me, baby.”

Your mind suddenly betrayed you, replaying the words spoken in that same voice two months ago—back when you’d been careless, impulsive, and not so smart.

Heat rushed to your face as the memory collided with this current moment. You turn to look and there he was, still wearing the soft eyes you had been so enchanted by that night.

Evan. Evan Lee. At least that’s what he introduced himself as.

The same eyes that had studied you under dim hotel lights now widened, just barely, before masking it with something polite and unreadable.

Mrs. Lee came out before you could even say anything, her voice bright and proud as she introduced you. You barely registered the words, too focused on the way he straightened beside her.

He nodded, polite and distant, the kind of courtesy reserved for strangers. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Then he smiled—easy, effortless—before turning to follow his mom into the house. He picked up her luggage, handling it with practiced care as he walked past you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne.

He didn’t even glance back.

So he didn’t remember.

You had both been drunk that night, after all.

…

Dinner is already laid out by the time everyone gathers around the dining table a few hours later. The familiar smell of your mom’s cooking fills the room—warm, comforting, painfully normal for a moment that feels anything but.

You take a seat near the edge of the table, choosing distance over comfort. Across from you, Heeseung pulls out his chair and sits down smoothly, posture relaxed, expression polite. To anyone else, he’s just a guest—your mom’s friend’s son, well-mannered and quiet.

To you, he’s the man whose voice still lingers in the back of your mind—whose hands had memorized you in the dark, whose lips had left impressions you were foolish enough to think time would erase.

Conversation flows easily between your mom and Mrs. Lee, laughter spilling over shared memories from high school, old teachers, stories you’ve heard a hundred times before. You nod at the right moments, pushing food around your plate, forcing yourself to eat despite the tight knot in your stomach.

“So, Heeseung,” your mom says brightly, turning to him, “Are you okay with the spare room? Her brother hasn’t been home since his marriage, and she doesn’t want to give her childhood room for guests,” Your mom turns to you and snickers.

“That’s because I visit you and dad all the time, I still need a room here.” You groan softly, while Mrs. Lee laughs.

“Yes, ma’am. The room is just nice. Very well-kept.” Heeseung smiles at her.

“Well, that’s good,” she continues. “By the way, you two are around the same age. You should show him around a bit, don’t you think? This isn’t a city he always comes by.”

Your grip tightens around your utensils.

Before you can answer, Heeseung looks up—briefly, carefully—meeting your eyes for the first time since earlier. There’s no recognition on his face. No spark. Just polite interest.

“If she’s free,” he says simply.

If you’re free.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The lie settles between you, heavy and unspoken.

Under the table, his foot shifts slightly—close enough to make your breath hitch, close enough to make you wonder if it’s accidental. He still doesn’t look at you. Still doesn’t acknowledge the past.

But your body remembers a different name.

And for the first time since he walked past you without a second glance, you realize something unsettling.

Heeseung might not remember you.

But Evan would have.

After dinner, the house settles into silence faster than you expect.

Laughter fades. Doors close softly. The hallway light dims until only a thin strip glows beneath bedroom doors. You lie awake longer than you should, staring at the ceiling you’ve known your whole life, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of another presence in the house.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just an old insignificant memory overstaying its welcome.

Eventually, thirst wins.

You slip out of bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak, padding your way toward the kitchen. The house smells faintly of detergent and leftover dinner, comforting in a way that almost makes you forget why your chest feels tight.

Almost.

The kitchen light is already on.

You freeze in the doorway.

Heeseung stands by the counter, sleeves rolled up, a glass of water in his hand. His hair is slightly tousled now, stripped of the careful neatness he wore earlier. He looks… different. More real. More like the man you left sleeping behind hotel curtains two months ago.

He looks up when he hears you.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “I just—couldn’t sleep.”

He nods, accepting that without question. No tension. No recognition. Or maybe too much control to show either.

You grab a glass from the cupboard, deliberately choosing the one farthest from him. The tap runs. Too loud in the silence. You focus on the sound, on anything but the awareness of him standing only a few feet away.

“Your mom’s cooking was really good,” he says after a moment. “She didn’t exaggerate.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “She always does that.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost absent-minded: “You mentioned earlier you don’t live here?”

“Not anymore,” you answer. “I moved to my own apartment a year ago.”

“Oh,” he says.

The word hangs between you.

You take a sip of water, finally glancing at him. He isn’t looking at you—his attention fixed on the counter, jaw relaxed, expression unreadable. If he remembers, he gives nothing away. If he doesn’t, then this ease is genuine.

You hate that you can’t tell which one hurts more.

“Well,” you murmur, setting the glass down. “Good night.”

He looks up then, meeting your eyes fully for the first time since dinner.

“Good night,” he says.

Still nothing. No crack in his voice. No hesitation. Just calm, polite distance.

You walk past him toward the hallway, careful not to brush his arm, careful not to slow your steps. Behind you, you hear him turn off the light.

In the darkness of your room, you lie awake again—heart louder now, thoughts sharper.

You were the one who left that morning.

You were the one who chose silence.

And yet somehow, standing in your parent’s kitchen, it feels like he’s the one holding all the control.

…

Morning comes too soon.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, thin and pale, landing across your face like an accusation. For a moment, you forget where you are—until the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminds you that you’re back in your parents’ house. And that you aren’t alone.

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your temples. The night had offered no answers. Just silence, politeness, and the unbearable calm of not knowing.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, your mom is already bustling around, apron tied, hair pulled back. Mrs. Lee sits at the table, sipping tea, looking far too refreshed for someone who traveled across the country.

“Morning,” your mom chirps when she sees you. “Perfect timing.”

You hum in response, reaching for a glass of water.

“Could you help Mrs. Yang walk her dog later?” she continues casually. “You remember—next door. You used to do it all the time when you lived here. Besides, litte Jungwon is in Uni now, so no one is there to help her.”

You pause.

“Maeum? Yeah,” you say. “I can do that.”

Mrs. Lee’s face lights up. “Walking outside right now would be so refreshing,” she says warmly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns toward the hallway. “Heeseung!”

Your stomach tightens at the sound of his name.

He appears a moment later, sleeves rolled up again, hair still slightly damp like he’s just washed his face. He looks… awake. Calm. Completely unaffected. “Hm?”

“You should go with her,” Mrs. Lee says easily. “It’ll be good for you to get some fresh air after traveling.”

Heeseung blinks once, then nods. “Sure.”

Sure.

Your mom smiles, clearly pleased. “Perfect! Two birds with one stone.” You force a smile of your own, even as your pulse starts to pick up. “Yeah. No problem.”

Heeseung glances at you—not searching, not curious. Just attentive.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

As you step outside together a few minutes later, the morning air feels too crisp, too quiet. The street looks the same as it always has. Familiar. Safe.

And yet, walking side by side with him, you’re painfully aware of the space between you—and how little it would take to close it.

You’re the one who left. It’s a one-night stand.

You remind yourself of that as you head toward the neighbor’s gate.

So why does it feel like this walk might be the first step toward something you can’t walk away from again.

Heeseung kneels slightly as Maeum charges toward him, tail wagging like it could knock him over.

“He’s… lively,” he says, keeping his voice casual as Maeum circles him, sniffing, then jumping up in excitement. A low chuckle escapes him, and you feel your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah, Maeum’s a handful,” you reply, gripping the leash before he decides to chase a squirrel or something worse. “But he’s harmless… mostly.”

Heeseung brushes a hand along Maeum’s back. “Mostly is good.”

Maeum barks happily, spinning between the two of you. There’s a brief moment where the dog seems to notice the tension radiating off both of you, but of course, he can’t name it.

“Shall we get going?” you ask, starting toward the sidewalk.

Heeseung falls into step beside you, careful not to crowd, careful not to overstep. Close enough to notice the little things: the way you tense when Maeum yanks, the faint crease in your brow, the subtle sway of your hair in the morning sun.

The street is quiet. Early birds call from the trees. Leaves rustle under your shoes. Maeum dashes ahead, then back, sniffing everything in sight.

“So…” you begin, trying to sound casual, “long drive yesterday?”

He shrugs. “Enough to make me remember why I prefer flights.”

You laugh softly. “Fair enough. It is kind of chaos on the road here sometimes.”

Silence falls for a few steps, filled only with Maeum’s padding and your own heartbeat.

Then Maeum stops abruptly, sniffing at a patch of grass right between you and Heeseung. The leash jerks. You stumble forward slightly, and his hand reaches out before you can think, steadying you.

Fingertips brush.

A fleeting touch—but it’s enough. Enough to spark memory, enough to make your stomach twist.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say a word. He takes Maeum’s leash and keeps walking.

And that’s the worst part.

Because whether he remembers—or is pretending—you have no idea.

And it leaves the quiet hanging between you like a question that refuses to be answered.

Maeum slows near the corner, distracted by something only he seems to find interesting. You stop with him, shifting your weight as you wait.

Your fingers curl in on themselves without you noticing.

A slow fist.

Tight enough that your nails press into your palm.

Heeseung’s gaze drops.

Not immediately. Not obviously.

But it lingers just long enough.

“You do that often,” he says.

You look up. “Do what?”

He nods toward your hand. “That.”

You follow his eyes, startled, and force your fingers open. Faint crescent marks bloom red against your skin.

“Oh,” you say lightly. “I guess I clench my hand when I’m waiting.”

“Or when you’re holding back,” he replies, tone even. Too even.

The street feels quieter suddenly.

You laugh, trying to brush it off. “You’re very observant.” He doesn’t smile. Not quite.

“Hard not to notice,” he says.

And just like that—

Your mind betrays you.

Dim light. Your back against unfamiliar sheets.

His voice low, close, asking something you can’t quite remember the words to—only the way your hand had curled then too, nails biting into your palm as you nodded instead of answering.

You remember looking down afterward.

The half-moon marks.

The way he’d gently pried your fingers open, thumb brushing over the indents like he was committing them to memory.

The leash tugs.

You blink, pulled back into the morning air, the quiet street, Maeum wagging his tail impatiently.

Heeseung is already looking ahead again, expression unreadable.

“You good?” he asks, as if nothing had happened.

You nod, heart racing, and start walking again.

But your palm still tingles.

Both of you continue walking with Maeum tugging on his leash once in a while, before stopping infront of a convenient store near the park.

“I’ll buy us drinks, anything you like?” He asks. You look at him as you shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He nods, entering the store while you wait outside while Maeum settles at your feet. Through the glass, you watch him move with easy familiarity— scanning the shelves without hesitation.

He came out a few minutes later with two drinks in his hand. Americano for him, and another for you.

Green Grape Ade.

“Green Grape Ade?” His voice rings in the loud bar music, looking at you with precise judgement, while you mockingly glare at him.

“What’s wrong with it?” You ask, voice slightly loud trying to drown out the music at the bar. He smiles.

“You’re original.” He clinks his glass againts yours, the ice chiming softly over the music.

“I just prefer sour drinks. Especially from the convenient store.” You drink as your gaze turn to him. He’s already staring at you.

He hums. “That’s why your face so sour?” He teases in which you gasp, mock-offense.

He laughs, before shaking his head. “That was a lie. You might just be the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.”

The memory fades as quickly as it came.

You’re back outside the convenience store, the morning air cool against your skin. The bottle in your hand is cold, condensation slick against your fingers.

Heeseung is already walking ahead with Maeum, Americano in hand, posture relaxed like he hasn’t just reached into something you never gave him permission to keep.

You take a sip. It tastes exactly how you like it. How you were imagining it when you were admant on telling Heeseung or Evan it was your favourite at the bar.

And for the first time since you woke up that morning, you wonder if leaving first had really meant leaving anything behind at all.

You catch up to them, glancing at Heeseung. He has a questionable smug look on his face.

“What?” You ask. He shrugs before looking at you.

“I have a lot of things I remember about you.”

…

A few hours pass.

The afternoon drifts by slowly, measured in the ticking of the clock and the occasional sound of movement elsewhere in the house. You spend most of it in your room, half-lying on your bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone without really reading anything.

Every so often, you hear his voice. Muted through the walls. Calm. Easy. Laughing lightly at something your mom says.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

When hunger finally wins over avoidance, the sun is already dipping lower in the sky. The house smells faintly of reheated food, warm and familiar. You take a breath before leaving your room, practicing a neutral expression in the mirror.

The kitchen is quieter now. You’re just about to turn the corner toward the kitchen when you hear your mom speak.

“…She’s been a little off today,” she says, voice gentle. “Probably tired. Or avoiding something.”

You pause without meaning to. Heeseung answers after a beat. “She does that.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Your mom chuckles softly. “Does what?”

“Pulls back,” he says, careful. “When she doesn’t know how to react yet.”

Silence. Then the faint clink of a spoon against a bowl. “You sound like you know her pretty well,” your mom says lightly.

Another pause. Short. Measured.

“I had an impression,” Heeseung replies. “A while ago.”

An impression.

Your fingers curl at your side.

“Huh,” your mom hums. “That’s funny. She actually does leaves impressions on people,”

There’s a smile in Heeseung’s voice when he answers. “Yeah. She does.”

Your mom moves on easily, talking about dinner, about how long Mrs. Lee plans to stay. The conversation drifts, harmless again.

But you don’t move because impressions aren’t made in passing. They’re made when someone sees you up close. When you let them.

You step back quietly, retreating before either of them can notice you there. Back in your room, you sit down slowly, heart still racing.

He didn’t say you’d met.

He didn’t say when.

But he didn’t say you were strangers either. And somehow, that middle ground feels far more dangerous.

A soft knock echoes through your room a few minutes later.

“Hey… you awake?” Heeseung’s voice—calm, controlled, but just close enough to make your heart stutter.

You freeze. Your chest tightens, your pulse spiking. Act normal. Just act like you weren’t eavesdropping.

You smooth your hair with a trembling hand, blink rapidly, and open the door. “Yeah… just woke up,” you say, voice a little too bright, trying to sound casual.

Heeseung steps into the doorway, just enough to glance around your room. His eyes flick over you—not accusatory, not teasing—just aware. The way he looks at you makes the air between you feel suddenly heavy, like it’s charged with electricity you both can’t ignore.

“Your mom’s calling,” he says softly. “Everything’s ready.”

You nod quickly, gripping the doorframe as if it can anchor you. “I’m… not that hungry,” you murmur.

Heeseung tilts his head, that faint, knowing curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he replies, voice smooth, steady, and sharp enough to cut through your attempts at calm.

You step aside, but your foot catches on the edge of the rug. You curse under your breath, forcing a laugh. Too loud. Too sharp.

He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to. The silence itself feels deliberate, heavy. The space between you is so tight that you feel him even when he doesn’t touch you.

“I’ll be eating downstairs,” he finally says, straightening, eyes lingering just long enough to make your stomach clench.

“Okay… see you there,” you say, breath uneven, heart hammering.

He nods once, easily, and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

The click echoes like a verdict.

You press your back against the door, sliding down slowly, hands trembling.

He knows I was listening.

He remembers… more than he should.

And he didn’t say a word.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist.

You straighten abruptly, forcing yourself to move. Down the stairs. To the dining room. To the table.

Every step is a battle between calm and the chaos churning under your skin.

Because you know tonight, nothing is going to feel casual. Not with him. Not after this.

The whole time during dinner, you caught him staring at you. Shamelessly at that, gave you a sheepish smile when you eye him suspiciously. He’d move his leg closer to yours, it’ll bump a few times, but he doesn’t pull away.

After dinner, you volunteer on doing the dishes. Your mom and Mrs. Lee’s voices fade into the living room, laughter and chatter blending together.

You take a steadying breath and move to the sink, rolling up your sleeves. Warm water runs over your hands, steam curling around your wrists. For a second, it almost feels normal. Almost.

Then you sense him before you hear him.

Heeseung steps beside you, quiet as a shadow. You tense instantly, shoulders stiff, fingers tightening around a plate.

“Need some help?” he asks softly, tilting his head. Not teasing, not accusing. Just calm, measured.

“I’ve got it,” you reply quickly, eyes trained on the suds, forcing the tone casual.

He doesn’t insist. He simply picks up a stray plate, moving closer than necessary, letting his hands brush yours ever so slightly as he rinses it. You flinch, heart hammering, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t linger. Just present.

The silence stretches, heavy, almost oppressive. Every splash of water, every clink of a dish, echoes too loudly.

You scrub a pan a little harder than needed, trying to focus on anything else—the warmth of the water, the smell of garlic, the mundane rhythm of washing—but his quiet presence keeps threading through every thought.

He moves another plate, sets it down. Your hands brush again.

You feel your pulse spike, your chest tightening. Every subtle movement, every glance he doesn’t make—it’s all charged, all deliberate.

The kitchen is small. Empty. Safe. Except it isn’t. Not with him here.

You swallow hard, scrubbing away your nerves as the quiet stretches on, aware that he notices everything, even the things you think he can’t.

And somehow, that makes it impossible to breathe normally.

The sponge squeaks softly as you scrub, the rhythm steady but your thoughts anything but. You’re just about to reach for another plate when he speaks again.

“You know,” Heeseung says, evenly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “you’re not very good at pretending.”

Your hand stills.

“…Pretending what?” you ask, eyes fixed on the sink.

“That you weren’t listening earlier.” He sets a plate onto the rack, movements unhurried. “In the hallway.”

Your chest tightens. You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off gently. “You were.” Not accusing. Just factual. “You always stop breathing when you do that, though your eyes give it away, that you’re pretending everything’s fine.”

That makes your fingers curl instinctively around the sponge.

You let out a short laugh, more defensive than amused. “You don’t know what I ‘always’ do.”

He glances at your hand, then back to the dish he’s drying. “I know because I’ve seen it before.”

You twist the dish towel in your hands, knuckles whitening. The quiet stretches too long, presses too hard against your ribs.

“Are we really doing this?” You snap, turning to look at him directly.

He raises his eyebrows, “Do what?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, before sighing. “Implying things happened, without really saying it?”

He watches you for a second, expression unreadable—not defensive, not amused. Just… attentive.

“I’m not implying,” he says evenly. “You are.”

That only makes your chest tighten.

You scoff, turning back to the sink and reaching for another plate you definitely don’t need to wash. “Right. Of course. Because I’m the one who keeps bringing up impressions and ‘remembering’ and—whatever this is.”

He lets out a quiet breath, more tired than annoyed. “I brought it up once.”

“And you’ve been hovering ever since,” you shoot back, voice sharp but not loud. “So tell me—are we pretending we don’t know each other, or are we circling around it until I crack?” The words hang between you.

He sets the towel down, slow, deliberate. “I’m not trying to crack you.”

“Then what do you want?” you ask, finally facing him again.

He meets your gaze, steady. No smile. No games. “I wanted to know if you leaving meant what I thought it did,” he says simply.

Your throat tightens. “And what did you think it meant, Evan?”

His breath hitches at the usage of his other name, “That you didn’t want to stay,” he replies. “Not just that morning. In general.”

You laugh softly, but it’s brittle. “It’s a one-night stand.”

He nods once. “It is, but I clearly told you before we fell asleep, that I’d prefer you staying.”

Silence settles again, thicker now. The kitchen light hums overhead. Somewhere in the living room, your mom and Mrs. Lee laugh at something on TV.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” you say finally, quieter. “I left because staying would’ve made it… complicated.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “And now?”

You hesitate. “Now it already is.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, then exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

Neither of you move back to the dishes, he wipes the last plate before walking out of the kitchen.

APRIL 2025

The room is dim, lit only by the city glow slipping through the curtains. Everything feels slower, warmer—like the night hasn’t quite caught up with you yet.

You’re tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy, head resting against the pillow. Your skin is still buzzing, your thoughts pleasantly loose around the edges. Somewhere nearby, Heeseung shifts, the mattress dipping slightly as he turns onto his side.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

You hum, half-laughing into the pillow. “I think so. Might need a minute to remember my name.”

He chuckles softly. “Fair.”

The pause lingers, easy and unforced. The city light paints soft lines across the ceiling, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re the one who breaks it first.

“Evan,” you say, voice lazy, still warm with alcohol and comfort. “What do you actually do when you’re not… here?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, turning his head slightly toward you. “That’s a loaded question.”

You smile into the pillow. “I’m serious. You feel like someone with a very normal answer and a very complicated explanation.”

He considers that. “I work in the music industry. Producing. It sounds fancier than it is.”

“Everything sounds fancier at night,” you mumble. “Especially after drinks.”

“True,” he agrees. Then, after a beat, “What about you?”

You shrug, the sheets rustling. “Still figuring it out. I bounce around a lot, job-hunting.”

He smiles and run his hand on your hair, as if wanting to see your face clearly. “You’re tense, like there’s a lot going on here.” He softly taps on your temple.

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes fluttering shut at the gentle touch. “Is that your professional opinion?” you murmur. “Because I didn’t realize producers did mind-reading too.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing lightly through your hair, unhurried. “Not mind-reading. Just… paying attention.”

You turn your face toward him then, cheek sinking deeper into the pillow. “There’s always a lot going on,” you admit. “I just don’t like sitting still long enough to sort it out.”

“Why not?” he asks, not pushing—just curious.

You think about it for a moment, gaze drifting to the ceiling. “Because if I do, I might realize I’m not as put-together as I pretend to be.”

He hums softly, fingers still tracing slow, absent patterns. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble. “You seem like you’ve got things… handled.”

He smiles faintly. “I’m good at looking like I do.”

You glance back at him. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “I just learned how to keep the chaos quiet.”

That earns a small smile from you. “Guess we’re not that different then.”

“Guess not,” he replies.

The room settles again, the air warm and slow. His hand stays in your hair, grounding, gentle—like he’s in no rush to let the moment slip away.

Neither of you says it, but the thought hangs there between you, soft and dangerous all at once:

This feels easy.

Too easy.

He pulls you closer, lips pressing on your temple as he sighs.

“I’d love it if you stay.”

And you felt your heart breaks a little when you doze off.

…

Three days.

Three days until he leaves.

And for the past two, he hasn’t said a word to you.

You can feel it in every glance across the kitchen, every step in the hall, every time the front door opens and closes. He’s there, moving around the house, calm and composed as ever, but the silence between you? It’s deafening.

You try to keep yourself busy—laundry, dishes, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—but the tension follows you everywhere. Even sitting in your room, pretending to read, you can hear him talking to your mom in the living room, laugh light and easy, and it makes your chest tighten.

Your mom insists on taking Mrs. Lee and Heeseung to the city’s famous park for a “little sightseeing and fresh air,” and somehow, you’re drafted along.

“Come on,” your mom says, practically bouncing. “You’ll enjoy it! The weather’s perfect, and it’s not a usual thing that we all went out together!”

So here you are, in Heeseung’s car with your moms at the back chatting mindlessly, pointing out shops, telling stories, laughing easily, while you sit in the passenger’s seat and him driving beside you.

He doesn’t say much, just drives with that calm, effortless composure that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to name. Your mom and Mrs. Lee chatter nonstop behind you, oblivious to the tight coil of nerves in the seat beside him.

You glance at him occasionally, catching his profile in the sunlight, the way his hands rest lightly on the wheel, the faint line of concentration in his jaw. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the awareness there, quiet, unspoken, like a weight pressing just enough to make you swallow hard.

“I hope you like walking,” your mom says suddenly from the back, as if reading your tension, “the park’s beautiful this time of year. Lots of trees, fountains—perfect for photos!”

“Yeah,” you murmur, keeping your voice neutral, though your chest is still tight.

Heeseung hums softly, not answering but shifting slightly in his seat, just enough that you notice.

The car slows, pulling into the park lot. Sunlight streams through the windshield, glinting off the pavement and the scattered autumn leaves. Your mom practically leaps out first, Mrs. Lee following close behind, both chattering excitedly.

You take a deep breath, adjusting your bag, and slide out of the car. Heeseung steps out after you, calm and measured, slipping into the rhythm of the park like he belongs there—yet you feel every step he takes, each one a quiet reminder that the past two days of silence haven’t lessened the tension between you.

As the group moves along the tree-lined path, your mom and Mrs. Lee wander ahead, comparing flowers and pointing out fountains. Heeseung falls in step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, walking slightly behind but close enough that you can feel the space between you shrinking.

“Nice day,” he says finally, casual.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice careful. “Not too crowded either.”

He hums softly, and you feel that subtle glance he throws your way—quick, unobtrusive, but enough to make your stomach twist again.

The silence between words is heavy, but not hostile. It’s loaded. Sharp. And as you continue along the winding paths of the park, you realize these three days—and these stolen moments in the quiet—might be harder than anything you expected.

You barely get a chance to say more to him before your mom is already digging through her bag.

“Phone—where’s my phone?” she mutters, then brightens. “Oh! There it is.”

Mrs. Lee laughs beside her. “You’re just as excited as ever.”

“Of course I am,” your mom says. “When do we ever get everyone together like this?”

Everyone.

You glance at Heeseung without meaning to. He’s still looking around, taking the place in quietly, like he’s memorizing it. First time here. First time seeing your city like this.

“Alright,” your mom says, raising her phone. “Group photo first.”

You shuffle closer, standing beside Mrs. Lee. Heeseung ends up at the edge, half a step apart from you, hands in his pockets.

“Wait, no,” your mom frowns. “Heeseung, come closer. You’re getting cut out.”

He obeys, stepping in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours—brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway.

Click.

“Again,” Mrs. Lee says. “That one was blurry.”

You barely have time to reset before your mom adds, “Okay, now just you two.”

“What?” you and Heeseung say at the same time.

“It’s nice to have one of the younger generation,” your mom insists. “For memories.”

You exchange a quick glance with him—too quick to mean anything, too loaded to be nothing.

“Just stand there and act normal!” your mom says.

Easier said than done.

You stand side by side this time, not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of his presence—his warmth, the way he’s careful not to move too suddenly.

“Smile,” your mom sings.

You do. Heeseung offers something polite, restrained.

Click.

“That’s nice,” Mrs. Lee says warmly. “You both look good.”

You almost laugh at that.

As your mom reviews the photos, muttering happily to herself, you step back without thinking. Heeseung does the same.

You don’t make it five steps more into the park before your mom stops again.

“Wait—stand there,” she says, already lifting her phone. “The trees look really nice from this angle.”

Mrs. Lee nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, the lighting is beautiful.”

You exchange a look with Heeseung. Not a look—just a flicker. A silent here we go.

Click.

You start walking again. Ten steps this time.

“Oh!” your mom gasps. “The fountain—Heeseung, you’ll love this. You two, go stand near it.”

“We just took one,” you say weakly. “That was over there,” she replies, like it explains everything.

So you move again, standing side by side while people pass behind you. Heeseung keeps his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression neutral. You keep your arms crossed, suddenly very aware of where you’re standing.

Click. Click.

Mrs. Lee laughs. “You look very natural together.”

You almost choke on air.

The walk continues. The photos do too.

By the flower beds.

Near the bridge.

In front of the pond.

Each time, your mom adjusts angles, steps back, waves you closer, tells you to smile more, tilt your head, stand straighter.

“You don’t have to look so tense,” she tells you at one point.

You laugh, tight. “I’m fine.”

Heeseung glances at you then, quick and unreadable.

At some point, he murmurs quietly, just for you, “If we keep this up, we’ll have enough photos for a family album.”

You blink, surprised.

“…I’m sorry,” you mutter. “She gets like this.”

He hums. “I noticed.”

There’s no edge in his voice. No teasing. Just observation.

Another photo.

Your shoulder brushes his this time, accidental. Neither of you move away immediately.

Click.

“Perfect!” your mom says.

You step away first.

The walk goes on, but your nerves don’t settle. If anything, they tighten with every forced smile, every staged moment, every second you’re made to look like something you’re very much not.

And the worst part?

Heeseung never once complains.

He just keeps walking beside you—calm, composed—letting the photos pile up like quiet evidence of something neither of you is ready to name.

You make it halfway up the stone path before it happens.

“Wait—wait, *here*,” your mom says suddenly, already lifting her phone again. “This spot is perfect. The water, the rocks—very scenic.”

You glance down at where she’s pointing and feel a flicker of hesitation. The stones near the edge of the stream are uneven, damp from the spray of the fountain nearby. The drop isn’t dramatic, but it’s enough to make you cautious.

“I don’t think that’s—” you start.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Mrs. Lee says cheerfully. “Just be careful.”

Famous last words.

You step forward anyway, because of course you do. Because this is not the hill you’re dying on today.

Heeseung follows a step behind you, quiet as always.

“Stand just there,” your mom says, framing the shot. “Yes, yes—perfect.”

You shift your weight slightly to adjust your footing.

And then your shoe slips.

It happens fast—too fast for you to catch yourself. One second you’re steady, the next the ground tilts and your stomach drops, breath punching out of you as you instinctively reach for anything.

Strong hands grab your arm.

Another slides to your waist, firm and immediate, pulling you back before you can even gasp.

You stumble—not forward, not down—but straight into him.

Your back hits his chest, solid and warm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you upright. For half a second, you’re frozen there, heart racing, fingers clutching at his sleeve.

He’s close. Too close.

You can feel his breath near your ear, feel the tension in his hold, the way his body adjusts automatically to steady yours.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low—meant only for you.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I—thanks.”

He doesn’t let go immediately.

Just long enough to make sure you’re steady.

Just long enough for the moment to stretch thin and dangerous.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost instinctively.

Then—click.

“Oh my goodness!” your mom exclaims. “That was scary! But—oh, wait. Hold on.”

You stiffen.

“That one looked nice,” Mrs. Lee says, peering at the phone. “Very… natural.”

You finally step away, cheeks burning, suddenly very aware of how his hands had been on you, how easily he’d caught you, how familiar it felt in a way that made your chest ache.

Heeseung straightens too, composure snapping back into place like nothing happened. Hands back in his pockets. Expression calm.

But when you dare glance at him, his eyes linger on you just a second longer than necessary.

Your mom laughs. “See? Good thing he was there. You’d have fallen otherwise.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a laugh. “Good thing.”

The walk continues, the photos continue, but something has shifted.

Your heart doesn’t slow down.

And every time Heeseung walks just a little closer after that, you can’t tell if it’s accidental—

—or if he’s making sure you won’t fall again.

…

After dinner, you decide to hog the living room all by yourself, continue binge watching another C-drama you have postponed watching for the longest time.

It’s almost midnight, the moms had already wished you goodnight. You smile to yourself at the very well-earned time to yourself.

Or not?

Heeseung appears at the bottom, slightly disheveled, hair tousled like he’s just run a hand through it one too many times. He’s in simple grey sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, the kind that clings just enough to show he didn’t bother thinking about how he looked.

His eyes are still half-lidded with sleep as they settle on the TV screen, expression calm.

He looks at you, before taking a seat.

“I watched this one.” He says softly. Voice hoarse with sleep.

“No spoilers, please.” You says, turning away to look at the TV. He laughs.

“Nothing to extreme, it’s a rom-com. Nothing can be a spoiler.” You clutch your heart, dramatically looking at him.

He shrugs. “What? It’s true. You know in the end they end up together.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Well, true that.” He lean back too, making your shoulders touch.

“Why did you wake up?” I look at him. “It’s barely midnight.”

“Can’t sleep. I mean, I kept waking up.” He replies, fingers tapping on his thigh. You nod, continue watching the romantic scenes on the TV.

“You enjoy stuffs like these?” He asks, not looking at you.

“Anything feel-good is enjoyable.”

“So the concept of romance, you like it?” He asks, carefully.

“Where are you going with this?” You look at him, eyes narrowing. He meets your gaze, his expression looking more earnest.

“Just wondering, if you’d like it in real life too.”

You scoff. “You and your nonstop bull—“

“Is it bullshit, really?” He asks, seriously this time. You felt your heart beating fast, you look away, just anywhere. Not sure where to look when he’s all up in your space like this.

“Evan.” You started,

“No, let me tell you this.” He straighten up, body now fully facing you, as he look directlt into your eyes.

“I’m sorry if I ever come up as pushy, talking about you with your mom, hinting at our past to her, making you feel things you don’t like, that wasn’t my intention.” He winces.

“I just…I just wanted to get to know you, really look at you. No dim lights of the bar, no dark night sky as we walk back to some hotel, and certainly no dark hotel room where I spent the whole night feeling good with the woman I knew nothing about.” He sighs.

“It’s just a one night stand, I get it.” He scoffs, “but what if I told you that I wanted more? That I regret waking up without your presence the next morning, how every sound you let out that night made me fantasize the sounds you’d make if it wasn’t casual?”

At this point, you were looking at him speechless. You’re not trusting your voice right now.

“Evan—“

“Heeseung.” He corrects. “Evan saw you first, but Heeseung fell for you.”

You fall silent again. Just staring at him like he didn’t just pour his heart out while you’re watching some corny C-drama.

“Say something. Anything.”

The TV continues playing, characters confessing under scripted rain.

But this?

This isn’t scripted.

And you’re not sure which feels scarier.

Your throat feels tight.

The drama’s background music swells dramatically, the male lead on screen confessing under artificial rain, but it feels distant—like white noise compared to the very real, very raw man sitting inches away from you.

You swallow.

“Heeseung…” you finally manage.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“You’re leaving in three days.”

It’s not the response he expected—but it’s the only one that makes sense in your head.

His jaw tightens slightly. “I know.”

“So what is this?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “You confess, we… what? Start something? And then you’re on the road back home in another city?”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his already messy hair. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“I think you’re being impulsive,” you snap, but there’s no heat behind it—just fear. “You’re here. It feels intense. Nostalgic. But when you go back—”

“It’s not nostalgia,” he says firmly.

The way he says it makes you pause.

“It wasn’t just that night,” he continues. “I’ve tried to brush it off. I’ve tried to tell myself it was just chemistry. But then I see you here. The way you argue. The way you laugh with your mom. The way you pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

You glare at him slightly. “I am tough.”

His lips twitch faintly. “I know.”

That softness again. It’s worse than teasing.

“I don’t expect you to promise me anything,” he says. “I just needed you to know that I’m not playing around.”

Your fingers tighten around the blanket.

“You don’t get to say all that and then expect me to just… be calm,” you whisper.

“I don’t want you calm,” he admits. “I want you honest.”

The word lands heavily.

Honest.

You look at him then—really look at him. There’s no arrogance. No flirtation. Just a quiet steadiness that makes your chest ache.

“You think this is easy for me?” you ask softly. “Seeing you in my house. At dinner. At the park. Acting like we didn’t—”

Your voice falters.

“Like we didn’t matter,” he finishes.

You nod.

Silence settles again, but it’s no longer suffocating. It’s fragile. Balanced on something sharp.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he says quietly. “It just happened.”

Your heart pounds harder at that word.

Fall.

“You don’t even know me that well,” you argue weakly.

“Then let me,” he replies immediately.

That catches you off guard.

“Let me know you properly,” he says. “Not just the version from one night. Not just the version that pushes me away when things feel too real.”

Your breath hitches.

“You’re scared,” he says gently.

“Of course I am,” you admit, almost frustrated. “You’re leaving. I don’t do long distance. I don’t do uncertainty, I…certainly don’t just date from one good sex.”

“And I don’t do pretending I don’t care,” he counters.

The drama on the TV ends its confession scene with applause-worthy music. You grab the remote and mute it.

The silence now is entirely yours.

“What are you asking from me?” you whisper.

He leans a little closer—not touching, just closing the space enough that you feel his presence fully.

“A chance,” he says. “Not a guarantee. Just… don’t shut the door before we even try.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Three days before he leaves.

Three days to either build something—or protect yourself from it.

You look at him, eyes searching, trying to find a reason to dismiss this as temporary emotion.

You don’t find one.

And that’s what terrifies you.

“Say something,” he murmurs again, softer now.

This time, you don’t look away. You stare at him for one long, overwhelming second.

Your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are colliding into each other. Three days. Confessions. “A chance.” It’s too much. Too sudden. Too real.

You stand up abruptly.

“I—I need time to think,” you say, words tumbling out before you can filter them.

Heeseung rises halfway from the couch instinctively. “Hey—”

But you’re already stepping back.

“I just… I can’t answer you right now,” you add quickly. “It’s a lot.”

His expression tightens, but he nods once. “Okay.”

You don’t wait for anything else.

You bolt down the hallway, heart pounding, shutting your bedroom door a little harder than necessary. You lean against it, breath uneven.

Why now?

Why three days before he leaves?

Why does it feel like if you answer wrong, you’ll lose something you didn’t even realize you were holding?

You slide down against the door and press your palms to your eyes. You needed time. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The next morning smells like butter and coffee.

You frown, your mom does not wake up early on weekends.

You shuffle out of your room, still half-asleep, hair messy, expecting silence. Instead, you hear the sound of a pan sizzling. You blink.

Heeseung is in the kitchen.

Sleeves slightly rolled, apron tied awkwardly around his waist (clearly borrowed), hair still soft and unruly from sleep—but this time he looks very awake.

Focused.

Your mom and Mrs. Lee are seated at the table, watching him like he’s some kind of five-star chef.

“He insisted,” your mom says the moment she sees you. “Said we should let him cook.”

He glances up at you.

Not smug, not teasing. Just steady.

“Morning,” he says.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

He turns back to the stove. “Scrambled eggs or sunny side up?”

You blink. “What?”

“For you,” he clarifies. “How do you like your eggs?”

Your mom gasps softly. “He even asked me what you usually eat.”

You shoot her a look.

He continues like this is completely normal. “I made toast too. And there’s fruit.”

You step closer to the counter, still confused. “Since when do you cook?”

“Since always,” he replies casually. “You just didn’t stay long enough to see.”

Your ears burn, looking over to your moms if they notice it, they don’t.

He plates the food carefully—neatly, intentionally—and sets it in front of you first before sitting down.

That alone makes your stomach flip.

He doesn’t bring up last night.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t corner you.

Instead, he talks to your mom about the park photos. Asks his about souvenirs to bring home. Clears plates without being asked.

Too proactive.

Suspiciously proactive.

When your mom mentions needing to run errands later, he immediately says, “I can drive.”

When Mrs. Lee talks about wanting to visit a bakery nearby, he says, “Let’s go after breakfast.”

You watch him the entire time.

He’s not performing.

He’s consistent.

Intentional.

When your mom leaves the table to grab something from her room, and Mrs. Lee follows, you’re briefly alone in the kitchen.

He stands by the sink, rinsing dishes.

“You don’t have to… do all this,” you say quietly. He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“I know,” he replies then glances at you over his shoulder.

“But I want to.” There’s no pressure in his voice, just effort.

You swallow.

“You said you needed time,” he continues calmly. “I’m giving it to you.” The water runs softly between you.

“But I’m not going to act like I didn’t say what I said.” Your pulse stutters.

“I meant it,” he adds. “So I’ll act like I meant it.”

You stare at him and he turns the tap off and dries his hands slowly.

“I’m leaving in three days,” he says. “I don’t want to waste them pretending.”

And somehow, that hits harder than the confession itself.

…

From the moment breakfast ends, he doesn’t leave your side. Not in a suffocating way. Not hovering. Just… present.

When your mom asks you to help bring laundry out to dry, he’s already reaching for the basket before you can. When you struggle with the stubborn sliding door, he steps in quietly, fixing it without making a show of it.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere,” you mutter at one point, adjusting the clothespins.

“I’m not following you,” he replies lightly. “I’m staying here temporarily too, remember?”

You glance at him. He looks almost amused—but there’s intention behind it.

Later, when you head to the small grocery store nearby because your mom forgot coriander, he walks beside you without even asking if he should come.

The afternoon sun is warm. The air smells like pavement and fried snacks from a stall down the street.

“So,” he says casually, hands in his pockets. “What did you want to be when you were younger?”

You blink. “What?”

“When you were eight. Ten. What was the dream?” You huff softly. “That’s random.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It tells me things.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You analyzing me now?”

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes—but you answer anyway.

“I wanted to be a novelist,” you admit. “I used to write stories. Cringey ones.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You still write?”

You hesitate. “…Rarely now, in my notebooks in my apartment, or my notes app.”

“Why’d you stop wanting to be it?”

The question is gentle. Not invasive. Just curious. You shrug. “Reality. Expectations. It didn’t feel practical.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that like it matters.

“It still matters,” he says after a moment.

You glance at him. “What does?”

“The fact that you wanted to create something.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t brush it off. Just lets it sit there like it’s important.

Back home, when your mom asks you to help reorganize some old boxes in the storage room, he follows again.

It’s dusty. Warm. Dim.

You crouch down to open a box of old photo albums. He kneels beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours.

“That’s you?” he asks, picking up a picture of you at maybe twelve years old, hair shorter, smile wider.

You snatch it lightly. “Don’t judge.”

“I’m not,” he says. And he isn’t. He studies the photo like he’s memorizing it.

“You looked happy.”

“I was a kid.”

“And now?”

You look at him sharply. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“I told you,” he reminds you quietly. “I want to know you.”

There’s no rush in his tone. No desperation.

Just steadiness.

The day continues like that.

When you wash dishes, he dries them.

He asks about your university. Your friends. What stresses you out. What makes you laugh. What kind of music you secretly listen to when you’re alone.

At one point, he says, “You hum when you’re focused.”

You freeze. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists softly. “You were doing it while cutting fruit earlier.”

You didn’t even realize.

“The thing you do with your hand? That too.” He points out, while taking your hand, opening it and see the crescent marks on your palm.

“You notice too much,” you murmur.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Someone has to,” he replies.

The living room is dim, only the lamp by the window casting a warm glow across the space. The TV is on but forgotten, some late-night rerun playing to fill the silence.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you. Heeseung sits beside you—not too close, not too far—close enough that you’re aware of him without feeling crowded.

He’s been quieter tonight. Observing.

“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually.

You glance at him warily. “You’ve been doing that all day.”

A faint smile. “Humor me.”

You sigh. “Fine.” Only because you can’t resist his charming smile.

“That night,” he says carefully, “why were you really there?”

You stiffen slightly. “At the bar?”

“In another city. On a random weekend.”

“It wasn’t random,” you reply automatically.

He waits.

You stare at the muted TV screen for a long moment before answering.

“I party a lot with my friends,” you say finally.

He doesn’t react. Just listens. “More than people expect,” you add.

“Why?” he asks softly.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Because it’s loud.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“Because when the music’s blasting and the lights are flashing and everyone’s moving,” you continue, “I can’t hear my own thoughts.”

The honesty surprises even you.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“You know how exhausting job hunting is?” you ask quietly. “Applications. Tailoring your resume for every company. Writing cover letters that feel fake. Preparing for interviews. Smiling. Selling yourself.”

His expression shifts—more focused now.

“And then the emails,” you continue, voice flattening. “‘We regret to inform you.’ ‘After careful consideration.’ ‘We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.’”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sometimes they don’t even reply.”

Silence stretches.

“It gets to you,” you admit. “You start wondering what’s wrong with you. If you’re not good enough. If everyone else is moving ahead while you’re just… stuck.”

He doesn’t look away.

“So yeah,” you shrug lightly, though your chest feels tight. “I party.”

“To forget?” he asks.

“To breathe,” you correct.

You shift slightly, hugging your knees closer.

“When I’m out with my friends, I’m not the girl refreshing her email at 2 a.m. I’m not the candidate who didn’t make it to the final round. I’m just… me.”

He studies you carefully.

“And that’s why you were in another city.”

You nod.

“We’d just gotten two rejections that week,” you admit. “Back-to-back. I felt so stupid for getting my hopes up.”

Your voice lowers.

“So we booked a cheap place, took a train, and told ourselves we deserved one reckless weekend.”

“You call it reckless,” he says quietly. “But you sound calculated.”

You frown slightly. “What?”

“You didn’t go there to ruin yourself,” he says. “You went there to survive.”

That makes you blink.

“I like dancing,” you add quickly, deflecting. “I like dressing up. I like feeling wanted without having to prove I’m competent or impressive.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that word.

“Wanted.”

“It’s simple,” you say. “No resumes. No interviews. No expectations beyond having fun.”

“And me?” he asks gently.

You swallow.

“You weren’t part of the plan,” you admit.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I wasn’t looking for something serious,” you continue. “It was easier that way. Temporary city. Temporary connection. No future to mess up.”

“You think you mess things up?” he asks.

You give him a look. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says evenly. “I’m trying to understand.”

You hesitate.

“When you don’t get chosen enough,” you say slowly, “you stop expecting to be.”

The words hang in the air.

He goes very still.

“That night,” you continue, quieter now, “I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. I just wanted to feel good. To not think about rejection emails. To not feel like I was behind in life.”

“And I was… what?” he asks softly.

“A distraction,” you answer honestly.

The word lands heavy.

But before he can retreat into it, you add—

“A good one.”

His gaze sharpens slightly.

“You were easy,” you explain. “Not in a bad way. You didn’t interrogate me. You didn’t act like you were doing me a favor. You just… were there.”

He exhales slowly.

“And when I woke up alone,” he says quietly, “it didn’t feel temporary.”

You look at him.

“I didn’t want to be just a distraction,” he continues. “I wanted to be something that stayed.”

Your heart stutters.

You look away first. “I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit.

“Because you’re used to them leaving?” he asks.

The vulnerability in the room shifts everything.

He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t crowd you. He just sits there, steady.

“You party to break free,” he says after a moment. You nod.

“I’m not here to take that away from you.”

You glance at him cautiously.

“But I don’t want to be another escape,” he continues. “I want to be something you choose even when the music stops.”

Your chest tightens again.

Outside, the night is quiet. No music. No flashing lights. No crowd to drown out your thoughts.

Just him.

And the terrifying possibility that this time, you won’t be the one walking away before you can be rejected.

The room feels smaller after that.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The lamp beside the couch casts a soft golden glow across his face, catching in his eyes. The TV is still muted, forgotten entirely now. Outside, the world is quiet—no music, no city noise, no chaos to hide behind.

Just you.

And him.

“I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit again, softer this time. “Nor how to stay.”

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just watches you like your words matter.

“Then don’t decide forever,” he says gently. “Just decide now.”

Your heart pounds.

“That’s how it starts,” you whisper. “Now turns into later. Later turns into expectations.”

“And expectations scare you,” he says.

“They fail,” you correct.

He studies you for a long moment. Then he shifts closer—not abruptly, not cornering—just enough that the space between your knees and his disappears.

“I’m not an interview,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to impress me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I already like you,” he continues. “On your stressed days. On your stubborn days. On the days you party too hard to feel free.”

You huff softly. “I don’t party too hard, I still control myself.”

He almost smiles. “You know what I mean.”

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache.

“You don’t have to earn staying,” he says.

The words hit somewhere deep.

You look at him, really look at him. His hair is still slightly messy from earlier. He’s not styled, not composed like the first night you met. He’s just… him.

And he’s looking at you like you’re not temporary.

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You’re leaving.”

“In two days,” he says.

“And then?”

“Then we figure it out,” he replies. “Or we try. Or we fail. But at least we won’t be wondering.”

Your breathing feels uneven.

He lifts his hand slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

When you don’t, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek.

The touch is soft. Careful.

Nothing like that first night.

That night was heat and impulse and dim lights and stolen glances.

This is quiet.

Intentional.

His thumb traces gently along your jawline, barely there. You feel your pulse everywhere at once.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You swallow.

He doesn’t laugh at you.

Doesn’t tease.

His hand shifts slightly, cupping your cheek fully now. Warm. Steady.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean in first.

It’s small. Barely an inch, but it closes the distance.

His breath brushes your lips before they meet. Slow. Careful. Testing.

When he kisses you, it isn’t rushed.

It isn’t hungry.

It’s soft.

Like he’s asking a question.

Your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his T-shirt without thinking. The kiss deepens just slightly—not intense, not overwhelming—just enough to make your heart feel like it might burst.

He pulls back a fraction, forehead resting against yours.

His voice is low. Almost unsteady.

“This isn’t an escape,” he says.

You nod faintly, breath mingling with his.

“I know.”

He kisses you again.

This time with more certainty.

Not claiming. Not demanding.

Choosing.

Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. He exhales softly against your lips, one hand moving to your waist—secure, but not pulling you in without permission.

The world outside the living room feels nonexistent.

No rejection emails.

No interviews.

No expectations.

Just this moment.

When you finally pull back, your lips feel warm, your thoughts scattered.

“Now,” he murmurs softly, echoing his earlier words.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Now,” you repeat.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something you’re running from.

It feels like something you’re choosing.

The living room feels impossibly small after that kiss. Your pulse is racing, every nerve on fire, yet your mind is dizzy in a way that makes thinking impossible.

Heeseung pulls back just slightly, his forehead still resting against yours, and you can feel the warmth of him everywhere. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, the air thick with unsaid words.

“I—” you start, but your voice falters.

“I’ve got you,” he says suddenly, firm but gentle. His hands slide under your arms, and before you can protest, he lifts you effortlessly.

Your stomach flips. “Heeseung! Put me down!” you squeak, half-laughing, half-panicking, but you don’t resist.

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the side of your temple as he carries you toward your room. His voice is low, intimate, and the closeness makes your chest tighten even more.

Your room feels impossibly far and yet too close. The walls, the soft glow of your lamp, the familiar smell of your space—all of it is suddenly charged.

He sets you down gently on your bed, but the tension doesn’t leave. His hands linger near your waist, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your shirt. You feel the deliberate weight of his gaze on you, assessing, quiet, patient.

“Are you… okay with this?” he asks, voice husky but careful, and you can’t tell if he’s asking about the kiss, being alone together, or everything.

You swallow hard, your pulse loud in your ears. “I—I think so,” you admit, your words trembling just enough to betray your certainty.

He shifts closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on the mattress near yours. You’re inches apart, every movement amplified. The air feels electric, charged with anticipation and heat.

His eyes trace your face slowly, almost like he’s memorizing every line, every shadow. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Your breath catches. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. Your fingers twitch at the edge of the blanket, trying to ground yourself, but he leans in, closing the space further.

His hand moves to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, brushing against your jaw as he does. You feel your own hands rise, unconsciously resting on his forearm. The intimacy is subtle, teasing—every touch deliberate, careful, yet charged with something unspoken.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admits quietly, gaze locking with yours. “All day. Since breakfast. Even when we were doing the dishes… I couldn’t stop thinking.”

Your chest tightens. The honesty in his tone, combined with the nearness, makes your head spin. “Maybe you also have been lingering in my head all along for the past two months.”

“I—” you start, but he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slower, deliberate, exploratory—but there’s a hunger there too, restrained yet unmistakable.

Your hands find his chest, fingers brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt, feeling the solid warmth underneath. The kiss deepens slightly, teasing, suggestive, daring—but still measured.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, reading your reaction, searching for consent in your gaze. Your pulse is racing, your thoughts scattered, but the answer is clear in the flutter of your heartbeat.

His lips hover over yours again, close enough that you can feel the warmth and breath, and for a moment, nothing else exists: no hesitation, no past regrets, just the two of you, the quiet room, and the thrilling, dangerous pull of something more.

And then he whispers, low and husky, “Do you trust me?”

Your answer is a shiver, a nod, a soft, “Yes,” barely audible—but it’s enough.

The air between you thickens, charged with a suggestion, a promise, a question that doesn’t need words—because the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s close enough to touch, it says it all.

…

Heeseung’s lips trail down your neck with a slow, teasing warmth—each kiss featherlight at first, then lingering just enough to leave faint tingles in their wake. His breathing is uneven but controlled, clearly trying to balance the haze with focus.

“Always smell so good.” He murmur between kisses. One hand rests tentatively against your shoulder while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before continuing his path lower.

Then he pauses abruptly near your collarbone as if remembering something, “I don’t have condoms with me,” He looks at you.

You huff, turning to your handbag. Pulling out the small foil packet, he smiles at you. “For your other one night stands?” You laugh.

“That was the plan, but I stopped doing thise after you.” He doesn’t question it, because he knows. You tug at his shirt, signalling you want it off.

Heeseung makes quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside before popping the button on his pants. His movements are fluid—confident but not rushed—as he steps out of them and kicks them toward the floor.

“Better?” He asks, voice low as he reaches for you again, now only in his boxers.

His fingers are gentle but eager as he helps you out of your own clothes—each piece discarded with care until there’s nothing left between you. His touch lingers on bare skin, like he’s relearning every curve after months of yearning.

"God… I love this,"he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “So beautiful.”

Heeseung trails kisses downward—slow, deliberate—each one hotter than the last. His hands follow, mapping your body like he’s memorizing it anew. When his lips finally reach the place you have been dying for him to touch, he glances up at you through his lashes, smirking.

“Want me to touch you here?”

You nod, he tsks. “Need to hear you, baby.” As his breath brushes your open folds.

“Yes.” You gasped, “Yes, please.”

He smiles, Heeseung doesn’t waste another second—his mouth sealing over you with practiced devotion. Every flick of his tongue, every hum against your skin is calculated to unravel you.

And it works.

His free hand grips your thigh, holding you steady as he focuses entirely on pleasuring and loving you—like this is the only mission that matters tonight.

Heeseung zeroes in on your clit instantly—his tongue circling it with just the right amount of pressure before sucking lightly. His eyes stay locked on yours, gauging every twitch and gasp to adjust his technique.

"This okay?" he murmurs against you, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear you say it anyway.

You nod, he hums in approval—taking your nod as permission to double down. His tongue flicks faster now, alternating between broad strokes and precise little darts while his fingers slip inside you, curling just right.

You yelp at the sudden intrusion, Heeseung pauses immediately—pulling back just enough to check your expression. His brows furrow in concern, but he keeps his fingers still inside you.

"Too much?" he asks softly, ready to adjust at your slightest hint. You shake your head, “It’s good, s’good..”

He exhales in relief—his tension melting into renewed focus. He resumes with even more care now, his movements deliberate and gentle as he coaxes you toward pleasure rather than overwhelming you.

"That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh between words. "Just relax… I’ve got you."

“I’ll make you feel better than that night.”

He adds a second finger—stretching you gradually as his thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing slow circles over your clit instead. His eyes stay locked on your face, tracking every flutter of pleasure.

“Tell me if anything’s too much," he reminds, voice thick with concern beneath the desire.

Heeseung's touch remains gentle and attentive, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm that builds pleasure without rushing you. Every now and then, he glances up to make sure you're still comfortable—his expression soft with care even as desire burns in his gaze.

“So good for me, you’re so good for me.” He murmurs againts your skin, words warm and reverent.

He senses you're close—your breaths hitching, your body tensing around his fingers. He presses a final open-mouthed kiss to your clit before murmuring,

"Come for me, baby.”

His words are the last push you need—your climax crashing over you in waves as Heeseung rides it out with his fingers, his touch never faltering. When your tremors subside, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and slowly withdraws his hand.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, crawling up to claim your lips in a deep kiss—letting you taste yourself on him.

“Need you, now.” You breath againts his lips

Heeseung groans at your words, his body responding instantly. In one fluid motion, he flips onto his back—pulling you atop him, before rolling the condom on with practiced ease.

“Ride me,” he rasps, before teasing his tip on your folds and guiding himself to your entrance. He hisses as you sink onto him—his hands flying to your hips, gripping hard as he adjusts to the sudden tightness. His head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forces them open again, needing to see you.

"Fuck," he grits out, "You feel…"

Words fail him—too overwhelmed by how perfectly you take him in.

His breath comes in ragged bursts as you start moving—his hips instinctively bucking up to meet each of your descents. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down into a searing kiss while the other presses possessively against your back.

He loses himself in the rhythm you set—every roll of your hips sending sparks through his veins. His hands roam your body, worshiping every curve as he murmurs praise against your skin.

“Gonna kill me like this, baby.” He cups your breasts as he pinches one of your nipples, you moan.

His control starts to fray—his thrusts becoming less measured, more desperate. He can feel his climax building rapidly, but he refuses to let go until you do first.

Heeseung flips you onto your back with surprising gentleness despite the urgency in his movements. The second he’s nestled between your thighs again, he surges into you—each thrust deep and deliberate.

"Look at me," he demands softly, cradling your face as his pace turns relentless. "Want to see you when we finish."

His thrusts grow erratic—his breath coming in sharp gasps as he chases his release. But even now, at the peak of pleasure, his focus stays on you, making sure you’re right there with him.

“Searched for you like crazy, kept..kept..asking around.” He went down to latch on your nipple, sucking softly and twirling his tongue making you whimper underneath him.

“Need the girl that made me fall hopelessly from just one night.”

Heeseung’s eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in his gaze nearly overwhelming as he pushes you both toward release. His thrusts grow sharper—each one hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure, making your moans slightly louder than before.

"Close?" he rasps, voice strained with restraint.

You nod frantically, your body coiling tight with impending pleasure. Heeseung’s answering grin is fierce—he can feel it too.

"Then let go," he urges, his own rhythm faltering as he chases his own peak alongside you.

The moment your climax hits—waves of pleasure crashing over you in relentless succession—Heeseung follows with a broken groan. His thrusts stutter before he buries himself deep, shuddering through his release as he holds you close.

For several breathless seconds, all either of you can do is cling to each other, sweaty and spent but utterly satisfied.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave this time.” He says, pressing a lazy kiss on your shoulder.

“Can’t run even if I tried,” you laugh, finally aware that you guys fucked in your childhood bedroom, in your parents’ house. With his and your moms just a few doors away.

…

Morning comes softly.

Not with alarms. Not with loud footsteps downstairs.

Just sunlight.

It slips through the thin gap in your curtains, warm and golden, stretching slowly across your walls, across your desk, across the edge of your bed.

You blink awake gradually, consciousness returning in pieces.

The warmth against your back registers first.

Then the weight around your waist.

Then the steady rise and fall of someone else’s breathing.

Your heart stutters.

Heeseung.

His arm is draped securely around you, palm resting flat against your stomach like it belongs there. Your back is pressed lightly to his chest, his face buried somewhere near the back of your neck, breath warm against your skin.

For a second, you don’t move, you just lie there and lets the reality settle.

Last night wasn’t loud or reckless or fleeting. It wasn’t dim bar lights and alcohol-blurred edges.

It was slow.

Intentional.

You remember how careful he was. How he kept checking in. How he looked at you like this wasn’t just physical.

Your cheeks warm at the memory.

Behind you, he shifts slightly. His arm tightens instinctively when you move.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t go.” You freeze.

“I’m not,” you whisper, even though you hadn’t actually planned to.

He exhales softly against your shoulder, clearly not fully awake yet. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

The sunlight climbs higher.

You slowly turn your head just enough to glance at him.

His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes. His lips are slightly parted, expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. No guarded composure. No teasing edge.

Just him.

Peaceful.

He blinks awake a moment later, eyes adjusting slowly.

There’s a brief second of confusion.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Morning,” he murmurs. Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you makes it awkward.

He studies your face like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he half-expected to wake up alone again. “You’re still here,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “So are you.” A small smile touches his lips.

He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb gently along your cheekbone. Not suggestive. Not urgent. Just… tender.

“Regrets?” he asks carefully.

You consider it. The sunlight. The warmth. The quiet. His arm still wrapped around you.

“No,” you answer honestly.

Relief flickers across his face so subtly you almost miss it.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Silence settles again, but it’s comfortable.

You’re suddenly aware of the house. Of your mom downstairs. Of Mrs. Lee probably already awake.

Reality creeping back in.

“We should probably get up,” you say softly. He groans lightly. “Five more minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your waist absentmindedly.

“Last night,” he begins quietly, “wasn’t just… heat.”

You turn slightly to face him more fully now, the blanket shifting around you.

“I know,” you reply. His eyes search yours.

“I meant what I said,” he continues. “About wanting more.”

The weight of it is still there. But this time, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels steady.

You reach out, brushing a piece of hair away from his forehead. “I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says immediately.

“But I don’t want to run,” you add.

Something shifts in his expression—something hopeful. “We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”

He leaves tomorrow.

But right now, he’s here.

Warm. Real. Looking at you like you’re not temporary.

His hand slides into yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining slowly.

SEPTEMBER 2025

Three months later, your apartment feels both fuller and emptier at the same time.

Fuller — because his hoodie is draped over the back of your chair. Because there’s a mug he likes that you bought “accidentally.” Because your call logs are filled with his name. Because there’s a toothbrush tucked into the corner of your sink like it belongs there.

Emptier — because right now, he isn’t here.

Long distance wasn’t glamorous.

It was: falling asleep on video call, propping your phone against your pillow just to see his face, texting “reach home safe” every long rides he takes back home, syncing up dramas and pressing play at the same time,

It was him visiting every three weeks without fail. No excuses.

He comes by Friday night, spends the weekend before saying goodbye Sunday night. Sometimes with a small bouquet.

Sometimes with your favorite snacks.

Once with nothing but a tired smile and open arms.

And every time he left, the goodbye got quieter. Less dramatic. More heavy.

But you were trying. Both of you were.

Tonight, you’re expecting him again.

You’d cleaned the apartment earlier, even though he’s seen it messy before. There’s a faint scent of citrus from the candle you lit. Your heart always beats a little faster on visit days.

When the knock finally comes, you don’t pretend to be calm. You open the door.

Heeseung stands there with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

And that smile, the one that makes three weeks feel like three seconds.

You don’t even greet him properly—you just step forward and hug him. He laughs softly, arms wrapping around you tightly, lifting you slightly off the ground for a brief second.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs into your hair. When you pull back, you notice something. He looks… different.

Not physically.

But there’s a weight behind his eyes.

“What?” you ask immediately. He exhales lightly. “Can I come in first?” You narrow your eyes but step aside.

He drops his bag near the couch, looks around your apartment like he always does—taking it in, grounding himself.

You close the door.

“Okay,” you say, crossing your arms. “What’s going on?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize.

“I have news,” he says. Your stomach drops slightly.

“Good news?” you ask cautiously.

He hesitates just enough to make your heart pound.

“I’m moving.” The word hangs in the air.

Your mind scrambles. “Moving?” you repeat. “Where?”

He steps closer. “Here.”

You blink. “…What?”

“I got a transfer,” he continues, the words coming faster now. “There was an opening in the branch here. I applied a month ago.”

“A month ago?” you echo.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to promise something that might not happen.”

Your heart is racing now. “I got it,” he says quietly. “It’s finalized.” Silence fills your apartment.

“You’re… moving here?” you whisper.

He nods. “I don’t want to do long distance anymore,” he says. “Not when I don’t have to.”

Your brain is still catching up.

“But your mom? Your place? Producing?”

“She supports it,” he replies. “And my job is still my job. Just different location.”

You stare at him.

“You did this… because of me?”He steps closer until there’s barely space between you.

“I did this because I want a life where I don’t count down weeks just to see you,” he says. “Because I don’t want to miss small things. Your bad interview days. Your random 2 a.m. thoughts. Your victories.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t want to visit you,” he continues softly. “I want to be here.” Tears prick at the corner of your eyes before you can stop them.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’m yours.”

note: freaking finally! i know i promised you guys this a month ago, and yes i’m alive. just wanted to wrap things up with my semester and have a small break after stressing out for finals, but alas! here we are! first work kinda nervous >< hope u guys love it!

taglist: @gardenwonn @vayuzzz @prettygirlthings-world @yenienha @enhypen437 @rayofsunshineeee @somuchdard

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