!!! @t-102 - Tumblr Blog

back to you — two

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 39k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — you can’t stop thinking about that heated night you shared with jeno. the memory clings to you, leaving you on edge, but when you realize you want him too badly to pretend otherwise, you strike a deal with him—opening the door to secret motel stays and late-night dates. the more time you spend wrapped up in each other, the heavier your guilt grows. every move feels risky, especially as you juggle the need for jeno with the need to keep everything hidden.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, deep-throating, nipple play, reader choked jeno, spitting, degradation, praise kink, fingering, intense grinding, overstimulation, unprotected sex, oral sex, different + softer side to both yn and jeno, creepy motel vibes, tension as always, push and pull dynamics, really cute date scene between yn and jeno, they move fast and if you think it’s too fast then please remember that it’s happening for a reason and that it’s for the plot!!! also jeno and yn may appear quite domestic in this but trust me <3 all will make sense. don’t expect it to last :)) hehe enjoy

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

The campus thrums like a living heart, each breath of crisp autumn air a pulse, pushing life through its veins and leaving the world trembling with quiet anticipation. The pathway stretches ahead, lined with towering trees that are both beautiful and unsettling, their branches shedding leaves like silent confessions. You walk through a mosaic of amber, crimson, and ochre underfoot, each crunch a jarring reminder of time slipping away. Students mill about in small clusters, their laughter ringing out like echoes of a simpler life. A flyer for an upcoming party flutters loosely on a lamppost, its edges curling in the wind, barely holding on—much like you feel you are. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp rhythm of a basketball bouncing on concrete interrupts the morning stillness, grounding the scene in a reality that feels foreign to your own inner turmoil.

The campus moves like a living organism, its pulse in the scrape of sneakers, its breath in the faint rustle of wind through leaves. Beside you, Nahyun exists effortlessly within it, her voice threading into the currents of sound, each laugh she releases sparking against the energy around her. You walk in her orbit but feel adrift, the world sliding past like water you can’t touch. The wind stirs the leaves into fractured patterns, their sudden, frantic swirls echoing the chaos buried beneath your carefully guarded exterior. They don’t fall neatly—they spiral, scatter, catch, like control slipping through your fingers, too fleeting to grasp and too beautiful to ignore.

Nahyun’s words come effortlessly, her laughter easy as she weaves through a conversation about campus gossip. “So, rumor has it,” she begins, her tone conspiratorial, “Jeno’s been in bed after bed since Areum dumped him. Bet the breakup wasn’t as mutual as he made it out to be.”

You glance at her, surprised by how sharp the comment cuts through your thoughts. “Didn’t Areum dump him?” you ask, trying to sound indifferent, though your voice betrays a flicker of curiosity.

She shrugs, raising an eyebrow at you like she can’t quite believe you’re interested. You’re not the one for campus gossip or drama, and she knows it. “I don’t know,” she says with a smirk, as if the details don’t matter. To her, it’s just another piece of entertainment.

To you, it barely registers—just another fragment of his reputation folding neatly into place. Of course, he’s been fucking other girls; it’s what he does, a script he knows by heart. The sex you had wasn’t an exception, just another scene in a story he’s told a thousand times. You tell yourself this, repeat it until the words feel smooth, rehearsed, like armor against the truth. But your resolve falters for a split second, a crack in the facade you didn’t see coming. Why would it have meant anything? He’s Jeno—the kind of person who burns through moments like they’re endless, never pausing long enough to see what he’s left behind. You shake your head, not at the thought of him, but at the absurdity of how easily people let themselves get caught in his orbit. It didn’t mean anything, and yet it lingers, faint as smoke, stubborn as a bruise.

It comes back in flashes, unbidden—the rough drag of his hands over your hips, fingers curling with purpose, his breath hot and ragged against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear. His voice lingers in your ears, low and dark, the kind of sound that wraps itself around you and doesn’t let go. You feel the heat of him again, the way it burned through the careful walls you’d built, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. The taste of his kiss, the weight of his body, the way he pressed into you as if the world outside didn’t exist—it’s all still there, etched into you like a brand. Even now, a week later, it claws at you, a phantom ache you can’t shake, unraveling the threads of control you’d held so tightly.

It’s been a week, but the weight of that night hasn’t shifted—it sits heavy in your chest, unrelenting. You feel it in the way your hands tighten into fists when you’re alone, in the way your throat constricts whenever someone says his name. The bar flashes behind your eyes like a crime scene: the amber haze of the lights, the low thrum of bass in your ears, the taste of secrets spilling before you could stop them. You can still see the way his eyes burned through you, like they’d pulled something raw and unspoken straight out of your chest. The memory doesn’t leave; it hovers, pressing at the cracks in your resolve, clawing its way deeper every time you try to shake it off.

“Hey, Nahyun,” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence. “How do you know so much about everything?” The words are sharper than you intend, but she takes it in stride, her grin unfaltering. “Is it because Jeno has been in your bed too?” you add, your tone sarcastic, daring her to deny it.

Nahyun’s cheeks flush instantly, her reaction betraying the confidence she usually wears like armor. “I wish,” she says, deflecting with a laugh, though the way her gaze flickers away tells you there’s more to the story.

You arch a brow, unwilling to let her off that easily. “How’s it going with Shotaro?”

Her throat clears audibly, her composure visibly faltering. “It’s going fine,” she mutters, brushing the question aside with a wave of her hand. She turns the spotlight back on you, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.“What about you? You’ve been so… mysterious lately. Even more so than usual. Anything I should know?”

Her voice trails off, but the words don’t dissipate; they linger, needling at the edges of your composure. You track the subtle shifts in her tone, the way her gaze narrows just slightly, like she’s cataloging every micro-expression you might betray. The weight of her question settles into your chest like a slow drip, pooling in the spaces where you’ve kept everything carefully compartmentalized.

You feel the secrets pressing against their walls—the night with Jeno, the bar, every calculated decision that unraveled in a moment of heat and impulse. You can’t afford for her to see the cracks. So, you breathe evenly, straighten your shoulders, and let your mind dissect her words for any hidden implications. Mysterious. Even more than usual. You can hear the unspoken curiosity, the hunger for something salacious, and you know how quickly a misstep could fuel it. It’s not just a question to her—it’s a thread she wants to pull, and you can’t let her. Control is everything. You’ve stitched your exterior too tightly for her to unravel, no matter how heavy the seams feel under her scrutiny.

Your lips curve into a faint smirk, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You know how busy I am with all my assignments and projects,” you say, the words slipping out smooth, light, a deliberate misdirection. Nahyun doesn’t press, but you catch the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. It’s enough to hold her off, to keep her on the surface where you need her to stay. Beneath it, though, your mind churns, restless and uneven, the cracks in your control spreading faster than you can patch them.

Your mind circles back to the inevitable: you’ll have to face him. Avoiding him for the past week had been easy enough, your schedules conveniently misaligned, but today, the fragile buffer is gone. It’s the first study session for the project, and there’s nowhere left to run. The thought lands heavily, an unwelcome weight pressing into your chest, growing heavier with every step. You feel the dread coiling tighter, sapping what little energy you have. There’s no way around it. No way out. Just the sharp, inescapable reality waiting for you on the other side.

You wave goodbye to Nahyun as she veers off toward Shotaro, who’s leaning against a low stone wall near the student union. His grin stretches wide when he sees you, and he calls out, “Y/N! Wait, I’ve got a question—important stuff.”

You stop, eyebrows raising slightly. “What’s on your mind, Shotaro? You look way too pleased with yourself.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You remember that snack you wouldn’t stop talking about? The one that’s, like, ridiculously hard to find? All crunchy on the outside, creamy in the middle, and dipped in whatever magic they put in that chocolate coating?”

Your eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you forgot about it,” he teases, the corners of his mouth lifting like he already knows he has you hooked.

“Forgot about it?” you blurt, incredulous. “I’ve been thinking about it every day. It’s my white whale, Shotaro.”

His grin widens as he pulls something out of his pocket, and the sight of the familiar packaging hits you like a lightning bolt. “You mean this?” he asks, dangling it casually like it’s no big deal.

You gasp—an actual gasp, high-pitched and unrestrained, something you never do—and launch forward, practically tackling him. “Shotaro! No way! You’re a literal angel!” You wrap your arms around him without thinking, squeezing him tightly as he bursts into laughter.

“I had to,” he says, his voice light but warm. “You’ve been mourning it like you lost a family member. Figured it was time to step in.”

You pull back, still clutching the snack like it might vanish. “I love you. No, seriously. You’ve just saved me. Nahyun, he’s a hero!” you shout, glancing over at her as she rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

“Glad I could do my good deed for the day,” he says, giving you a mock salute as Nahyun grabs his arm. “Now go enjoy it, Y/N. You’ve earned it.”

You wave goodbye, your hand brushing over the snack wrapper as you slip it into your pocket, smoothing the edges with precise folds until it lies flat. Your steps fall into an even rhythm, the soft click of your shoes against the pavement matching the steady beat of your thoughts. Shotaro’s words replay in fragments, fitting neatly into the quiet order of your mind, each one cataloged and stored without disrupting the pace you’ve set. The weight in your chest eases—not gone, but quieter, like the air after rain, leaving just enough clarity to focus on the path ahead.

The warmth from Shotaro’s easy kindness slips away as you move toward the quieter side of campus, the distant hum of laughter and footsteps fading like a song you’re no longer close enough to hear. The air feels heavier here, the stillness pressing against your skin as the study rooms come into view, tucked away like secrets waiting to be uncovered. When you step inside, the door clicks softly behind you, and the sterile hum of the air conditioning fills the space, its coldness sharp and precise, wrapping around you like an invisible boundary between the world outside and the one you’re about to face.

You lower your bag onto the table, movements precise and deliberate, each item placed with exact purpose. Your laptop sits perfectly parallel to your notebook, pens arranged in a neat line beside it. The sunlight filters through the blinds in sharp, angular beams, striping the table in a rigid pattern that mirrors the order you’ve imposed. The steady tick of the wall clock feels louder in the quiet room, marking time with a deliberate rhythm that matches the controlled cadence of your breathing. Everything is in its place—except for the restless churn beneath your calm exterior.

Your fingers brush over the edges of your notebook, flipping through the pages for the third time even though you already know their contents. This is just a project, you remind yourself, the thought slipping into place with the same deliberate care you give to everything else. Jeno’s presence, loud and untethered, is simply another disruption to neutralize. You’ve dealt with his kind before—the ones who thrive on dominance and disorder, who carry chaos like a second skin. But you’ve built yourself to withstand this. Each plan, every careful calculation, has been tailored to hold him at bay. He’s not a challenge; he’s a variable. And variables can be controlled.

The door swings open without warning, slamming against the wall with enough force to make you flinch. Jeno strides in, still in his basketball jersey, the fabric clinging to his chest, damp with sweat that gleams under the sunlight. His water bottle clunks onto the table, droplets scattering across your carefully arranged notes. He collapses into the chair opposite you, sprawling out with casual arrogance, legs spread wide, one hand drumming against the edge of the table.

“You’re late,” you say without looking up, your voice cool, clipped, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rattling you.

“Practice ran over,” he shrugs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ve got the first away game coming up.”

“And that’s my problem because?” you reply, your tone sharp enough to cut.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair, the damp fabric of his jersey clinging to the sharp lines of his torso. “Relax, princess. I didn’t say it was your problem.” His tone is casual, but the glint in his eyes is pure challenge as he sprawls further, every movement deliberately careless. “I’m here now. Isn’t that enough?”

Your jaw tightens as he casually knocks one of your pens off the table with the back of his hand, watching you tense as it rolls to the floor. You bend down to pick it up, forcing your movements to remain calm, even as the tension coils tighter in your chest.

“Can we just focus on the project?” you say, voice steady, though your gaze flickers—just for a second—to the bead of sweat trailing down his collarbone, catching in the hollow of his throat. The moment passes in an instant, but not quickly enough. When you glance back up, his smirk has sharpened, his dark eyes locked on you like he’s caught you in a game you didn’t agree to play.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says suddenly, leaning forward, his fingers brushing against your notebook as he shifts closer. The movement is deliberate, his thigh pressing against yours under the table. His voice drops lower, edged with something teasing, something dangerous.

“I haven’t,” you lie, the word coming out too quickly, too thin.

“You have,” he murmurs, his gaze steady, unwavering, pinning you in place. Before you can respond, his hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over the edge of your cheekbone with a deliberate slowness that sends a spark down your spine. He tilts your face toward him, and then his lips are on yours—no hesitation, no room to retreat. The kiss is hard, insistent, a collision of heat and intent that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue parts your lips with a boldness that leaves no room for doubt, claiming the space between you as his own.

A gasp breaks free from your throat, and your notebook slips from your grip, forgotten as your hands press against the solid plane of his chest. He’s impossibly warm, the damp fabric of his jersey clinging to the defined muscles beneath your palms. His scent wraps around you, woodsy and raw, intoxicating in its closeness, filling every inch of the quiet room until it feels as though nothing else exists. His hand slides down to grip the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you to him as the kiss deepens. There’s a hunger to it, an urgency that seeps into your skin, making your body arch into his without thought, without restraint. It’s intoxicating, the way he moves, the deliberate press of his chest against yours, his lips trailing fire along the edges of your carefully guarded self-control.

Somehow, you’re in his lap, your thighs framing his as if you’ve always belonged there. His hands explore without hesitation, slipping beneath your top to grasp the warm skin of your back, his fingers pressing into you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. The friction between you grows with every grind of your hips against his, his arousal pressing hard against you, undeniable and electric. His lips trail down your jaw, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and a low, gravelly sound rumbles in his throat as you move against him, each motion pulling you deeper into the heat pooling between you.

His hands shift, fingers hooking at the hem of your top, tugging it upward with intent. The fabric rises slowly, dragging against your skin, until the sharp chill of the room brushes over you, and reality crashes down like a bucket of ice water. Your heart pounds as you shove against his chest, harder than you mean to, the strength of it forcing him back. His hands drop away instantly, and you scramble off his lap, stumbling to your feet, your breaths ragged and uneven as the moment fractures around you.

“Come back,” he says, the words simple but heavy, his voice low and commanding.

“No,” you reply, firm despite the way your chest rises and falls unevenly.

He leans back in the chair, watching you for a beat too long, his gaze searing through your resolve. And then, before you can react, his hands are on your waist again, and with one smooth motion, he pulls you back into his lap. A startled yelp escapes you, your hands bracing against his shoulders as his grip tightens, holding you there. His smirk is sharp, deliberate, as his lips brush close to your ear.

“You don’t sound so convincing,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hands slide over your waist, firm and unyielding, as if daring you to move, to fight against what your body has already started to betray.

“Stop,” you manage, your voice trembling but firm. “We can’t do this.”

He doesn’t move, his dark eyes flashing with frustration as he runs a hand through his damp hair. “Why not?”

You square your shoulders, your voice steadier now. “Because the idea of us working is impossible. I’m Mark’s best friend.”

He lets out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair, his smirk cutting. “Well then, I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, anger rising to the surface. “I could never be with someone like you, Jeno.”

His smirk sharpens, but there’s something darker behind it now, something challenging. “Oh, someone like me? Go on, tell me, Y/N. What am I like?”

Your composure hardens, your voice calm but cutting as you straighten. “You’re arrogant. You think everything revolves around you. You hurt people without even noticing because you’re too busy pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re cruel to Mark, to my Mark, and you don’t see how that affects the people around you.”

His smirk falters, but he doesn’t look away. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“You’ve been like this your whole life,” you press on, the words sharp and deliberate. “Even when we were kids, you were that spoiled boy who always had to win. And that one night—it doesn’t change anything, Jeno. It doesn’t change who you are, and it doesn’t change how I see you.”

His jaw tightens, and his voice drops, quieter but no less intense. “You think keeping people in boxes makes them easier to handle. But me? I’m not some puzzle you can solve. I’m not a neat little project you can file away once you’re done.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to recover. “And you think you’re so special, don’t you? That you’re worth breaking everything apart for? You’re not. You’re just… you’re just a mistake I won’t make twice.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N. But you don’t look at me like you think I’m a mistake. You look at me like you don’t know what to do with me. And that scares you.”

You rise slowly, his hands still firm on your waist, their grip neither tightening nor loosening, just holding—steady, deliberate, as if the act of letting go isn’t something he’s ready to entertain. The warmth of his touch seeps through you, a quiet defiance against the distance you’re trying to impose. The air feels thick, charged with something unspoken, his thumbs brushing lightly against your skin in a way that feels more like a question than an anchor. Your voice comes out low, restrained, trembling at the edges but layered with quiet resolve. “You’re right,” you say, each word deliberate, cutting through the silence. “I don’t know what to do with you. But I know what to do for myself and that’s forgetting this ever happened.” The weight of it hangs there, as heavy as his hands, daring either of you to move first.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, before you move back to your seat. The sound of your chair scraping the floor feels too loud, too abrupt against the tension still pulsing between you. Jeno leans back in his chair, his posture infuriatingly relaxed as he picks up a pen and tosses it at you, the slight arc deliberate, landing just shy of your notebook. It lands just slightly out of place, the disruption deliberate, his smirk daring you to react.

You exhale sharply, leaning forward to grab the pen, your fingers moving with precision as you set it neatly back in its place. His gaze doesn’t waver, watching every movement with that maddening, amused grin. “Can we get on with the project now?” you snap, the edge in your tone betraying the lingering frustration that still coils low in your stomach.

His smirk doesn’t falter; if anything, it sharpens. “You’re really trying to pretend we didn’t fuck?” he asks, the words cutting through the quiet like a blade.

You don’t look up, your voice icy and firm. “We didn’t because nothing happened.”

He chuckles low, leaning forward just enough for his next words to reach you, each one dripping with deliberate weight. “His smirk grows, his voice dropping as he leans closer, his breath brushing against your skin. “Didn’t sound like ‘nothing’ when you were moaning my name, when I was inside you all night long. Pretty sure your body had other ideas.”

The sharp scrape of your chair against the floor fills the room as you shift, refusing to let him see the way your pulse quickens. “If you spent half the energy you use trying to rile me up on this project, we’d actually have made progress by now,” you say, your tone clipped, pointed.

“And miss out on how cute you look when you’re mad?” He leans forward, his arm brushing yours, the proximity making the air feel heavier, his smirk daring you to push him away.

You sit straighter, your eyes narrowing as you try to pull the conversation back into focus. “You’re the one who claimed that a team’s success hinges on how well players adapt to shifting dynamics under pressure. So, why don’t you back it up— was that just another excuse to waste time?”

Jeno’s smirk falters slightly, his gaze dropping to your laptop. His fingers tap lazily against the edge of the table, but his eyes sharpen as he skims the notes and diagrams on your screen. A scatterplot of player movements during a key game flashes across the display, annotated with your meticulous notes on decision-making patterns and communication breakdowns. Your outline includes a dense analysis of leadership strategies and how positional shifts influence the outcome under pressure.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says finally, his voice casual, though his assessment cuts cleanly through the tension.

You bristle, snapping your head toward him. “I think. You don’t. That’s the difference.”

He doesn’t flinch, the corner of his mouth curling upward again. “I see the problem now,” he replies, pointing at the laptop screen. “You’re trying to force structure into something that works on instinct. Basketball isn’t about perfect lines and rigid rules; it’s about rhythm. You can’t analyze every second like it’s a chessboard and expect it to make sense. You’ve got to feel the game—not dissect it to death.”

His words linger, cutting through the air and planting an idea you hate to admit makes sense. Your fingers hover above the keys, frozen for a moment as your thoughts stutter and fall out of rhythm. You never falter like this—never let someone’s perspective shift the order in your mind. You never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to, never expose the cracks in your logic for someone else to see. But now, for some reason you can’t fully grasp, the structure you cling to feels… insufficient.

Your voice comes softer than you expect, almost hesitant. “How can I feel the game? It’s not like I’d ever play.” The words slip out before you can stop them, a crack in your usual analytical exterior. It feels foreign, exposing even this small piece of uncertainty, and you almost regret it the second it hangs in the air.

Jeno’s movements slow, his eyes sharpening as he takes you in, and for a moment, his teasing demeanor fades. He leans back slightly, his hand brushing against the table as if considering something. “I have an idea,” he says finally, his voice softer, carrying an edge of intrigue that feels entirely too dangerous.

Your brows furrow, instinctively returning to skepticism. “What is it?”

His smirk returns, sharp and infuriating, the tension diffusing as quickly as it had risen. “You’ll see,” he says, tilting his chair back with an infuriating nonchalance. “But only if you stop overthinking everything.”

Annoyance surges back, grounding you like a sharp inhale. “Do you even care about this?” you bite out, your tone sharper now, cutting through the strange vulnerability that had settled between you.

He leans in, his face hovering close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath, his grin widening with a deliberate slowness that makes your stomach tighten. “Care enough to spend time with you,” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, but underpinned by something darker, something that sends a faint shiver through you.

The air between you thickens, every glance, every word, every movement a layer in the game neither of you is willing to admit you’re playing. He leans closer under the guise of looking at your notes, but the subtle shift brushes his arm against yours, the contact lingering just long enough to make your skin burn. The heat of him is palpable, invading the small space you’ve tried to maintain.

“Do you mind?” you say, your tone clipped, but the edge falters, betraying your effort to keep composure. “You’re in my space.”

His smirk curves wider, deliberate and slow, his voice dropping lower, his breath ghosting over your skin. “I thought we were past personal space.”

The words are like a spark to kindling, sending a shiver down your spine. His presence presses in on you, the sharpness of his gaze locking you in place. You try to resist, to pull your focus back to the project spread out in front of you, but Jeno has never been the type to let you ignore him. He moves closer, his frame dominating yours, his hand brushing against your papers in a move that feels far too intentional. It’s not just the way he towers over you—it’s the way he watches you, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You shift back, but he doesn’t relent. He pretends to give you space, his hands moving to straighten the papers he just messed up, lining them up with a precision that mirrors your own. His fingers linger on the edges, the sharp, clean lines of the rearranged sheets tug at something deep within you, the kind of satisfaction that settles in your chest like a steadying breath. His movements are unhurried, precise, and you catch yourself watching too closely, a flicker of warmth blooming at how unexpectedly attentive he is.

“What?” he murmurs, catching the shift in your expression.

“Nothing,” you reply, returning to your notes. “At least now it looks decent.”

The highlighter sitting just out of reach catches your attention, and you lean forward to grab it, the movement fluid and unthinking. It’s a small gesture, one you’ve done countless times before, but Jeno’s gaze follows it, his attention snaring on your wrist like a hook catching on fabric.

His eyes narrow slightly, the shift subtle but there. It’s not suspicion—it’s curiosity, the kind that digs deeper the longer it lingers. The bracelet you’re wearing catches the light, its silver chain delicate, understated, and almost entirely bare. A charm bracelet, but one with hardly any charms. The sparseness of it seems to hold his attention, like it’s saying more about you than the silence between you ever could.

He doesn’t move or speak, but the weight of his observation feels palpable, hanging in the air. His gaze sharpens, deliberate in a way that feels out of place for someone so naturally impulsive. There’s something about the emptiness of the bracelet that sticks with him—something unspoken, a question without words.

You catch the flicker of his attention too late, and the realization makes you pull your sweater sleeve down instinctively, the fabric sliding over your wrist in a move meant to obscure. It’s automatic, almost defensive, but the brief glimpse of the bracelet lingers in his mind, unanswered.

He doesn’t react at first, still leaning back in his seat, but his posture shifts slightly, his gaze lingering on you longer than usual. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, softer, the edge of curiosity still there but buried beneath something gentler.

“Are you hungry?” The question feels sudden, out of place, but the warmth in his tone keeps it from sounding abrupt.

You pause mid-sentence, blinking up at him. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. “Kinda,” you admit, setting your pen down as you study him, unsure of where this is leading.

He nods once, as if that’s all he needed to hear, and then turns on his heel without another word. The quiet resolve in his movements leaves you momentarily stunned, your eyes following him as he strides toward the door. He doesn’t take his bag, doesn’t look back, and the simplicity of it—the lack of his usual teasing or smug comments—throws you.

Your gaze drifts back to your work, but your focus wavers. The room feels emptier in his absence, the air thinner, like it’s waiting for something. You try to push the moment aside, eyes scanning your notes, but the sound of the door opening again pulls you immediately. You glance up, heart skipping when you see him, his hands full—two coffees and a small paper bag that smells faintly of something sweet.

You reach for the coffee, the warmth of the cup grounding you as you take a tentative sip. The moment the hazelnut hits your tongue, mingling with the creamy smoothness of oat milk, your eyes flutter shut, rolling back slightly in unguarded bliss. The taste is so perfect, so unmistakably yours, that it makes your breath catch. How did he know what you liked?

Jeno sets the other cup down on the desk beside a paper bag, his movements unusually measured, almost careful. It’s such a contrast to his usual recklessness that it makes you pause, your gaze shifting to him. “Thought you might need fuel,” he says, the words casual, but the subtle curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes betray him. There’s something deliberate about the way he says it, like he’s gauging your reaction, daring you to read into it.

You glance at the spread in front of you, a thoughtful assortment of pastries spilling from the paper bag. Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “Thanks,” you say, the word soft but genuine as you reach for another sip of the coffee, savoring the unexpected gesture more than you’d care to admit.

You brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear again. It’s become a repetitive distraction, an absent motion, though you can’t seem to bring yourself to tie it back. Maybe it’s laziness, maybe it’s something else, but the loose strands keep falling, teasing against your cheek, pulling your focus away from the task in front of you.

Jeno moves without warning, his presence at your back catching you off guard. His hands reach for yours, brushing against your knuckles as he takes the hair tie from your wrist. The motion is deliberate, unhurried, as though he’s not just helping but laying a claim to the moment. You turn your head, your breath hitching slightly, and meet his gaze—steady, soft, and unreadable. The warmth of his touch lingers, spreading across your skin in waves that feel intimate, almost too intimate, as your furrowed brows betray the sudden shift in the air between you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

He meets your gaze, his expression softer than usual, his eyes steady on yours. “Stay still,” he murmurs, his fingers gathering your hair with surprising gentleness. He ties it back, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the same Jeno who thrives on chaos. The tenderness of it feels so foreign, so out of character, that you can’t help but stare at him as he finishes.

“You look so pretty with your hair up,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent.

Your breath catches. “It was in my face,” you reply, trying to sound dismissive, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, your name slipping from his lips in a tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine. His voice is darker now, laden with something unspoken, something impossible to ignore. His hand slides to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there, and before you can think, his lips crash into yours. The kiss is molten, pulling you under with its heat, his hands tangling in your hair as he draws you impossibly closer. A low, needy moan escapes him, vibrating against your mouth, and the sound alone makes your knees weaken. Every movement of his lips, every tilt of his head, carries a desperation that’s as heady as it is dangerous.

His hands are already tugging at your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin, when you shove him back with a strength you didn’t know you had. His groan is guttural, raw, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with want. “Y/N,” he growls, the sound of your name stretched out like a warning, or maybe a plea. The space between you feels electric, every breath shared hanging heavy, the kind of tension that feels like it’s seconds away from detonating.

You smile, sharp and teasing, and grab your ID card from the desk. Pressing it into his hand, you grip his fingers tightly around it, your eyes locking with his. “Go to the closest printer and print off everything on this card,” you say, your voice dripping with command. “Then I’ll think about kissing you.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might argue. But instead, he nods, his eyes dark with determination as he turns and walks out the door without a second glance. The air feels heavier in his absence, the silence thrumming with the echo of what just happened. You can’t help but smile to yourself, knowing that you’ve won this round. For now.

The air is thick and electric when he returns shortly after. He doesn’t say a word, but you notice the stack of papers in his hand—stapled, collated, and arranged with a precision you hadn’t expected. He places them neatly on the table, his movements deliberate and uncharacteristically calm, like he’s presenting you with proof of something you can’t name. It shouldn’t affect you, but it does. There’s something about the way he moves, the quiet efficiency that makes your pulse quicken in a way you can’t explain, and it frustrates you that he can elicit this reaction without trying.

Before you can think to speak, his lips are on yours again, hot and insistent. He pulls you flush against him, his body radiating a heat that seeps into your skin. His hands are firm on your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s in control now, and you moan against his lips. The sound seems to spur him on, his grip tightening as he angles your face to deepen the kiss. But the haze doesn’t last long. You break away, gasping, your hands pressing against his chest as you try to create distance.

“Jeno,” you whisper, your tone heavy with breathlessness, your lips still tingling from the contact. “We can’t do this.”

His response is immediate, his hand sliding beneath your shirt with a deliberate slowness that makes your back arch. His thumb brushes over your nipple, the touch sending sparks through your body as a moan slips from your lips, unbidden. You bite your lip hard, your head falling back as your eyes flutter closed. It’s maddening how easily he breaks your resolve.

“Why do you care so much about what this looks like?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, but the words cut deeper, each one precise and unforgiving. His thumb moves again, circling, teasing, drawing another shaky sigh from your lips. “Afraid people might think you actually like being here with me?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a second, you can’t speak. The small hitch in your breathing betrays you, and you hate that he hears it, that he knows. But you recover quickly, your glare sharpening as you spit back, “What I care about is not letting you ruin this project—or my life.”

He laughs then, a low, intimate sound that makes the heat in your chest flare. “You’re so good at running away, Y/N,” he says, his tone laced with something almost tender. His fingers don’t stop, coaxing and persistent, and it’s impossible to think clearly. “Is that how you handle everything?”

Your glare sharpens. “Not everything is worth staying for.”

Before you can pull away, his hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against the desk. The papers you had so carefully arranged scatter across the surface, forgotten, as his other hand grips the edge of the table behind you. His chest is so close you can feel the heat of him seeping into your skin, his presence consuming, his voice dropping to a low whisper that slices cleanly through the tension.

“You’re so used to controlling everything,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your lips, the words curling darkly between you. “What happens when you can’t control me?”

Your heart stutters, the weight of his words sinking into you, twisting your pulse into something erratic. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you even closer, the firm press of his body against yours making it impossible to think. Your hands move without permission, trailing up his chest, fingertips grazing the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt before curling into the fabric, pulling him closer still. Your body betrays every ounce of resistance you’ve clung to, your hips brushing against his in a way that sends heat spiraling low in your stomach.

Your breaths are shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling against his as you force out, “This doesn’t mean anything.” The tremor in your voice betrays you, cracking under the weight of the moment. His smirk sharpens, his grip on you tightening as he leans closer, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a way that makes the air between you feel unbearable.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he murmurs, his touch maddeningly light, like a dare.

The last threads of restraint snap, breaking in the heat of his proximity. You surge forward, closing the distance with a fervor that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with release. His lips crash against yours, his grip on you tightening as he matches your intensity with his own. It’s hard, heated, the culmination of every sharp word and lingering stare between you, a clash that leaves no room for anything but this.

His hands glide firmly to your thighs, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric as he lifts you onto the desk with effortless strength. The sunlight cuts through the blinds in uneven slashes, casting fleeting shadows that dance over your skin, over the curve of your legs now bracketing his hips. The crumpled papers beneath you are a faint reminder of the order you once clung to, now buried under the weight of his body pressing into yours. Every shift of him is deliberate, the tension in his grip matched by the unrelenting push of his chest against you, each motion tightening the pull that coils low in your stomach.

“You gonna take charge this time,” he rasps against your neck, his voice rough and edged with heat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you gasp. His fingers grip your thighs harder, digging into the flesh as he drags you closer, the space between your bodies dissolving until every inch of him presses against you. “Or are you gonna let me ruin you?” The words land like a challenge, heavy and dripping with intent, his lips trailing along your jaw to punctuate it.

Your breath catches, and instead of answering, your hands dive into his hair, threading through the strands with a force that makes him groan low in his throat. The sound rumbles against your skin, shooting straight to your core as you pull him closer, tilting his head to give yourself control for just a moment. Your lips find his, hard and demanding, as you shift against him, arching into the solid press of his body like you’re daring him to follow through.

“You don’t ruin me,” you gasp between kisses, the words sharp and cutting as your nails rake down the back of his neck, leaving him breathless for a moment. “I let you.” The way your hips roll against him contradicts the defiance in your voice, but the flicker of something darker in his eyes tells you he doesn’t mind the contradiction—it only makes him want more.

His response begins as a low growl, vibrating against your skin as his lips trail lower, slow and deliberate, along the column of your neck. Each kiss lingers just a moment too long, his breath warm and heavy, his teeth grazing with just enough pressure to send a jolt through you. His hands tighten their hold on your thighs, fingers digging in as he shifts closer, the movement controlled yet rough, a silent demand for more.

Your back arches slightly against the hard edge of the desk, the papers beneath you crumpling further under the weight of your body pressing into them. His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart, his body leaning into yours with an unrelenting heat that pins you firmly in place. One of his hands grips your hip, the other sliding under your top with a deliberate slowness that sets your skin alight. His thumbs brush over your sides, dragging upward until his grip borders on possessive, the fabric rising with him. Your breath catches as his lips find the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly before he bites down harder, pulling a broken gasp from you.

The weight of him presses you further back, pinning you to the desk with an intensity that makes the air between you feel suffocating. But as his hands move higher, fingers skimming dangerous territory, a cold blade of clarity slices through the haze, sharp and unrelenting.

Your palms flatten against his chest, the pressure hard and purposeful, shoving him back with enough force to break the spell. His movements still, the heat in his gaze flickering into something darker as he meets your eyes. “No,” you say, your voice cutting through the air with a cold finality, steady and sharp, even as your heart races and your skin burns from where he touched you.

His eyes flash with frustration, the tension in his jaw tightening as his hands stay rooted on your waist, firm and unrelenting, like he refuses to let you go. Instead of stepping back, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s rougher, more demanding, as if he’s trying to pull you under with him. His groan is low, guttural, vibrating through you as his fingers press harder into your sides, anchoring you against him. The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing yours with deliberate control, his breath hot and heavy as it fans across your skin.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close for just a second too long, the heat of his body searing through the thin barrier of fabric. His hands move, one sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling you closer until his arousal presses against you, unmistakable and deliberate. The pressure sends a jolt through you, sharp and electrifying, his lips devouring yours as if he knows exactly how close he’s bringing you to unraveling.

But clarity cuts through the haze like ice against fire, snapping you back. With a sharp shove, you push against his chest, breaking the kiss. The sound of his breath catching—half a groan, half a growl—lingers between you, the tension snapping taut again as he stumbles slightly, his hands still reaching as though unwilling to let the moment go.

“I said no,” you snap, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as your chest heaves and your skin burns from the memory of his touch.

He doesn’t step back, his gaze dark and fixed on yours, daring you to take the next move. His chest rises and falls, his breath uneven, but he stays rooted, his hands reluctantly falling away as you slide off the desk with deliberate precision. You take your time, smoothing your top, running your fingers over your hair as though every detail must be perfect before you turn away.

“Figure out how to handle that,” you say, your voice cool and cutting as your gaze drops briefly to the tension still evident in his body. Your lips twitch into the faintest smirk, sharp enough to sting, before you meet his eyes one last time.

You turn, walking away without a glance back, your steps unhurried, your head high as if the entire room doesn’t still hum with the heat of what just happened. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him standing there, breathless, frustrated, and impossibly hard, his composure crumbling in the wake of your absence.

“Wait, so you have to work with Jeno?” Mark asks, his tone cautious but laced with curiosity. He leans forward slightly, his eyebrows pulling together in that familiar way that makes you feel like he’s already assessing the situation too deeply.

You hesitate, the weight of your answer catching in your throat. That’s why you told him about the project in the first place—because if Mark ever saw you with Jeno, it would be easier to explain it as purely academic. You’d decided it was better to let him know upfront, to control the narrative before it spun into something else. Something dangerous. Something that could lead to the truth about the night you and Jeno shared—a night you’ve sworn to bury in the deepest part of yourself. A night that will not happen again.

Finally, you nod, trying to keep your tone nonchalant. “Yeah,” you reply, letting out a breath. “Coach Suh wouldn’t let me pick anyone else.” You cross your arms, forcing an unimpressed edge into your voice. “Apparently, it’s because he’s the captain.”

Mark’s eyes narrow slightly, and you know that look. He’s analyzing you, trying to piece together whether you’re telling the full story. “How’s that going for you?” he asks, his voice light but probing.

“It’s not that bad,” you say quickly, waving him off. You know Mark. He worries—too much sometimes—and the last thing you want is for him to dig deeper. “He’s not the most helpful person to be around, honestly. But…” You pause, the faintest flicker of a smile brushing your lips before you catch yourself. “He kinda makes an alright assistant. He’s actually organized a few things for me. And—” you shrug, playing it off as casually as possible— “he brought coffee the other day.”

Mark’s expression shifts slightly, subtle enough that you almost miss it. He’s listening carefully, but there’s something else there, too. Something questioning.

“You’re spreading yourself too thin with this project thing,” he says suddenly, his tone soft but firm. It’s not a question, and that’s what makes it land heavier than you expect. “I mean, you’ve already got so much on your plate.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Jeno…” The words catch briefly, and you pause, not quite sure what to say. “He’s not great, but he’s trying. And that makes it easier.” There’s an unexpected shift in your tone as you speak, quieter, more thoughtful, though you don’t notice. It’s a subtle softness, slipping in without your permission, a calm that feels out of place amidst the usual edge in your voice.

Mark notices.

He doesn’t comment right away, but you can feel his eyes on you as you start talking about your next session with Jeno—how you plan to structure it, what you think might actually help. Your voice is patient in a way it rarely is, a quiet care slipping in as you outline your thoughts. You don’t even realize the change in tone, but Mark does.

Mark knows you. You’re firm, unyielding, the kind of person who doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Not from students panicking about deadlines, not from people asking for shortcuts. But with Jeno, there’s something different. Something quieter, more deliberate. Mark sees it in the way you’re willing to explain things to him, in how you talk about the work you’re doing together like it matters, like you want to help him.

And it’s not just about the project. There’s something more. Mark can’t place it yet, but it’s there.

Mark tilts his head slightly, his brows furrowing as he studies you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “You’re really patient with him,” he says, his tone careful, more curious than teasing. “More than I thought you’d be.”

You glance at him, your eyebrows knitting together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, raising his hands in mock defense. But the look in his eyes lingers, a quiet understanding he doesn’t voice. Instead, he stores the thought away, filing it under the things he loves most about you—your sharpness, your strength, your ability to care in ways you don’t even realize.

And now, apparently, your willingness to be in Jeno’s corner, even when it surprises him.

The room had become quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, but your mind drifted to the scenes playing out just beyond the walls. You could almost hear it: the campus alive with energy, footsteps pounding against concrete, voices raised in excitement. Students would be weaving through the pathways, duffle bags in tow, their laughter cutting through the crisp air as they prepared for the Seoul Ravens’ first away game of the season. It was easy to picture the buzz of it all, but it felt like another world entirely—a world you had no interest in stepping into. Basketball had always been background noise to you, something you tuned out unless it involved Mark. The only game you’d ever bothered to attend was his first, and even then, it wasn’t about the sport. It was about him.

But this time, you couldn’t escape it. The project had pulled you into the fold, tethering you to a world you didn’t belong in. You’d have to watch the matches, take notes, and analyze the dynamics on and off the court. You’d have to observe the players, the cheerleaders, the crowd—people you normally avoided without hesitation. Just the thought made your stomach twist, the weight of obligation settling heavy in your chest. You shifted uncomfortably, glancing at your suitcase, half-packed on the floor. The weekend stretched ahead like an endurance test, but at least Mark would be there. You’d endure it for him, like you always did, even if it meant sharing a motel with people you could barely stand.

You let out a small groan, leaning your head against Mark’s shoulder as you both sat perched on the edge of your bed. The faint scent of his cologne, familiar and grounding, filled the small space between you. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your voice came out muffled against the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I really don’t want to go,” you muttered, the words laced with resignation. “The thought of being stuck in the same motel as half these people makes me want to scream.”

His laugh rumbled softly under your cheek, a sound that made the corners of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. You’ll survive.”

“I hope so,” you mumbled, but as your eyes opened, a sudden thought lit up in your mind. You jabbed his arm, sitting up straight. “Hey—”

“What?” he asked, feigning offense as he rubbed his arm. “What did I do now?”

“Have you submitted those documents I told you to submit an entire week ago?” you demanded, your tone sharp with authority. His silence was telling, and the sheepish look he gave you only confirmed your suspicion.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Mark Lee.”

“I was gonna do it,” he defended, though the guilty look on his face gave him away.

“Do it tonight, or I’ll move in with Shotaro,” you warned. “This apartment is a perfect contender—it’s in a great area, and the price is actually decent. But they’re not gonna wait around for us if you keep slacking on the documentation.”

He nodded quickly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it tonight. Promise.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I knew I’d lose my best friend to the shackles of college basketball and popularity.”

“Hey!” he exclaimed, sitting up straighter. “I’m still the same guy. Basketball hasn’t changed me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but the sound lacked its usual lightness. The truth lingered unspoken between you. It wasn’t that Mark was slipping away—not exactly—but his world had expanded in ways yours hadn’t. His name seemed to echo everywhere now, woven into conversations you overheard on campus. It wasn’t just about his basketball skills, though those were undeniable; it was the way he carried himself. Mark had that unassuming charisma, the kind that made people orbit around him without him even realizing it. He wasn’t loud or flashy—he didn’t need to be. There was something magnetic in the way he smiled, the way he treated everyone like they mattered.

And yet, sitting here in the quiet of your room, he wasn’t the campus star. He wasn’t the guy everyone whispered about or cheered for. He was just Mark. The same boy who teased you relentlessly, who knew your favorite snacks, who’d always had your back no matter what. In moments like this, it was easy to forget how much he’d become to everyone else because, for you, he was still simply your best friend.

“I can’t believe you’re left packing until the last minute,” he teased, mock tutting as he gestured to the half-packed suitcase on your bed. “This is so unlike you.”

“I didn’t,” you argued, crossing your arms. “I didn’t even know I was coming on this trip until this morning. Coach Suh told me last-minute that there was space for me in the motel and on the coach.”

His laugh filled the room, warm and familiar, as the two of you got to work packing. There was an ease between you, a rhythm to your friendship that needed no explanation. He handed you a sweater, and you tucked it into the suitcase, glancing at him with a soft smile.

“I’m glad you’re coming,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more sincere. “It’ll be nice to see a familiar face in the audience. It always helps me feel grounded—makes it feel more like the river court.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached out to hug him, wrapping your arms around him tightly. “I’ll always support you,” you murmured. “I’m always so proud of you, you know that, right?”

Before Mark could respond, the door burst open, and Donghyuck groaned loudly, flopping onto the bed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Can you two not?” he muttered, glaring at you both like you’d personally ruined his day.

You rolled your eyes, pulling away from Mark as you got back to packing. “Don’t you have your own packing to do?”

“I’m already packed,” Donghyuck announced proudly, stretching out like a cat. “I just came to see what you’re up to.”

Yangyang appeared in the doorway a moment later, grinning as he held up a neatly folded shirt. “Thought I’d come help too. I’m already packed, and, let’s be honest, you’re the most fun to hang out with.”

The room buzzed with an easy kind of chaos, the kind that came from familiarity and years of friendship. Donghyuck moved through your carefully arranged pile of clothes with a theatrical lack of care, pulling out random items and replacing them with things he deemed more “appropriate.” A ridiculous hat landed squarely on your bed, bright and obnoxious against the muted tones of your neatly folded sweaters. He didn’t bother to hide his smirk as he tossed it into the mix, his movements careless but full of intention. You shot him a pointed glance, shaking your head as you picked the hat up and flung it onto the floor, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

Yangyang lingered at the edge of the bed, his attention caught by something that had slipped through your usual meticulousness. The black lace thong and matching bra lay out in the open, striking against the practicality of the rest of your packing. His brow furrowed, his movements faltering as he caught sight of it. A flush crept up his neck as he glanced toward you, then quickly back to the lingerie. The moment stretched as Donghyuck’s eyes darted to the bed, his realization arriving a second later. His amusement bubbled to the surface, evident in the sharp rise of his shoulders and the quiet shake of his head.

You moved without a word, your face calm, betraying nothing. Folding the lace set with precise hands, you tucked it into your suitcase and resumed your packing, brushing away the moment as easily as you might smooth over a wrinkle in a shirt. The weight of their gazes lingered—Yangyang’s awkward but fond, Donghyuck’s teasing, and Mark’s quiet but steady—but you didn’t acknowledge it. Even as the room swirled with disarray—Donghyuck’s deliberate chaos, Yangyang’s awkward fidgeting, Mark’s steady presence—it all seemed to balance perfectly, as if each of you instinctively knew how to fill the space left by another. The warmth wasn’t in the words unsaid but in the way they didn’t need to be spoken, a kind of trust built over time, binding you all together in ways that felt effortless.

The door flew open with a sharp bang, and Chenle stormed in, his movements quick and frantic. His gaze darted to the scattered clothes across the bed and floor, eyebrows knitting together in visible disapproval. His sharp inhale filled the room as he threw his hands up, gesturing wildly at the chaos surrounding you. The tension in his posture was mirrored in his voice, which cut through the warm atmosphere with an exasperated edge.

“Unbelievable!” he barked, his eyes narrowing as he gestured at Donghyuck’s pile of discarded hats and Yangyang’s haphazardly folded clothes. He grabbed a crumpled sweater from the edge of your suitcase, shaking it like it offended him personally. His face twisted into a mix of frustration and disappointment as his hand flew to his hip, his stance the very picture of disapproval. Even his sigh felt heavy, weighted with the kind of authority that came naturally to him.

He didn’t need to say it, but he did anyway—his voice brimming with righteous indignation as he scolded the room like a parent catching their children misbehaving. “Just because we live on a budget,” he muttered, his tone biting as he surveyed the room with a dramatic sweep of his arm, “doesn’t mean we have to look like we’re off-brand!”

You bit back a grin as Chenle’s scolding reached its peak, his voice rising in mock outrage as he waved a shirt in Donghyuck’s direction. Donghyuck, unfazed, threw himself onto the bed with dramatic flair, claiming he was too exhausted to argue. Yangyang fiddled with the edge of his hoodie, pretending to listen while his eyes darted to you, amusement dancing in their depths. Even Mark, who rarely engaged in the theatrics, chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on the mess but betraying no intention of intervening. The chaos felt alive, wrapping itself around the room like an embrace, and you found yourself leaning into it, letting their voices and presence fill the space.

As you zipped up your suitcase, their attention shifted to you, casual but lingering, their expressions softening as the room quieted. They didn’t say anything, but their teasing, their fussing, and even their collective disarray spoke volumes. You could feel it—the way their focus settled on you like you were the thread that held the moment together. And you loved it, even if you’d never admit it outright. It was rare to feel this surrounded, this seen, even amid the chaos, and you let yourself bask in it for just a moment longer.

The early morning air felt colder than it should have, biting against your skin as you stepped onto the campus grounds. The golden light of dawn stretched long shadows across the pavement, softening the buzz of activity into something almost serene—if not for the way it all seemed so far away. You kept your distance, eyes flicking across the scene with an almost clinical precision. The basketball team was scattered across the lot, players moving in pairs or small groups, their laughter and energy bouncing off the concrete. Cheerleaders hovered nearby, bright and animated, their voices spilling over with chatter that didn’t concern you. It was all so performative, so obvious, as though everyone here knew their roles and leaned into them fully. You were only here because you had to be.

The trip wasn’t about camaraderie or excitement for you—it was about calculation. Observation. Jeno. He filled the edges of your mind, slipping into your thoughts despite how many times you tried to push him out. What would this weekend reveal? Would he try to take control, thinking he could have you the way he did before, or would he crack under the weight of knowing you wouldn’t let him? You weren’t interested in giving him anything, but the thought of watching him squirm, of seeing how far he’d go to try and get it, was enough to keep you curious, almost too curious for comfort.

Jeno wasn’t the type to handle rejection gracefully, and the thought of watching him navigate the boundaries you’d drawn intrigued you more than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t that you wanted to challenge him—it was more personal than that. You wanted to see him, understand him, even if it meant keeping yourself at a safe distance.

The sound of Yangyang and Donghyuck’s bickering pulled you from your thoughts. They were huddled together near the coach, their voices rising over something completely inconsequential—probably the seating arrangement or who got to bring what snacks for the ride. Yangyang’s face was a picture of exaggerated indignation, waving a packet of sour gummies like it was a weapon. Donghyuck countered with an equally dramatic point, gesturing to the coach and claiming that Yangyang’s choice of snacks was “unacceptable and borderline offensive.” It was the kind of chaos only they could create, and despite yourself, you felt the corners of your lips twitch into a faint smile.

“You good?” Donghyuck’s voice cut through, catching you off guard as he slung an arm around your shoulder. His tone was playful, but his glance lingered for a second longer than usual, a flicker of something more sincere in his eyes. Yangyang, now victorious in their snack debate, nudged your arm gently, his expression light but curious. “Yeah, you’ve been kinda quiet,” he added, leaning in just enough to study your face. They didn’t press further—never did—but their presence was grounding, pulling you back into the warm chaos of the group.

The moment settled, their laughter fading into the background as your focus shifted to Areum. She moved with a quiet kind of purpose, her steps measured but lacking the assertiveness of someone used to commanding attention. It wasn’t her presence that filled the space but the way she softened it, her gaze fixed solely on Mark like he was the only one there. Her shoulders were slightly drawn in, her movements careful, almost tentative, yet there was an undeniable intention in the way she approached. She passed by your group without so much as a glance, her voice low and steady as she called his name, “Mark,” a sound meant only for him, delicate but deliberate, like an offering.

Mark didn’t notice at first, lost in the steady rhythm of his music. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, his headphones still on. It wasn’t until Areum tapped him lightly on the shoulder that he startled, pulling one earbud out as he turned toward her. The moment their eyes met, you felt the shift. His usual guardedness melted away, replaced by something warmer, more open. His lips curved into a soft smile that reached his eyes, the kind of look you hadn’t seen him give to anyone in a while.

Areum handed him something—a mixtape. Even from a distance, you could see the care she’d put into it. His name was written across the case in looping script, surrounded by small doodles of guitars and basketballs. It wasn’t flashy, but it was intentional. Thoughtful. Mark’s fingers brushed hers as he took it, and though the moment was fleeting, it lingered in a way that made you pause.

Yangyang raised an eyebrow beside you, breaking your focus. “What’s going on over there?” he asked, his voice low enough to stay between the three of you.

Donghyuck leaned slightly forward, his expression somewhere between curious and annoyed. “Why does it look like they’re in some kind of rom-com moment?” he muttered, clearly unimpressed but equally unable to look away.

You didn’t answer, too focused on the small details: the way Areum tilted her head, her smile radiant and genuine; the way Mark’s thumb absently traced the edge of the tape as if committing it to memory. Their connection was private, unspoken, yet glaringly obvious. You fidgeted with your phone, pretending not to notice, but the tension in the air was impossible to ignore.

When Areum finally walked away, her expression content, Mark stayed by his car for a moment longer. His gaze lingered on the tape in his hands, his thumb brushing over one of the doodles as though it was something fragile. Then, as if nothing had happened, he pushed off the car and walked toward you, slipping the tape into his bag like it wasn’t a big deal.

Yangyang wasn’t letting it go. “Okay, what was that?” he asked, his tone playful but curious.

Mark shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. “Nothing,” he said simply, though his eyes flicked toward Areum for just a second too long.

Donghyuck rolled his eyes dramatically. “Sure, nothing. Because mixtapes from pretty girls are totally casual.”

Mark laughed, his reaction too light, too natural, to be convincing. He didn’t say anything more, but the way his hand brushed the bag where he’d tucked the tape told you enough. Whatever it was, he wasn’t telling—but he wasn’t exactly hiding it either.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Nahyun’s expression as she stood with Shotaro and Chenle. Her gaze lingered on Mark, her lips pressed into a thin line as though she were trying to mask something. Shotaro noticed too, his eyes flicking between Nahyun and Mark briefly before he gave her a reassuring nudge. Chenle, meanwhile, was oblivious to the tension, busy ranting about how unprepared everyone was.

The energy of the group ebbed and flowed as always, but something about the way Mark stood, his easy laughter blending with Yangyang and Donghyuck’s teasing, left you unsettled. The tape hadn’t just been a gesture; it had been a message, one you weren’t sure you were meant to decipher.

The bus ride stretched endlessly, every bump and turn reminding you of how uncomfortable it was. You sat beside Mark, your notebook open in your lap, though your notes were barely touched. Your eyes kept drifting against your will to where Jeno sprawled out across the aisle, headphones on, his posture deceptively relaxed. His long legs stretched out into the walkway, his fingers drumming lazily against his thigh. He radiated an effortless arrogance, completely at ease in the cramped space that everyone else found unbearable.

Donghyuck and Yangyang’s voices rose in bickering tones nearby, pulling you into their trivial arguments now and then—something about snacks and music choices. You responded half-heartedly, your mind unable to pull fully away from the weight of Jeno’s presence just a few rows ahead. His confidence, his complete lack of concern, was maddening.

As the bus pulled into the motel parking lot, the team and cheer squad spilled out into the cool evening air. You hauled your bag from the luggage compartment, the atmosphere already tense. The cramped quarters and thin walls of the motel offered little privacy. You could hear teammates joking too loudly, cheerleaders laughing as they dragged their gear to their rooms, the occasional bark of Coach Suh reminding everyone to settle down.

Coach Suh’s voice boomed over the chatter, cutting through the noise like a siren. “Listen up! Opposite sexes in the same room? Not happening! This isn’t spring break—this is an away game, and I’m running a respectable program!”

A ripple of groans and snickers moved through the group, but Coach Suh pressed on, holding up a clipboard like it held the Ten Commandments. “I’ve already decided the rooming arrangements. No, you don’t get a say. No, you can’t switch. And no, Yangyang, bribery will not work this time!”

Yangyang raised his hands in mock surrender, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “What? I wasn’t even gonna try this time!”

Donghyuck snorted. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the starting point guard.”

“I should be the starting point guard!” Yangyang shot back, earning a chorus of laughs as Coach Suh glared at them.

The coach’s eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny? Let me remind you what happened the last time I trusted you all to sort it out. Jay and Sunghoon trying to fit five people in one room because they wanted ‘bonding time’ with the cheer squad? Yeah. Not on my watch!”

The laughter rose again, Mark shaking his head as he muttered, “We’re in college, for crying out loud.”

You couldn’t help but agree. Adults. All of you. Technically. Coach Suh’s micromanaging felt like an overreaction, bordering on parody. Were rooming arrangements really that serious? You thought about pointing this out but wisely stayed quiet, knowing full well the coach didn’t take well to being questioned.

Mark walked alongside you, your bag slung over his shoulder despite your insistence that you could handle it. “Thanks,” you murmured as you reached your assigned room.

“No problem,” Mark replied, his tone light, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if sensing the unease you hadn’t quite managed to bury. “Catch you later.”

You nodded and stepped into the room, greeted by the soft click of the door closing behind you and Nahyun’s quiet presence already filling the space. She was perched on the edge of one of the twin beds, her bag unpacked but untouched, her expression unreadable as she stared out the window.

Her silence wasn’t unusual, but tonight it felt heavier, as though the long day and unfamiliar environment weighed on her more than she was willing to say. You set your bag down on the other bed, glancing her way briefly before pulling out your notebook and laptop. The absence of words between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly warm either—more like a truce you’d both silently agreed upon without negotiation.

“I guess we’re stuck with thin walls and Coach Suh’s rules,” you said lightly, breaking the quiet as you unpacked your things. Nahyun turned her head slightly but didn’t respond, her focus still on the view outside.

You paused for a beat, debating whether to press her or let her be. Ultimately, you let the silence settle again, returning to your own task while the low hum of voices from the hallway seeped into the room.

The room was dim, the single overhead light flickering faintly as you shifted in bed. You hadn’t slept well, not even close. The motel’s walls were criminally thin, every sound from the hallway and neighboring rooms bleeding through. Laughter echoed faintly—teammates cracking jokes, their voices muffled but clear enough to keep you awake. Somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of a TV played, punctuated by bursts of canned laughter. You turned over for the third time, staring at the peeling wallpaper and trying to will yourself into rest, but the suffocating stillness of the room kept you tense, every creak and shuffle amplifying the unease that settled under your skin.

By the time morning came, you felt like you hadn’t slept at all. The pale light creeping through the thin curtains was an unwelcome reminder that the day had begun, and the tension of the previous night was now rolling into something new. At the gym, the energy was electric. The players moved across the court in synchronized warm-ups, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Their movements were sharp and rehearsed, the rhythm of the drill almost hypnotic as the coaches barked orders. On the sidelines, the cheer squad practiced their routines, their shouts echoing through the gym. You sat on the bleachers, laptop open on your knees, pretending to focus on the project. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, aimlessly tapping as your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

No matter how hard you tried, your eyes kept being drawn back to Jeno. He moved with a calculated arrogance, each motion deliberate, his body language exuding a confidence that bordered on cocky. His smirk lingered at the edges of his lips, subtle but undeniable, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on the room. It annoyed you—how effortlessly he commanded attention, how even the smallest glance in his direction seemed to draw you in. You caught him looking at you more than once. Each time, his eyes locked with yours, holding your gaze for just a beat too long before that infuriating smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn’t subtle. He wanted you to notice him, and the worst part was that you did.

“You okay?” Mark’s voice broke through your thoughts. You blinked, startled, as he dropped onto the bleacher beside you. His energy was jittery, his movements restless as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. He leaned over slightly, peering at your screen. “How’s the project coming?”

You brushed him off lightly, closing the laptop with a snap. “It’s fine. Busy.” The tightness in your chest made it hard to sound convincing, and you knew he could sense it. His brows furrowed slightly, his concern palpable, but he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted back, offering a small, reassuring smile that you didn’t quite have the energy to return.

Karina stood nearby, her arms crossed as she chatted quietly with Areum. Her sharp gaze flicked between you and Jeno, narrowing slightly as if she were piecing together a puzzle you didn’t want her to solve. Her focus lingered on you, her expression thoughtful, the wheels in her head clearly turning. Areum, on the other hand, had her attention locked on Mark. Her soft, hopeful expression made something in your stomach twist uncomfortably. The contrast between her open affection and Karina’s analytical observation was jarring, but you couldn’t bring yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you adjusted your posture, forcing your shoulders back, trying to appear calm and unbothered even as you felt Karina’s gaze prickling against your skin.

The controlled rigidity of your movements must have given you away. Karina’s eyes lingered for a moment longer, as if filing her observations away for later, before she turned back to Areum. You exhaled slowly, shifting your attention back to the court, but the unease stayed with you. The energy in the gym was alive, pulsing with tension, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were a thread being pulled tighter with every glance, every observation, every unspoken question.

The Busan Titans’ gymnasium buzzed with a restless energy, a perfect storm of anticipation and chaos. Local fans packed the bleachers, their cheers echoing off the high ceilings, mixing with the rhythmic bounce of basketballs and the sharp commands of the coaches. The Seoul Ravens, clad in their navy and gold jerseys, moved across the court in warm-ups, their intensity matching the electric tension in the air. Cheerleaders lined the sidelines, practicing routines with synchronized precision, their voices cutting through the din. The fluorescent lights overhead gleamed harshly off the polished wood floor, magnifying every squeak of sneakers and every thud of the ball hitting the rim.

Emotionally, the stakes were sky-high. The rivalry between the Seoul Ravens and the Busan Titans was infamous, a clash that always promised drama both on and off the court. For you, the stakes felt even higher. Watching Mark navigate the game with his usual precision and focus should have been your only concern. But your eyes, drawn like a magnet, kept drifting to Jeno. Every move he made exuded a deliberate attractiveness, his confidence bordering on provocation. Even in the chaos of the game, he carried himself like the gym was his stage, every dribble, pass, and smirk calculated to command attention—and maybe, specifically, yours.

“Number 23, Lee Jeno, refusing to play nice with his own teammate,” Donghyuck’s voice echoed through the gym, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. His commentary was sharp and unforgiving, gripping the microphone tightly as he assessed the game. “And oh, what’s this? Another missed opportunity because someone’s too busy showing off. Shocker.”

You tried to focus, your pen hovering over the notebook in your lap as you attempted to analyze the game’s dynamics. Control, cohesion, and intent—words you had scrawled across the top of the page as a framework for your observations. You were meant to be dissecting how the team worked as a unit, identifying the subtleties of leadership on the court, and understanding how individual players synchronized their movements to achieve a collective goal. But it was all slipping through your fingers. Every time you tried to focus on the broader picture, your gaze veered back to Jeno, who disrupted every carefully laid thought you tried to construct.

He was chaos in motion, but not in a way that could be dismissed. His presence had weight, an unavoidable pull that drew eyes to him no matter where he was on the court. Jeno moved with the precision of someone who didn’t just understand the game but who thrived on bending it to his will. His screens were deliberate, his passes selective, his plays edged with an arrogance that was almost antagonistic. You knew you should be noting how he communicated with his teammates—or failed to—but instead, your focus narrowed on the way his body moved, the sharp power in his shoulders, the way his jersey clung to the curve of his back. There was something magnetic about how he dominated the space, a kind of raw, unrelenting energy that drew you in, leaving you too aware of him in a way that made your breath hitch.

The roar of the crowd swelled as Jeno drove toward the basket, his every step purposeful, his smirk unshaken even as defenders closed in. It wasn’t just skill—it was an unrelenting confidence that seemed to ripple outward, forcing everyone, including you, to look at him. Your pen remained poised, unmoving, as if the sheer force of his presence had rendered you incapable of action.

“And he scores!” Donghyuck’s voice rang out from the announcer’s booth, his tone dripping with exaggerated awe. “Would you look at that? Lee Jeno, number 23, proving once again that teamwork is optional when you’ve got an ego bigger than this gym.”

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and groans, and your grip on your pen tightened as you tried to block out Jeno’s audacious smirk. He didn’t even try to hide it, his eyes flicking in your direction briefly, like he knew exactly where your attention was.

“Someone should remind Mark that he’s sharing the court with a one-man highlight reel tonight,” Donghyuck quipped, earning a few laughs from the bleachers.

Your chest tightened as you forced yourself to look away, scribbling half-formed notes that barely made sense. Control. Cohesion. Intent. You wanted to apply those words to the team, but the reality was they fit Jeno alone. His control was absolute, his cohesion with the team irrelevant, and his intent—well, that was clear in the sharpness of his plays and the occasional flicker of his gaze toward you. It was maddening, and yet you couldn’t stop tracking him, your pen faltering every time he moved.

The first half played out like a storm brewing in slow motion. Mark’s movements were sharp and purposeful, his coordination with the team seamless. He kept the ball moving, setting up plays with precision, his focus unwavering. Jeno, by contrast, was all flair and aggression. He pushed harder, played faster, and showed off with an edge that felt more personal than professional. It didn’t take long for the tension between him and Mark to seep into the game. Jeno refused to pass to Mark, setting screens that felt less like strategy and more like subtle digs, edging him out of key plays. The crowd gasped at some of the near-misses, their excitement feeding the fire on the court.

Midway through the second half, the storm broke. It happened fast—too fast for anyone to fully register. Jeno went in for the rebound, his body colliding with Mark’s as they both jumped for the ball. The shove wasn’t blatant, but it was enough to send Mark stumbling, his footing faltering as he fought to regain balance. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers from the home side, their energy feeding the already-tense atmosphere.

Mark froze for a split second, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. But then he turned, stepping into Jeno’s space, and shoved him back. It wasn’t calculated; it was raw, reactive, and completely out of character. Whistles pierced the air, shrill and unrelenting, as the refs rushed in to separate the players. The court erupted into a whirlwind of shouting—coaches yelling, teammates pulling them apart, fans roaring from the stands.

“Are you kidding me, Lee?” Coach Suh’s voice thundered from the sidelines, his tone cutting through the chaos. “Get your head in the game or sit your ass down!”

“Can you believe this?” Donghyuck’s voice rang out from the announcer’s box, dripping with exaggerated disbelief. “The captain of the Seoul Ravens, ladies and gentlemen. Always keeping it classy.” There was a pause, and then, in a quieter tone meant to sound like a stage whisper: “Mark’s definitely gonna feel that in the morning.”

You gripped your notebook tighter, your heart pounding in your chest. Your pen hovered over the page, forgotten, as your gaze locked onto the court. Jeno’s smirk lingered, subtle but unmistakable, though his eyes carried something sharper—something unreadable. His body language betrayed nothing as he let himself be pulled back by a teammate, brushing off the ref’s warning with a curt nod.

Mark’s shoulders heaved as his teammates guided him toward the bench, his frustration evident in every tense movement. His jaw was set, the muscles twitching as he clenched it tighter, his expression caught somewhere between anger and disbelief. You had seen him frustrated before, but this was different—it was raw, unfiltered, and far too personal.

Your gaze shifted to Jeno, your mind racing to piece together what had unfolded. He stood at his position on the court, adjusting his jersey with a calculated nonchalance that didn’t match the chaos of moments before. His face was unreadable, but when his eyes flicked toward the stands, catching yours for a split second, a jolt shot through you. There was something deliberate in that glance, a silent acknowledgment that made your chest tighten. You wanted to believe it was coincidental, but the heat rising under your skin told another story.

You started toward Mark instinctively, but the sight of Areum and Karina reaching him first halted your steps. Areum crouched beside him, her hand hesitating near his ribs as she asked if he was okay. Her voice was soft, laced with concern, and her expression was painfully earnest. Karina stood beside her, her sharp eyes assessing the situation as she passed Mark a water bottle. Their closeness—the natural ease with which they moved around him—twisted something inside you. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stay back as a wave of frustration and helplessness built inside you.

Jeno was gone. You scanned the gym, searching for his figure, but the bench where he had been moments ago was now empty. The final buzzer sounded, but it felt insignificant, the win overshadowed by the tension crackling through the air. Mark was surrounded by worried teammates and Areum’s quiet fussing, her presence steady and reassuring in a way that only made your irritation flare. Karina, ever observant, glanced between you and the empty bench, her expression unreadable but cutting all the same.

You turned on your heel, the weight in your chest pushing you toward the gym doors. Your strides quickened as you moved through the quiet corridors, your thoughts a mess of anger and confusion. Locker rooms, supply closets, empty hallways—you searched them all, each moment intensifying your need to find him.

The moment you caught sight of Jeno slipping into the empty classroom, everything inside you boiled over. You didn’t hesitate. The door slammed shut, the sharp sound reverberating through the room like the strike of a match, igniting the charged air. Jeno’s head lifted, his gaze locking on you with an intensity that made everything else dissolve into the background. His movements were deliberate, each shift exuding a languid control, his stillness pulling you in like a force field you couldn’t escape. He leaned back against the desk, his frame deceptively at ease yet humming with latent energy, a storm simmering just beneath the surface. His jersey clung to him in damp folds, the fabric tracing every defined line of his chest and shoulders, the sheen of sweat catching the sterile light and accentuating the heat radiating off him. His hair was disheveled, damp strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, lending him a careless, untamed allure that only heightened the pull between you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you hissed, your voice trembling as fury and something deeper tangled together in your chest. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? You—” You stopped short, your breath hitching as his gaze roamed over you, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring your anger.

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” he interrupted, his tone low and unhurried, every word curling around you like smoke. He tilted his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Guess that means I did something right.”

The audacity of it made you snap. You crossed the room in two quick strides, shoving him back against the desk with more force than you intended. His breath hitched as his hips hit the edge, his hands automatically gripping the surface for balance. The closeness sent a shockwave through you; your chest brushed his, and the heat radiating from his body only fueled your spiraling emotions.

“You don’t get to pull shit like that and then act like it’s nothing,” you seethed, your voice low and razor-sharp. “Mark—my Mark—could’ve been seriously hurt. You think this is a fucking game, don’t you?”

Jeno’s smirk wavered, but only for a moment. He leaned closer, his lips so near yours that you could feel his breath, warm and unsteady. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice dropping, rough and charged, his breath skimming your lips. “But look at you—right here.” His hands moved with purpose, gripping your ass and pulling you flush against him, your bodies colliding like a spark meeting gasoline. “Exactly where I wanted.”

Something snapped, a tidal wave of want crashing over you, too powerful to fight. The fire surged, drowning out every rational thought, and your lips slammed into his. The kiss was feral, raw, teeth grazing as desperation spilled between you. Your hands clawed at his jersey, the damp fabric clinging to your fingers as his body responded in perfect sync. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your flesh with a force that made you gasp against his mouth. He groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through you like a second heartbeat, setting your veins alight.

Your voice fell to a whisper, dangerous and commanding. “I’m doing this because I want to. Not because of you. Not because of Mark. Me. Do you understand that?”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw breaking through before his smirk returned, softer this time, edged with a vulnerability that was almost pleading. “Then prove it,” he rasped, his voice rough and thick with need.

You didn’t hesitate. Your lips crashed into his again, your kiss a collision of frustration, anger, and unspoken hunger. His hands gripped your waist like a lifeline, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe, but you didn’t care. Your hips ground into his with a deliberate, punishing rhythm that made him groan, low and ragged, a sound that shot straight through you. Nails digging into his shoulders, you kept him exactly where you wanted him, your body moving against his like it was made for this. The room blurred around you, every sensation sharpened to the edge of unbearable as you lost yourself in him.

“You think you can fuck with me?” you snarled against his lips, your teeth catching his bottom lip in a sharp tug. “Think you can play these little games and walk away unscathed?”

His grip on your hips tightened, his breath ragged as he leaned into you, the desk biting into his thighs as your bodies pressed together. “You think I’m walking away now?” he shot back, his voice hoarse, strained. “You started this, baby.”

Your nails scraped against his chest as you shoved him back again, just enough to glare at him. “I’m not your baby,” you spat, though your voice faltered as his hands slid up the curve of your waist, deliberate and slow, like he was trying to brand the sensation into his palms.

“Then what are you?” he whispered, his voice dipping into something darker, hungrier. “Because you sure as hell don’t act like you hate me.”

You didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, your body moved instinctively, your legs wrapping around his waist as you pressed yourself closer. The heat of him against you sent a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as the tension between you snapped. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, and you ground down onto him, the friction igniting a fire that burned through every rational thought.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his head falling back, exposing the curve of his neck, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The sound was raw, guttural, and it only spurred you on. Your hips moved with deliberate, punishing precision, grinding against him, feeling every inch of him through the thin barriers of fabric still between you. The desk creaked beneath the weight of your movements, but neither of you cared, lost in the heat that surged between you.

His grip on your thighs tightened as he pulled you closer, his breath catching as you thrust down again, rubbing yourself against him in a rhythm that left him gasping. “You’re fucking killing me,” he groaned, his voice low and strained, his fingers digging into your skin like he couldn’t bear the space that still lingered between you.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The intensity in his eyes, the way his body responded to every roll of your hips, every deliberate grind—it was intoxicating. Your lips hovered near his ear, your breath hot and uneven. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you murmured, your voice dripping with challenge as you continued the relentless pace. His choked groan was all the answer you needed, and you smirked against his neck, your teeth grazing the skin there, knowing you had him exactly where you wanted.

He leaned in to kiss you, but you pulled back just enough, your breath scorching against his ear as you set the terms. “If this is going to work,” you murmured, your voice sharp and commanding, “then you’re all mine. Every inch of you. Your body, your time, your fucking focus—everything. No one else touches you, no one else gets this. Do you hear me?”

Jeno let out a choked gasp, his grip on your hips tightening as he looked up at you, his eyes blown wide with desperation. “Fuck—I hear you. I’m yours.”

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across your lips as you leaned in, your teeth grazing his bottom lip before pulling back. “Good,” you whispered, your voice dripping with dominance. “Because if you don’t keep up, I’ll find someone who can.”

His chest heaved, his gaze locked on yours like he couldn’t look away. “You won’t need to,” he growled, his voice thick with determination. “I’ll keep up. I’ll give you everything.”

Your lips brushed his again, softer this time, before pulling away just enough to murmur your final condition. “And you’re going to lay off Mark. That’s a given. If you fuck with him again, we’re done.”

Jeno nodded, his hands trembling slightly as they slid higher up your thighs. “I will,” he promised, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “You have my word.”

Your hips rolled against his, each movement deliberate, teasing, as you dragged a hand through his damp hair and forced his gaze back to yours. “Good boy,” you hissed, your voice thick with command. “Because if you fuck with Mark again—if you even think about it—I’m done with you.”

“I won’t, you have my word,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his restraint shattered. His hands slid higher, tracing the curve of your body with a reverence that only made the fire burn hotter. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—fuck—don’t stop.”

“Good,” you murmured, the command slipping from your lips like molten steel, as you captured his mouth again. The kiss was devastating, like a fuse igniting the storm between you—hot, consuming, dangerous.

Breaking away just enough to catch the desperation in his gaze, you whispered against his lips, “No one else will ever feel this. Say it—say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” he groaned, the word dragged from his chest like a confession.

“No one else touches you,” you hissed, nails dragging down his back as his hands dug into your thighs, pulling you flush against him. “No one else gets to feel you. Every single time you’re hard, it’s for me. Only me.”

“Only you,” he choked out, his voice wrecked, his head falling back as you rolled your hips against him with deliberate, punishing intent.

The tension snapped like a live wire, your resolve shifting into something darker, more primal. You slid down from his hold, your palms grazing the hard muscle of his thighs as you knelt before him. Jeno’s breath hitched, his hands instinctively tightening at his sides before one shot forward, gripping your hair with a force that made your scalp sting and your pulse race.

Your eyes locked with his, a wicked glint in your gaze as you leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the hard length of him through his jersey shorts. His hips jerked involuntarily, a groan ripping from his chest, low and guttural. “Mine,” you whispered, the word dripping with possession, your tongue tracing the outline of him through the fabric, leaving a damp imprint of your claim.

Jeno’s grip on your hair tightened, forcing you to stay there, his voice hoarse as he rasped, “Fuck—stay right there. Don’t move.”

You smirked, your lips brushing against him again, slow and teasing. “This is all mine. My rules. Do you understand?”

“Fuck—yours,” he rasped, his fingers tightening their hold like he needed the anchor to stay grounded.

You rose slowly from your kneeling position, the dominance in your gaze never wavering as Jeno’s hands immediately found your hips, lifting you with an ease that made your breath hitch. The desk creaked under your weight as he set you down, his body flush against yours, your legs wrapping around him like a vice. The friction was unbearable, delicious, as you rolled your hips against him, pulling another ragged groan from his lips.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, your voice a low, possessive purr. “Every. Last. Drop,” you whispered, each word punctuated with a deliberate, punishing grind of your hips, your core dragging against the hard length of him in a way that made his knees nearly buckle.

“Your cock belongs to me, Jeno. Say it,” you demanded, your teeth grazing his jaw as you grabbed his chin, forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours.

His breath was uneven, his restraint unraveling with every roll of your body against his. “It’s yours,” he choked out, his voice raw, desperate, as his hands moved lower, pulling you impossibly closer. “Only yours.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw desperation in his voice igniting something deep and primal within you. His confession wasn’t just submission—it was acknowledgment, a surrender that stoked the fire coursing through your veins. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into the firm muscle as you pulled back slightly to look at him. The heat in his gaze mirrored your own, and in that moment, the air between you shifted.

There was no need for spoken words; the silent realization passed like a spark, instantaneous and irrevocable. The intensity in his eyes reflected the control and possession in yours, a mutual understanding that surged like a tidal wave, consuming and absolute. You were claiming him, and he was letting you—more than that, he wanted it.

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, challenging even in his surrender. “Oh, you wanna be exclusive, baby?” His voice was low, testing, as if daring you to hesitate.

“Yes,” you answered without a beat, your voice sharp and unwavering, the word heavy with certainty. You could feel his breath catch as your grip tightened on his shoulders, your body pressing harder against his. This was yours—he was yours. And there was no doubt in your mind, no second-guessing. Your instincts had never failed you, and they screamed that this was right, that this was yours to take.

The realization locked into place, sharp and intense. His hands, possessive and firm, slid lower, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You both moved as if tethered to the same electric current, a rhythm of dominance and surrender perfectly in sync. This wasn’t just about desire—it was about claiming something unshakable, something undeniable.

“You know,” he murmured, his tone teasing, almost lazy, “I didn’t take you for the type to get off on claiming things, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.” He shifted his hips just enough for you to feel the full length of him pressing against you, his eyes dark and unrelenting as they locked onto yours. “You like knowing you own me? That every time I’m hard, it’s because of you?” his grip tightened, pulling you impossibly closer, his voice dipping to a husky whisper, “I’m starting to think you like me desperate for you.”

“Shut up,” you growled, your voice a low snarl before crashing your lips into his. The kiss was brutal, a collision of teeth and tongues that left no room for softness. It was hunger and anger rolled into one, a firestorm consuming both of you with no thought of the wreckage left behind. His hands moved down, gripping your thighs with a force that promised bruises, hoisting you up effortlessly. You felt the edge of the desk against your lower back, but it barely registered as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, locking him in place.

Clothes disappeared in a frenzy, fabric ripping and buttons scattering to the floor as neither of you cared for anything but the desperate need to feel skin against skin. Your nails raked down his back, eliciting a low growl from his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as his cock pressed against your slick heat, thick and demanding.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your head falling back as he pushed into you slowly, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he held you up effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist. The first thrust was deliberate, a slow pull and push that had your toes curling and a moan spilling from your lips.

“Keep going,” you hissed, your voice laced with need as you began moving, fucking yourself onto him. The angle was perfect, every inch of him filling you as you rolled your hips with purpose, meeting his measured thrusts with equal desperation. His grip on your thighs tightened, his breath coming in ragged pants against your neck as he buried his face in your skin, groaning your name like a prayer.

The rhythm was maddening—deliberate, controlled, each thrust dragging against your walls in a way that made you see stars. The slick sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, each movement a testament to the tension that had been building for far too long. You clung to him, your nails biting into his shoulders as your lips found his, muffling the moans that poured from both of you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled, his voice rough and broken as he thrust deeper, the pace still agonizingly slow. “You’re perfect, every inch of you—fuck, I can’t get enough.”

You gasped, your nails raking down his chest as you leaned back, giving him a view of where your bodies joined. “You like that?” you taunted, your voice shaky and breathless as you ground against him. “You like watching me fuck myself on your cock?”

His response was a strangled groan, his hips snapping up instinctively as he buried himself deeper, holding you tighter as if afraid you’d slip away. His control was slipping, the deliberate rhythm giving way to something more desperate as your name spilled from his lips like a confession.

“Come on,” you urged, your voice dripping with command as you rocked harder against him, your body arching into his. “Give it to me—show me who I belong to.”

The words sent him spiraling, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless. His thrusts were relentless, deep and punishing, each one hitting a spot that made your body arch against him, your nails raking down his back as you gasped out his name. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed in the room, your moans mixing with his deep, guttural groans, filling the air like a charged storm. You were so close, the pressure inside you winding tight, ready to snap, your whole body trembling with the need for release.

But just as you reached the precipice, he stopped. Completely. His movements slowed to a maddening grind, deliberate and unhurried, his cock dragging torturously against your slick heat without giving you what you craved. Your breath hitched, frustration crashing through you as you tried to grind against him, seeking any friction, any relief. His hands gripped your hips like iron, stilling you with infuriating ease.

“Jeno,” you hissed, your voice sharp and laced with desperation, your eyes narrowing as you stared him down.

His lips curved into that infuriating smirk, his breath warm against your cheek as he leaned closer. “Come and meet me tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with command.

“What the hell?” you gasped, the haze of arousal battling the simmering anger that was quickly rising in you. “What are you talking about?”

“The old town center,” he said, his tone calm but charged with something darker, more deliberate. “Where the old gym and that creepy doctor’s office are.”

Your heart raced, both from the unrelenting tension in your body and the cryptic edge to his words. “Why there?” you demanded, your voice strained as you tried to move against his grip, but he held you steady, his smirk deepening.

“You’ll see,” he said, his dark eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them enough to make your breath hitch. “Midnight.”

You glared at him, your nails biting into his shoulders as your frustration mounted. “You think I’m just going to drop everything and show up because you tell me to?”

His laughter was low, a rumble that made your body tighten further. “You will,” he said, his lips grazing your ear, his voice soft and taunting. “Because you want this just as much as I do.”

Your frustration boiled over, your body trembling from the denial and the unbearable pull of his words. “You’re not serious,” you managed, but the tension in your voice betrayed you.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his grip firm and unyielding. “Oh, I’m very serious,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “But if you want more, you’ll meet me. Midnight.”

Your breath came in uneven pants, the ache of unfulfilled desire burning through you as he held you there, his body still pressed to yours. His cock, hard and unrelenting, made it impossible to think straight, his deliberate refusal to let you finish a clear message.

Before you could argue, he shifted his hips one last time, a deliberate drag of his cock against your sensitive core that made you gasp, your breath catching in a sharp inhale. His voice was low and rough, each word grazing your skin like a touch. “Don’t make me wait too long,” he murmured, his eyes dark with purpose as they locked onto yours.

Your pulse thundered, your response sharp and immediate, cutting through the thick air between you. “Don’t make me wait too long.” The words were bold, biting, but your voice trembled with something more—a heat you couldn’t suppress, a need you couldn’t hide.

The corner of his mouth quirked, and then it came—a smile so rare, so devastatingly beautiful, it left you unsteady. It wasn’t the smirk he used to challenge you, but something softer, something dangerous in its vulnerability. His boyish grin curled into a tease, his breath warm against your lips. “I wouldn’t ever dream of it,” he said, his tone laced with promise, every word dripping with a heat that settled low in your stomach.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his hand trailing up to grip the back of your neck, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you firmly. His lips met yours in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was heated, consuming, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue pressed into your mouth, claiming you in a way that left you trembling. His body pressed against yours, solid and unyielding, his hand tightening in your hair to tilt your head and deepen the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, your chest heaved, your lips swollen and tingling from the intensity of it. His forehead rested against yours for a beat, his breath mingling with yours, hot and ragged. He pulled away slowly, his thumb brushing your jaw in a touch that felt almost tender, but the weight of his gaze was anything but soft.

And then he was gone, leaving the air heavy with his absence, your skin still burning where he’d touched you, your body thrumming with unspent tension. You were left wanting—aching—but the weight of his words, his kiss, and that damn smile lingered, igniting something inside you that refused to be extinguished.

Jeno was late.

The ache of unfulfilled desire still lingered in your veins as you stood in the abandoned town center, the cold air biting at your skin. The world around you felt eerie, as if the night itself was holding its breath, waiting. You arrived before the appointed time, every step deliberate, your need for precision etched into the way you scanned the empty streets, unwilling to let even the thought of being late cross your mind. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about preparation. A part of you, restless and hungry, thrummed at the thought of seeing Jeno again. The memory of his hands pressing into your hips, the rasp of his breath against your neck, the weight of his body pinning you exactly where he wanted—every sensation still lingered in your muscles, alive beneath your skin, pulling you back to him with an ache you couldn’t ignore.

The town center stretched around you, dark and lifeless, the dim streetlights casting elongated shadows across the cracked pavement. You shifted your weight, arms folded tightly, both against the cold and the creeping frustration bubbling in your chest. You checked your phone again—still no messages. Still no sign of him.

The silence was deafening, your thoughts racing. What if he wasn’t coming? What if this was some kind of game, another way for him to hold the reins, to leave you hanging in the balance? Just as anger began to churn in your gut, a sound broke through the stillness—footsteps. Relief hit you first, sharp and immediate, only to fizzle into annoyance. But when you turned, it wasn’t Jeno.

It was Areum and Karina.

“What are you doing here?” Areum asked, her voice tinged with suspicion as her narrowed eyes searched your face.

You tried to school your expression into something calm, neutral, as if this wasn’t the most bizarre coincidence of the night. “Oh, I was just… exploring the area,” you said, forcing a casual shrug.

Areum didn’t look convinced, her gaze sharp as it flicked over you. Before you could come up with a better excuse, you found yourself sitting alone in the backseat of Areum’s car. Karina, slumped in the passenger seat, was a mess—her head lolling against the window, her lips curling into lazy smirks as she mumbled incoherently. The scent of alcohol clung to her, heavy and sweet, drifting back to where you sat, caught between irritation and a flicker of relief that her state left little room for questions.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and your heart jolted, hope flaring to life so suddenly it almost hurt. Jeno. It had to be him. You fumbled for it, already imagining his name lighting up the screen, the explanation he’d give, the way he’d make this right. But when you pulled it out, the screen was blank. No messages. The sharp sting of disappointment cut through your chest, and you shoved the phone back into your pocket, your jaw tightening.

Your gaze drifted to the window, trying to shake the restless unease pooling in your stomach. That’s when you noticed it—a faint, shuffling movement in the distance, barely visible against the darkened road. You leaned forward, narrowing your eyes, the shapes slowly coming into focus.

“Do you see that?” you murmured, your voice low but tense.

Areum, already alert, slowed the car, her brow furrowing as she leaned closer to the windshield. The headlights swept over two figures on the roadside, trudging through the darkness, their steps slow and weary. It wasn’t until the light caught them fully that recognition hit you like a punch to the gut. Jeno and Mark.

They looked rough, their clothes rumpled and dirt-streaked, their faces marked with bruises. Your heart pounded, confusion and anger mixing into a volatile storm. Areum beeped the horn, pulling the car to the side as the boys looked up, their expressions flickering with relief.

Mark climbed into the backseat first, collapsing against the far side with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the way his head fell back against the seat. “Y/N?” he muttered, his confusion clear as his gaze settled on you, surprise flickering in his tired eyes.

You didn’t respond, your body already shifting instinctively when the door on your side opened again. Jeno stood there, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure against the dim streetlights. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, and you quickly moved to the middle seat, your breath catching as he slid in beside you.

The air grew tighter, the space between the three of you suddenly feeling impossibly small. Mark leaned his head back, closing his eyes, while Jeno adjusted in his seat, his shoulder brushing yours as he settled. Jeno’s body was a furnace against yours, the heat of him sinking into your skin despite the layers of tension. He hadn’t looked at you, hadn’t said a word, but the energy radiating from him was impossible to ignore. You kept your face carefully neutral, determined not to let anything slip.

“What are you doing here?” Mark asked, his confusion evident as he glanced between you and Areum.

The flicker of confusion in his expression was fleeting, quickly masked, but you caught it anyway. And you understood why. It was unusual—you sitting here with Areum and Karina, the trio of you barely existing in the same circles. The sight of you in this context, in the backseat of Areum’s car, probably made no sense to him. But his confusion didn’t linger long. His gaze dropped to your legs brushing against his, the tension crackling like a live wire, and his breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

Areum explained quickly, her voice brisk as she recounted how she’d found you wandering the town center. You nodded along, feigning calm even as your mind churned, desperately trying to process what was happening.

“What happened to you two?” Areum repeated, her gaze bouncing between the boys through the front mirror, sharp and insistent.

Mark sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coach Suh threw us off the bus,” he admitted, his tone begrudging.

Jeno’s voice was low, almost clipped as he added, “Got picked up by some guys from the other team. It didn’t exactly end well.”

The story spilled out slowly—a ride gone wrong, taunts from the opposing players, and a humiliating deal that had forced Mark and Jeno to fake a fight to escape. The details were absurd, almost laughable if it weren’t for the bruises and the tension still hanging in the air.

You listened silently, two realizations sinking in like weights: Jeno hadn’t stood you up. And somehow, against all odds, he and Mark had worked together.

As the car jolted forward, Jeno finally spoke, his voice quiet but direct, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. “I don’t have my phone,” he said simply. “It’s still on the coach.”

The admission was a quiet olive branch, but it did little to soothe the storm inside you. You turned your gaze forward, forcing yourself to focus on the road ahead, even as every nerve in your body buzzed from the weight of his presence beside you.

The car ride back to the motel was suffocating, the silence heavy with things unsaid. It pressed against your chest like an invisible weight, filling the space between words and glances. Areum sat at the wheel, her focus steady, her hands gripping the leather as if she needed something solid to hold onto. Karina was beside her, illuminated by the occasional flicker of streetlights. Her phone screen cast a dim glow over her face as she scrolled aimlessly, occasionally looking up to exchange low murmurs with Jeno. Their conversation was muffled, inconsequential words about post-game plans, a party, and something about tradition.

Each syllable grated on your nerves, the casualness of it all digging under your skin like a splinter. Jeno’s voice was low, almost lazy, carrying that same maddening charm that always seemed to linger around him. He wasn’t trying, but that only made it worse.

You sat in the middle of the backseat, pinned between Mark’s exhaustion and Jeno’s restlessness. Mark leaned heavily against the window, his eyes closed, his hand rubbing absently at his temple as if warding off a headache. On the other side, Jeno sat too close, his knee brushing yours each time the car hit a bump. It wasn’t deliberate—probably—but the contact burned all the same, an unwanted distraction that you couldn’t shake. His leg bounced with barely contained energy, the motion vibrating through the seat and into your skin.

Karina twisted in her seat, her voice cutting through the quiet. “So, what’s the plan? You hitting the club tonight?”

Her words hung in the air for a beat, and then Jeno grinned. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of grin that made you tighten your jaw even as your chest constricted with something you didn’t want to name. “Of course,” he said smoothly, as if it was obvious. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. The word made you scoff inwardly. Of course, Jeno would throw out something so shallow, so expected. You stared at the back of Areum’s head, pretending to ignore the way Karina’s laugh bubbled up in response to him. Beside you, Mark sighed, low and tired. “I need to sleep,” he muttered under his breath. But his words barely registered.

You were too focused on Jeno—on the low timbre of his voice, on the way his easy conversation with Karina seemed to underline everything he wasn’t saying to you. The jealousy simmered low in your chest, surprising and unwelcome. Why did it matter what he said or didn’t say? Why did he matter?

When the car finally pulled into the motel’s parking lot, Areum killed the engine with a click that seemed to echo louder than it should have. No one moved at first, the stillness almost heavier than the tension on the drive. Then Karina broke the silence, practically bouncing in her seat. “We should go. It’s been ages since I hit a club after a game.”

Mark groaned as he shoved his door open, stepping out into the cool night air. “You guys have fun,” he said, already halfway to the motel entrance. “I’m done.”

Areum followed, her steps measured as she rounded the car. She glanced at Jeno, raising a brow. “You sure you don’t want to come?” he asked, his tone casual, almost teasing.

Areum shook her head, exhaustion flickering in her eyes. “No, I’m tired.” She turned to you briefly, her voice softer now. “Goodnight.”

You nodded, managing a small smile as you watched her and Mark disappear into the building together. The air shifted, growing sharper somehow. The parking lot felt too open, too exposed, leaving you, Karina, and Jeno standing in a loose triangle under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

Jeno’s focus shifted then, his dark eyes locking on yours for the first time all night. “You coming too?” he asked, the question tossed out like an afterthought.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat as irritation curled hot and fast in your stomach. It wasn’t a real invitation—it couldn’t be, not when it came after Areum, not when his gaze felt so indifferent. But despite yourself, you nodded, lips pressing into a thin line.

Karina brightened, already turning toward Jeno to ask something about the club. Their words blurred together, a dull hum in the background as you stayed rooted in place, watching them. You hated the pang of jealousy that tightened your chest, hated that you cared enough to feel it.

But then Jeno moved, breaking away from Karina with a deliberate slowness that caught your attention. She kept walking ahead, distracted by her phone and mumbling something about finding Winter, clearly assuming Jeno was following. But he wasn’t. He lingered, his steps slowing until you caught up, your body humming with awareness as you closed the distance. He didn’t look at you—not once—but the tension in his posture was unmistakable, his presence pulling at you like a magnetic force.

When you were finally close enough, his head tilted slightly, his voice a low whisper that barely reached you. “Go back to my room.” The words sent a jolt through you, his tone laced with something darker, more commanding than before. His hand moved, slipping into the small of your back before his fingers brushed the waistband of your jeans. The cold metal of his room key slid into your back pocket, but his hand lingered, firm and deliberate as it shifted lower, cupping your ass.

The breath hitched in your throat, your chest tightening as his grip held you there, his fingers pressing possessively. The heat from his hand seared through the fabric, branding you in a way that made it impossible to think clearly. “Wait for me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Twenty minutes. No more.” His other hand came up, grazing the curve of your waist, and then the soft slap of his palm against your ass made your knees lock, a gasp slipping from your lips despite your best efforts to contain it.

“Go now,” he said again, his voice low and resolute, but his hands betrayed him, still gripping your hips tightly, keeping you rooted in place. The firmness of his hold wasn’t just possessive; it was deliberate, as if he needed you to feel the weight of his control before he let you go. You tutted softly, the sound barely masking your frustration, but when you tried to pull away, his fingers tightened, digging into your hips just enough to stop you entirely.

“You’re telling me to leave,” you said, voice sharp and teasing, “but you’re the one holding me here.” His eyes darkened at your challenge, his jaw tightening, and the flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips—one that sent a jolt of heat straight through you.

“You’re lucky I have something to handle first,” he murmured, his tone rough, charged, every word dragging like fire across your skin. His thumbs traced maddeningly slow circles into your hips, his grip deliberate and unrelenting. “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t even make it to the room—I’d take you right here.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words igniting something feral inside you. He smirked, a flicker of triumph flashing in his dark eyes, but you weren’t about to let him have the upper hand—not ever. Without hesitation, you surged forward, crashing your lips into his with a force that left no room for doubt.

His response was instant, raw, and hungry. His grip shifted, pulling you flush against him as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, a low, guttural groan rumbling deep in his chest. The heat between you was suffocating, his body hard and unyielding as you pressed closer, demanding more. Your irritation twisted into something electric, every nerve in your body alive and humming with the undeniable pull of him. You kissed him harder, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands tightened on your hips, holding you there like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The twisted side of you didn’t care who saw, the thought of an audience only adding fuel to the fire burning between you. But when your gaze flicked to Jeno’s car and caught sight of Karina slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back and completely knocked out, a rush of relief coursed through you. It left you breathless, unguarded, and you kissed him harder, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands tightened possessively on your hips, holding you like he never intended to let go.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your lips still grazing his, you couldn’t help the plea that slipped out, soft and desperate against the heat of his breath. “Come back to the room with me.” The words trembled between you, caught in the charged air before his hands moved lower, sliding over the curve of your ass. His grip tightened, firm and possessive, pressing you flush against him like he couldn’t let you go either, like leaving you now would physically hurt him. His dark gaze flickered with something primal, but he stayed silent, his body speaking louder than words as his fingers dug into your skin, keeping you tethered to him.

He sighed, his forehead pressing briefly against yours as his fingers tightened their hold. “I have to handle Karina first,” he rasped, his voice strained. “Make sure she’s not alone and that she’s safe. Then I'll come back to you.” He paused, his tone sharpening when your skeptical glare met his. “Don’t give me that look. Can you just trust me? Just wait for me in my room. I’ll be all yours. Tonight, tomorrow—whatever you want. Just go.”

His hands didn’t move even as he spoke, and you felt the weight of every word settle over you, tangible and undeniable. You hesitated, your pride and irritation warring with the pull of his voice, the heat of his body pressed to yours.

“Then let me go,” you said, voice low and teasing, but your breath hitched when his fingers dug in further, his smirk returning.

“I will.” He countered, his tone velvet and edged, fingers digging into the curve of your ass with maddening certainty. In a deliberate move, his hand slipped to your back pocket, grazing over the key already tucked there as if to remind you it was waiting, his touch branding you in a way that made your breath falter. Slowly, his palm trailed back to your ass, squeezing firmly, the pressure sending a ripple of heat up your spine that left you unsteady.

You gasped, but before you could react, his other hand came up to tilt your chin, his breath fanning over your lips. “Go,” he said again, his voice a low growl, and this time, you obeyed, your body humming with the echo of his touch as you walked away, the sting of his hand and the weight of his words leaving a mark you’d feel long after he was gone.

You stepped into his room, the heavy door clicking shut behind you, sealing you into a silence thick with unspoken tension. The air felt stifling, the quiet hum of the motel amplifying every restless thought circling in your head. You dropped onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under your weight as you pulled your knees to your chest. The knot of anticipation tangled with simmering anger, tightening with every second that crawled by. Twenty minutes felt like a lifetime, the ache of being kept waiting gnawing at your composure. The sting of earlier frustrations lingered, sharpened by the flicker of jealousy you couldn’t quite suppress.

The stillness shattered when the door swung open without warning. Jeno entered, shutting it with deliberate care, the soft click reverberating through the room like a starting gun. His eyes locked on you, dark and unreadable, and within moments, he crossed the space. Before you could speak, his hands were on you, firm and unrelenting, pushing you back against the mattress. His kiss was feral, bruising, unapologetically claiming.

Your fingers found his shoulders instinctively, nails biting into the muscle as you arched up against him. His weight pressed you into the bed, his lips moving against yours with a raw hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. His hands slid beneath your shirt, rough palms grazing your heated skin, each touch igniting a spark that burned through any lingering resentment. A muffled moan escaped you, swallowed by his mouth as the frustration and anticipation melted into a single, consuming need.

His hips pressed into yours with a slow, deliberate grind, the friction sparking through you like lightning in a storm. The heat between you was unbearable, and you gasped against his lips. His response was immediate—a guttural groan that rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your own. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your sides as though anchoring himself to you, as though letting go was never an option.

He pulled back just enough for his lips to brush against yours, like he might say something, but you didn’t give him the chance. Your head tilted, and your mouth found the curve of his neck, your teeth grazing the skin before you sucked a mark into it. He cursed sharply, his hips snapping forward in response, the motion dragging a ragged gasp from you.

“Do you think I’m letting you go now?” you murmured, your voice low, raw, and possessive as your nails scraped up his back, leaving trails that would linger on his skin.

His head dipped, his lips hovering over your ear as his breath fanned hot against your skin. “Let me go?” he rasped, his tone dark and teasing. “Baby, I’m the one who’s got you pinned right where I want you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your body arching into his as his mouth crashed back onto yours. This kiss was fiercer, every movement saturated with unspoken apologies and a desperation that mirrored your own. His hands roamed lower, gripping the curve of your waist, his fingers sinking into your flesh as his hips rolled forward, dragging you into him in slow, maddening strokes.

The kiss unraveled you, leaving no room for thought as your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, refusing to give him even an inch of space. His lips left yours to blaze a path down your jaw, his mouth dragging along your throat and collarbone, each touch setting your nerves alight. Every frustration, every unresolved emotion, was drowned in the electric storm between you, the tension morphing into something dangerous, undeniable, and utterly consuming.

Jeno’s breath was warm against your skin, his voice low and ragged as he finally spoke. “I didn’t stand you up,” he murmured, his hands pressing into your hips as though trying to anchor you in place. “I swear. Coach Suh threw me and Mark off the bus, and I lost my phone… I wanted to come to you. I needed to.”

The rawness in his voice caught you off guard, each word wrapping around your chest and pulling tight. His lips hovered just above yours, his closeness both suffocating and electric. Before you could respond, his hands slid higher, his grip possessive, his desperation bleeding into every inch of space between you.

Your hands pushed against his chest, forcing some distance. “Shut up,” you muttered, sharp but not cruel, your frustration brimming over. “You talk too much.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, soft and low, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The last thing I wanted was to get thrown off that coach,” he said, his tone dropping further, each word weighted with guilt. “And the whole time, all I could think about was getting back to you.” His jaw tightened, his breath hitching. “The thought of you waiting there… not knowing where I was… fuck, I felt like shit.”

The confession landed with a weight that you felt in your chest, like a stone thrown into still water, its ripples cracking the surface tension of your carefully held anger. Jeno wasn’t supposed to be like this—his edges were meant to be sharp, his fire untamed, a force that burned but never bent. Vulnerability didn’t suit the version of him you’d come to expect, yet here it was, raw and unguarded, shining through in the tremor of his voice and the way his dark eyes searched yours, not demanding but asking—pleading—for something unspoken.

It disarmed you. That honesty, unpolished and unexpected, melted through your defenses like heat seeping into ice. Your resolve fractured, splintering under the weight of his sincerity. And before your mind could catch up to the moment, your lips met his, a fleeting touch that felt less like a kiss and more like a bridge spanning the vast, unspoken chasm between you.

The kiss wasn’t what you meant it to be—softer, more intimate than you’d allowed yourself to imagine. It carried more weight than either of you were prepared for, an unspoken truth embedded in the way his breath hitched and the way your chest tightened. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, everything outside this fragile moment suspended, irrelevant.

When you pulled back, your forehead brushing his, the air between you shifted. The tension remained, but it had transformed—no longer jagged and cutting but heavy, like the calm after a storm when the world feels thick with promise, waiting for something new to take shape.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, though your voice wavered, your brow still furrowed as the question lingered. “But why act like you were so eager to party on the way back to the motel?”

The words barely left your mouth before you leaned in again, your lips capturing his with a need that felt impossible to contain. You felt his breath catch before he exhaled against you, a low, drawn-out moan spilling into your mouth. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your own soft sigh mingling with his as the kiss deepened, tongues meeting with a hunger that was as raw as it was unrelenting.

Then he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a beat, his breath mingling with yours as if grounding himself before speaking. “It’s tradition,” he finally admitted, his voice edged with reluctance. His fingers raked through his hair, leaving it a tousled mess that only deepened the regret in his eyes. “After every away game, we all go out. If I skip, people will notice. They’ll start asking questions I can’t afford to answer.”

You swallowed, the logic stinging more than it should. “You should go then,” you murmured, kissing him softly, the bitterness of the words lingering on your tongue. Your nails curled into his shirt, betraying your own resolve even as you tried to sound firm. “If it’s tradition, you should go. I don’t want people asking questions or having suspicions.”

The moment felt foreign, like slipping into someone else’s skin. You weren’t the type to bend to how others felt, let alone offer concern for what they might endure. But something about Jeno—about the way his shoulders tensed at the weight of unspoken pressure, the way his eyes flickered with something fragile he rarely showed—made you catch yourself. It wasn’t just the situation; it was him. The thought of him dealing with whatever fallout came from skipping a tradition he had with the rest of his friends lingered in your chest like a dull ache you couldn’t ignore. You hated it, hated that you cared, but you couldn’t stop the wave of unfamiliar protectiveness from settling in your veins.

His hands slid down your back, pulling you closer. “I’d rather be with you,” he murmured, his voice quiet but resolute, his gaze locked on yours like he needed you to understand just how much he meant it. The weight of his words hung in the air, soft yet unrelenting, as if daring you to argue with him.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt, your brow furrowing as you tried to hold onto your frustration. “That’s not what I asked,” you countered, your voice sharper than you intended. “I asked if it’s okay. If people are going to start questioning where you are and putting two and two together.”

His smirk flickered—just for a second—before his hand trailed up to cradle your jaw. “I’m not stupid, you know,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Most of them will be too high or wasted to even notice I’m gone. And Karina’s with Jaemin. He’ll make sure she gets back to the motel safely, and he knows to cover for me. If anyone asks, I ‘crashed early.’” His gaze softened as he leaned in just slightly, his tone dipping lower. “I’ve got this handled.”

You narrowed your eyes, unconvinced, the analytical part of your mind still cataloging potential risks. “And if they do notice? If Jaemin slips, or Karina says something, or—?”

“Jesus,” he groaned, tipping his head back briefly before meeting your gaze again, his patience fraying at the edges. “Do you ever stop overthinking? You’re acting like I haven’t thought this through.”

“Because I know you haven’t,” you snapped back, your nails curling into his shirt again, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’re impulsive. Reckless. You don’t think about the consequences until they’re staring you in the face.”

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you hard against him, the heat of his body searing through the minimal space left between you. His lips grazed your ear, his breath hot and deliberate as he spoke, his voice low and dripping with amusement. “Reckless? Baby, the only thing I’m reckless about is how badly I want you. Every second I’m here, every risk I take, it’s all because I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

His words sent a pulse of heat straight through you, undeniable and maddening. He shifted, pressing against you in a way that made your breath hitch, his smirk curling against your skin as he felt the reaction he pulled from you. “You think I care about their suspicions?” he continued, his tone dark and teasing, his hands sliding lower, thumbs stroking circles into your hips. “The only thing I care about is making sure you remember that you’re mine.”

A broken moan escaped you before you could stop it. “And you’re mine,” you murmured back, your voice trembling but laced with its own edge.

The words flipped something in you, a sudden need for control igniting as you pushed against him with just enough force to turn him onto his back. His breath hitched, his dark eyes narrowing in surprise and something deeper—arousal. The way his jaw clenched, his hands gripping your thighs to steady you as you straddled him, only fueled the fire building inside you.

You ground down onto him, your movements deliberate, your body working against his in a rhythm that was as maddening as it was desperate. His cock, hard and insistent even through the barrier of clothes, pressed perfectly into you, and the friction made your head spin. You could feel how turned on he was—how every shift, every bounce of your hips pulled a groan from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice low and strained, his eyes locked on you with a mix of disbelief and raw hunger. His hands tightened their grip on your hips as though trying to steady both you and himself, the tension in his body palpable. He didn’t look away, his gaze drinking in every frantic roll of your hips, every desperate attempt to chase the friction that had you trembling against him.

There was a flicker of something deeper in his expression—shock, admiration, a realization that he’d never seen anyone unravel the way you did. The way you gave yourself over to the moment, unabashed and wild, was unlike anything he’d experienced. It caught him off guard, made his chest tighten and his jaw clench as though he couldn’t handle how much you consumed him. And yet, beneath the haze of lust, there was a quiet reverence in the way his hands guided your movements, as if claiming you with every breath, every touch, while silently marveling at the way you tore his control apart so effortlessly.

The heat in his voice made your movements falter for just a second, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the world, sent a surge of power through you. But then his hands clamped onto your hips, holding you still, his strength unrelenting. You groaned in frustration, hissing as you pushed against his grip.

“Jeno,” you warned, your voice sharp as your teeth clenched in irritation.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned up slightly, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a fleeting tease. “The reason I wanted to meet you earlier wasn’t just to fuck,” he said, his voice still thick with arousal but laced with something more deliberate. “I brought two tickets to something I think you’ll enjoy.”

Your movements stilled entirely, your annoyance melting into curiosity. “To what?” you asked, your brow furrowing. “Isn’t it too late for anything right now? It’s past midnight Jen.”

“Luckily,” he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk, “it’s a 24-hour exhibition.”

Your eyes widened, your mouth parting slightly in disbelief. “Exhibition?” The word was barely out before realization struck. You gasped, your hands flying to his chest, pressing against him as your body lit up with excitement. “No,” you breathed, almost squealing in disbelief, your emotions spilling over. “You didn’t? You got us tickets to the Neo Culture Archive?”

You weren’t the type to celebrate like this. Joy, for you, was a quiet, internal thing—measured, controlled, tucked away where no one could see. But this moment defied all of that. It poured out of you, raw and unrestrained, bubbling to the surface like an unstoppable tide. Before you could think, your arms were wrapped around his neck, and your lips found his in a breathless kiss that spoke of more than just happiness—it was gratitude, excitement, and something far more intimate. It was uncharacteristic, almost disorienting to feel so open, so vulnerable, but with him, it didn’t feel wrong. Against all odds, it felt inevitable, like he was the only person who could draw this side of you out and make it feel like it had always been there, waiting for him.

Jeno’s eyes traced over you, slow and deliberate, his smirk fading into something that held more weight, something far more intimate. His gaze drank you in, soaking up every flicker of excitement that radiated from you like sunlight breaking through a storm. The shift in his expression was subtle yet undeniable, the sharp edge of his usual cockiness softening into something rawer, something that made your stomach twist with heat.

“Smart girl,” he murmured, his voice low and honeyed, each word sinking into your skin and pooling somewhere deep. His praise wasn’t casual—it lingered, deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of it. The corner of his lip tugged upward as his eyes glinted with satisfaction, a spark of amusement flickering there. “How’d you figure it out so fast?” His tone dipped lower, teasing, as he leaned back against the headboard, his body relaxing into the space like he owned it. His teeth grazed his bottom lip, and the slow drag of it sent a shiver through you.

Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile as you leaned in slightly, your thighs tightening around his lap, the friction deliberate and maddening. “It wasn’t hard,” you murmured, your voice smooth, carrying just the right amount of tease to match his. Your hands skimmed up his chest, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt as you traced lazy circles with your fingertips.

“The only reason I was excited to come to this city was the one-in-a-million chance I’d be able to visit it,” you continued, your voice dropping lower, softer, like you were sharing a secret meant only for him. “You couldn’t have picked a better surprise if you tried.”

He calls out your name, it spills from his lips in a way that sounded almost reverent, yet thick with something darker, heavier. His voice had dipped, huskier now, his breath catching as he spoke. “You’re turning me on.”

His hands slid over your thighs, palms warm and deliberate, the press of his fingers light enough to tease yet firm enough to leave a mark on your senses. You were straddling his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, your body so close to his that the tension in the air was palpable. His gaze wandered over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your waist, the line of your neck, like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

The way his hands moved was almost mesmerizing, stroking up and down the length of your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to make you shiver. He leaned back slightly against the headboard, his body a perfect contrast of tension and ease, his dark eyes glinting as they held yours. The restraint in his movements only amplified the electricity crackling between you, and the way his lips curved—just enough to show the faintest hint of teeth—set a fire low in your stomach.

The air between you felt heavier now, like the moment before a thunderstorm, and every small shift of your body against his sent heat spiraling through you. You could see the way his pupils darkened as he took in your reaction, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, a subtle but devastating blow to your composure.

“Isn’t it so hard to get tickets to this?” you asked, your voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

He nodded, a flicker of pride flashing in his eyes. “Especially last minute.”

His words opened the floodgate of explanation, and he leaned closer, his voice low but steady. He described how stressful and spontaneous the plan had been, how it had consumed him. The Neo Culture Archive wasn’t something that could be bought with just money or dropped names—it was notoriously exclusive, especially for late-night entries. He told you about pacing his motel room for hours, the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion. “I know my family connections always help,” he admitted, his tone tinged with something uncharacteristically self-aware, “but that only got me so far.”

He painted a picture of determination: scouring his network for a lead, calling in favors with old friends who could pull strings, and enduring the frantic back-and-forth that followed. Was your name officially on the registry? Had the staff signed off on after-hours access? Every time his phone buzzed, his chest tightened, bracing for rejection. By the time he finally secured the reservation, he hadn’t slept a wink—but the thought of surprising you made it worth every second.

Your breath caught, his confession hitting you harder than you expected, leaving a warmth in your chest that threatened to overflow. “You didn’t have to,” you murmured, your voice trembling with something between awe and desire, “but fuck—it’s so hot that you did.”

Without a second thought, you leaned down, your lips crashing into his with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His breath mingled with yours, sharp and intoxicating, as if the air between you had turned electric. The taste of him—somehow both sharp and sweet—was maddening, pulling you deeper into the storm building between you.

Your hands tangled in his hair as his palms slid up your back, pressing you closer, his grip possessive. The way he kissed you, like he’d been starving for this moment, made your chest tighten and your body burn. Every deliberate touch, every lingering caress, screamed one undeniable truth—he wanted you. Only you. And the thought made your head spin.

He’d done this, planned this for you, and the realization hit harder than it should have. It wasn’t just the way his hands roamed your body or how his kiss made you tremble—it was the thought behind it, the care he’d taken. It made your pulse race and your body melt into him, unable to resist the overwhelming need to feel closer, to take more.

The Neo Culture Archive radiated an understated elegance, nestled into the heart of a well established district. Its glass facade shimmered under the soft glow of outdoor lighting, the sleek marble pillars giving it the appearance of a sanctuary for both history and innovation. Even at this late hour, the energy around the building was alive—visitors quietly flowing in and out, the low hum of conversations blending into the sound of faint traffic in the distance. The scene felt like it belonged to another world, far removed from the chaos of the day.

You walked beside Jeno, the cool night air brushing against your skin, grounding you in the moment. He moved with his usual effortless confidence, his hand brushing yours occasionally as he grabbed the passes from his pocket. “Ready?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a small thrill through you.

Instead of answering, you glanced at him, a teasing grin tugging at your lips. “Hold on,” you said, taking his pass and looping it around his neck, the lanyard resting against his chest. You reached up, your fingers grazing his cheek as he leaned into your touch, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting but tender kiss.

He straightened, reaching for your hand to lead you toward the entrance, but you tugged him back, shaking your head playfully. “Wait,” you said, lacing your fingers through his. “I need you right here for a second.”

Jeno quirked an eyebrow, letting out a soft chuckle as you pulled him into position. “What now?” he asked, though the faint curl of his lips betrayed his amusement.

“Just stand there,” you instructed, raising your phone to capture the glowing facade of the building, with him in the foreground. You snapped a few shots, grinning as you angled the camera just right, while he stood there pretending to hate every second of it. But the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the slight shake of his head gave him away—he was enjoying this more than he’d ever admit.

“Happy now?” he teased, leaning closer as you put your phone away.

“For now,” you replied, slipping your hand back into his as he led you to the entrance. The security guard glanced at the passes Jeno handed over, nodding once before waving you both inside. The quiet relief in Jeno’s eyes didn’t escape you, though he covered it quickly with a soft smirk.

The moment you stepped inside, the grandeur of the archive stole your breath. The ceilings soared high above, crisscrossed with sleek beams that added a modern touch to the classical architecture. Polished floors gleamed under the warm, ambient lighting, reflecting the golden hues of the display cases scattered throughout the space. The atrium stretched before you like an intricate maze, with a sweeping staircase at its center leading to wings dedicated to various cultural influences. Everywhere you looked, there were glittering artifacts: Olympic medals, cultural texts bound in leather, interactive screens showcasing the evolution of sports.

“Wow,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as you raised your phone again, snapping photos of the atrium and the glittering displays. You turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in, while Jeno hung back, watching you with an expression that was impossible to read.

When you finally glanced at him, his lips quirked into a soft smile. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and cupped your face, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “You like it?” he murmured, his words brushing against your mouth.

You nodded, your eyes wide as you looked around again. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” you admitted, your voice tinged with awe. “You didn’t tell me it’d look like this.”

Jeno’s smile widened, his teeth catching the soft glow of the lights. “Thought I’d let you have the fun of discovering it yourself,” he said, his tone conspiratorial.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face as you reached for his hand again, tugging him toward the staircase. “Come on, I need to see everything,” you said, your excitement bubbling over, and for a moment, the tension of the day melted away, replaced by the quiet thrill of exploring this world together.

Jeno laughed softly, letting you pull him along but slowing your pace as you reached a nearby interactive screen glowing softly in the atrium. “Hold on,” he murmured, tapping the screen to bring up the floor map. “You don’t even know where we’re going yet.”

You paused reluctantly, watching as his finger traced over the different wings of the exhibition. The Neo Culture Archive wasn’t solely dedicated to sports. There were entire sections for music, architecture, food, and global culture that would take separate visits to explore fully. But tonight, you were in the sports section, a deliberate choice he’d made, knowing it tied into your project.

“I knew this would be helpful,” Jeno said after a moment, glancing at you with a soft smile. “Sports history, player strategies, and the cultural impact of it all. I knew it would make you happy.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, though you masked it quickly, leaning over the screen as if to check his selection. But the proximity did nothing to help, when you glanced at him, your eyes caught on the way his black hoodie stretched across his shoulders, the tousled state of his hair that made him look effortlessly hot. His casual confidence felt like a slow burn, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip before you could stop yourself.

If he caught you staring, he didn’t let on—truthfully because he was checking you out just as much. His gaze flickered down, tracing the curve of your sweater that hugged you in just the right way before dipping lower to where your jeans sat snug on your hips. You were dressed for comfort, the soft knit fabric of your top slipping slightly off one shoulder and exposing just enough skin to keep his thoughts wandering. The low light caught on the faint gloss of your lips and the way the strap of your bag crossed your body, highlighting the subtle shape of you. You carried your iPad and phone, occasionally snapping photos or jotting notes for your project, the professional focus in your expression clashing deliciously with the casual ease of your outfit.

His eyebrows arched, a flicker of amusement dancing across his face as you took his hand and led him toward the chess wing. The quiet stillness of the museum made every footstep resonate softly, the faint echo weaving through the expansive halls like a whispered secret. The emptiness wrapped around you both, amplifying the intimacy of the moment, the secluded atmosphere making it feel as though this vast, glowing archive existed solely for the two of you.

Halfway through the wing, a display caught your eye: an antique chessboard from the 15th century, complete with a description detailing its historical significance. Your eyes practically lit up, and before Jeno could say a word, you launched into an enthusiastic explanation.

“This board,” you began, gesturing animatedly, “was used during some of the earliest recorded matches. Back then, the rules were so different—bishops could only move two squares at a time, and pawns couldn’t advance two squares on their first move. It completely changed the pace of the game.”

Jeno’s brows furrowed slightly, curious, as you continued. “In the 1800s, there was this famous match—Anderssen versus Kieseritzky—that’s still studied today for its strategy. It’s insane how much of modern chess theory comes from games like that.”

You barely paused for breath, delving into anecdotes about players adapting to rule changes, referencing a dusty old almanac you’d read cover to cover years ago. When you finally glanced up, your cheeks warmed. Jeno was staring, his mouth slightly open, a slow grin tugging at his lips.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Did I lose you somewhere?”

Jeno coughed, masking the grin that threatened to spill. “It’s nothing, I’m just wondering how you manage to make chess sound so serious.”

You stopped, turning fully to face him, your eyes narrowing in disbelief. “It is serious. It’s a life-or-death situation, Jen. Do you even know the history of grandmaster matches in the ‘70s? Cold War politics, rivalries that lasted decades, careers ruined over a single move—”

“—You’re actually serious right now,” he interrupted, his smirk spreading into a full grin.

“I am,” you insisted, your tone firm, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a faint twitch of a smile. “Careers ended over a single wrong move, reputations destroyed forever. It’s the closest thing to battle without actual bloodshed.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, his smirk deepening as he leaned closer, eyes flicking over your face. “So, should I be worried you’re plotting my downfall next?”

You rolled your eyes, spinning back toward the exhibits. “You’re not even worth the effort,” you muttered, though the warmth creeping up your neck said otherwise.

“Good to know,” he teased, his voice low as he fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to send a flicker of heat through your chest.

As the conversation ebbed, your steps naturally carried you toward the basketball wing, it glowed under soft spotlights that illuminated rows of vintage jerseys suspended in sleek glass cases. Overhead, projectors looped footage of classic buzzer-beaters, the sound faint yet electrifying as familiar highlights filled the space. You and Jeno exchanged excited glances each time a play you recognized flashed on screen, the shared energy sparking like a live wire between you.

Jeno’s steps quickened as his gaze locked onto a rare pair of signed sneakers in one of the displays. His eyes gleamed with boyish excitement, and his voice dropped, rich with familiarity, as he leaned closer. “These are Russell’s,” he murmured, pointing to the signature etched into the sole. “He wore these during the ‘93 playoffs—broke three records that year. And he wasn’t even supposed to play after that ankle injury. It was unreal.”

You didn’t even glance at the plaque beneath the case—his words held more weight, more intimacy than any printed description could. He wasn’t reciting facts; he was reliving them. The way his voice softened when he spoke of the player, the sheer admiration woven through his tone, made something in you tighten, warmth spreading through your chest.

You moved toward another exhibit, snapping a quick photo of a commemorative jersey before turning to your notes app. You jotted down a few thoughts about the cultural evolution of basketball, your fingers hesitating as a subtle realization hit you. Here, amidst the artifacts of the game’s history, Jeno felt different. Calmer, less performative. Like the version of him you saw now—the one who talked about players like they were old friends, his passion raw and unfiltered—was closer to the truth than the smirking bravado he so often leaned on. Your gut told you this was him, behind the armor, and you found yourself scribbling a fragmented thought before pausing, stuck on how to finish it.

“Hey,” Jeno’s voice cut through your thoughts, soft yet curious as he joined you near the interactive screen. He tilted his head, glancing at the incomplete note glowing on your phone. “Can I write something?”

You glanced up, mid-thought, your brows furrowing slightly as you handed him your phone. “Yeah, sure. I can’t seem to finish this.” You gestured to the half-written line. “I’m trying to figure out how rivalries shape the game. You know, the way they add drama, raise stakes—how they’re a story in themselves.”

Jeno nodded, his eyes flicking between your words and the screen in front of him. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he began typing, the faint sound of clicks filling the quiet space. You watched his expression shift—focused, thoughtful—as he added to your note.

“Rivalries are the heart of basketball culture. They aren’t just about the players—they’re about the fans, the cities, the history. Each matchup tells a story of loyalty, ambition, and redemption. They turn ordinary games into moments that feel bigger than life, where every second on the clock becomes a testament to passion and perseverance.”

When he handed the phone back, you scanned the words, your chest tightening. He hadn’t just finished your thought—he’d elevated it, put into words the exact feeling you’d been struggling to articulate. You swallowed, the intimacy of the moment hitting harder than expected.

When he handed the phone back, your eyes skimmed over the words, the weight of them sinking in with every passing second. It was as though he’d reached into your mind and pulled out the exact meaning you’d been grasping for, threading it together with a clarity you hadn’t been able to find on your own. The way the sentences flowed felt seamless, natural, like they’d been waiting to be written all along.

Your throat tightened, and you pressed your lips together, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. You shifted on your feet, gripping the phone a little tighter, trying to process the quiet impact of it. There was a gravity in how perfectly he’d completed your thoughts, an unspoken connection that left the air between you charged and fragile, like glass teetering on the edge of shattering.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your lips curving into a soft smile. He shrugged, leaning slightly closer, his presence steadying, magnetic.

“Anytime,” he replied, his voice lower now, threaded with something that made your breath catch.

The two of you drifted further into the wing, the exhibits becoming sparser as the corridors stretched into quieter, dimly lit corners. Near a row of championship trophies, the museum seemed to exhale, its hum of distant voices and footsteps fading into an intimate hush. A digital highlight reel looped nearby, its golden light spilling over Jeno’s face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and casting his dark eyes in a warm, flickering glow.

Without a word, his arm slipped around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your hip—subtle but unmissable, like a whisper that demanded to be heard. You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple, soft and fleeting. Without thinking, you turned into him, your arms looping around his neck as your lips found his. The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of affection, but it deepened quickly, the late-night solitude making every movement feel bolder.

The two of you stayed hidden in the corner, your lips meeting in shorter, softer kisses that only seemed to pull you closer. His fingers tangled in your hair as you kissed him over and over, a quiet laugh escaping your lips between breaths. You barely noticed the sound of soft footsteps until Jeno’s gaze shifted, his eyes darting to something behind you.

You froze, turning slowly to find an elderly woman standing a few feet away, a warm smile lighting her face.

“Oh, don’t mind me, sweethearts,” the older woman said, her voice soft and laced with a teasing warmth that made it impossible to ignore her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help noticing how the two of you can’t seem to keep your hands—or eyes—off each other.”

Your stomach tightened at her words, awkwardness prickling at the edges of your composure. You stepped back instinctively, almost shrinking under the weight of her observation, but Jeno’s hand stayed firm on your waist, grounding you. You glanced at him, half expecting him to share in your discomfort, but instead, he looked completely at ease—almost like he belonged in this moment.

The woman’s chuckle was indulgent, her eyes twinkling. “You’re far too adorable to pass up. Please, let me take a photo of you. You’re such a beautiful couple.”

Your heart lurched at the word couple, your mind scrambling for a polite way to decline. But before you could say anything, Jeno’s calm, steady voice cut in. “That’s so kind of you,” he said smoothly, his charm effortless as he glanced at you. His thumb brushed over your hip, a subtle reassurance you didn’t realize you needed.

Caught off guard, you nodded, forcing a small smile as you tried to bury the awkwardness simmering inside you. Jeno’s ease with the interaction only heightened your surprise—he had this quiet knack for making moments like this seem completely natural, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The first photo was simple—both of you stood side by side, smiling politely for the camera as the woman fussed over how “perfect” you looked. For the second, she instructed you to look at each other, and despite the flutter of self-consciousness, you turned to meet Jeno’s gaze. The sight of him smiling at you, his features softened in the warm light, made something twist in your chest.

Then came the third photo. “Lean in a little, dear,” the woman encouraged, her tone coaxing. Jeno didn’t hesitate, dipping his head toward you and pressing a kiss to your lips. His lips lingered longer than necessary, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, and the closeness sent your heart stuttering.

You blinked, caught in the heady mix of intimacy and the woman’s amused laughter. “Ah, treasure these moments, won’t you?” she said, handing the phone back to Jeno. Her gaze lingered for a moment, kind but knowing, before she shuffled off with a small wave.

Jeno’s smirk reappeared as he looked down at the photos. “Not bad,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to yours. “Think she caught my good side?”

You rolled your eyes, your lips curving in a slow, teasing smile. “You look the same from all sides.”

The grin that spread across his face wasn’t sly anymore—it was dangerous, a dare. He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you like he was memorizing every inch. “Yeah? I guess I should show you all my angles then,” he murmured, stepping closer, his breath warm against your cheek. You leaned in before you could stop yourself, stealing a kiss that was supposed to be quick.

It wasn’t.

The moment your lips met his, you didn’t let him take the lead. Your fingers curled around his jaw, pulling him closer as your mouth moved against his with deliberate, teasing intent. Jeno responded instantly, his hands gripping your waist as if to steady himself, but you didn’t give him the chance to dictate the pace. You kissed him harder, more insistent, and when he tried to press closer, you pulled back just slightly, leaving him chasing you.

His groan was low and frustrated, his lips parting against yours as if to protest. His fingers flexed against your waist, the grip possessive, grounding. But even as he leaned into you, letting himself get lost in the heat of it, you kept control, your kisses commanding, pulling him apart piece by piece.

When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, his lips chased yours for a moment, like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill. His hands stayed firm on your waist, keeping you tethered to him. He looked at you, jaw tight, eyes burning with something possessive. “If you keep kissing me like that I’m not gonna let you walk away.”

His words lingered, low and warning, but you straightened your cardigan with trembling fingers, ignoring the way his gaze seared into you. When you stepped out of the hidden corner, you created distance, pulling your hand away the moment his fingers brushed yours. His hand caught air, and he let out a quiet, frustrated exhale, trailing behind you as you stopped to examine a nearby display.

Jeno didn’t say anything at first, but his narrowed eyes followed every flicker of hesitation in your movements. His jaw ticked when you avoided meeting his gaze, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. His frustration simmered, evident in the way he crossed his arms and watched you with something between amusement and disbelief. Then, deliberately, he closed the space between you, his chest brushing your shoulder as he leaned down, his lips close to your ear.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Jeno murmured, his voice cutting through the charged silence. It was low, rough, the kind of tone that slithered down your spine and coiled tight in your stomach. His breath was warm against your ear, close enough to make you tilt your head away instinctively, but he didn’t move back. Instead, his hand skimmed your arm, the light touch a deliberate tease, stopping just short of your wrist before retreating like a threat unfulfilled.

“You don’t want me to hold your hand because she saw us, right?” His lips curved into a smirk, humorless and sharp, his words heavy with unspoken challenge. He didn’t wait for you to confirm what he already knew, letting the pause stretch long enough for the tension to dig in deep, the weight of his presence pressing against you like a brand. “You think you’re being careful,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, more intimate, “but you’re killing me, baby.”

Your chest tightened at the sound of it, the raw frustration laced with something darker—something needy. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You stepped forward, ignoring the magnetic pull of his fingers hovering too close to yours, and led the way into another section of the cultural archive.

The arcade-style room greeted you with a burst of neon brilliance, the colors refracting off sleek walls in dizzying patterns. Digital displays blinked and hummed in rhythmic syncopation, filling the space with an electric undercurrent that felt alive. The energy here was different—lighthearted, playful—making it easier to let the tight coil of tension in your chest loosen, if only slightly. You let your gaze wander, tracing the vibrant edges of the room, careful to keep your focus on the displays and not the figure trailing close behind you.

Jeno’s presence wasn’t overwhelming anymore—not because you had withdrawn, but because you’d chosen to compartmentalize it, pressing his proximity into a corner of your mind where it could sit without suffocating you. He wasn’t the gravitational force here. Not now. You moved through the space deliberately, your pace steady, your hands brushing along smooth surfaces as you paused at a glowing screen, drinking in the details with detached curiosity. He lingered behind, his silence palpable, like he was waiting for you to crack under the weight of his attention.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you guided the moment as if it were yours to control. Turning briefly, you gestured for him to join you at one of the displays. The light from the screen caught on his face, softening the sharpness of his features and muting the intensity of his gaze. His eyes flickered between you and the display, but you didn’t let the moment linger. With a fleeting, purposeful touch—your hand ghosting over his arm—you adjusted his position for the photo you intended to take. The gesture wasn’t careless; it was precise, a reminder that you dictated the boundaries right now.

Jeno’s lips quirked, faintly amused, but he didn’t say anything. The lights framed him perfectly, and for a moment, you studied the image of him through the lens rather than the man himself. The soft lines of his smirk, the way the colors danced over his skin—it all made your stomach twist, but you buried the feeling beneath the pretense of casual interest.

The photo was for your collection, but the smile it drew from you wasn’t for the camera—it was for him.

“Hey, wanna play?” His voice broke through the moment, drawing your attention to a miniature basketball hoop game in the corner. “Think you’ve got what it takes?”

You narrowed your eyes, the teasing note in his tone lighting a competitive spark. “What, to beat you? Obviously.”

Jeno’s laugh was deep and mocking, the sound rolling through you like thunder. “Awfully confident for someone who’s never even picked up a ball.”

You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “I’ve watched Mark play enough to know it’s not that hard.”

That earned you a sharp bite of his lip, the sight making heat bloom low in your stomach. He stepped back, his hands raised in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes was anything but yielding. “Alright, then. Show me what you’ve got. First to eight wins.”

“Fine,” you said sharply, stepping up to the arcade hoop with a confidence that bordered on defiance. The machine was neatly nestled into the corner, its polished metallic frame gleaming under the assault of flashing neon lights. The digital scoreboard hummed to life, its blank display almost mocking in its emptiness, daring you to leave it untouched.

You inhaled, steadying yourself as you squared your shoulders. Your hands flexed around the small, rubber ball, the texture oddly foreign against your palms. You narrowed your eyes at the hoop, focusing on the target as if sheer determination alone could will the ball in. But your stance betrayed you—too stiff, too controlled. You hesitated for half a second before releasing the ball, and it hit the rim with a loud, hollow clang that echoed louder in your head than in the room itself.

Jeno leaned lazily against the side of the machine, his arms crossed and his grin cutting like a blade. The tilt of his head, the glint in his eyes—they all screamed amusement, and not the kind that was kind. “Tough start,” he drawled, his voice infuriatingly casual, the mock sympathy dripping from his words like honey laced with poison.

Your jaw tightened as his tone grated against your resolve. Without sparing him another glance, you snatched another ball, adjusting your grip and stance. This time, you softened your movements, loosening your shoulders, but the result was no better. The ball ricocheted off the rim with a defiant bounce, rolling away as your frustration clawed its way to the surface.

You turned toward Jeno sharply, your glare sharp enough to cut through the pulsing neon light that surrounded you. His expression hadn’t changed; if anything, his grin deepened, that infuriating mix of smugness and amusement making your fingers itch to throw something far less playful than a basketball.

He met your eyes, his expression hovering between smug satisfaction and quiet amusement, but there was something simmering beneath the surface—something deliberate. Then he stepped closer, his frame cutting into your space, the faint hum of the arcade around you suddenly a distant murmur. The playful glint in his gaze sharpened, the warmth in his smirk dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you thrum with tension. “First to eight gets to dom tonight,” he murmured, his voice dropping low, the octave rich and heavy like a whispered confession meant only for you. “Loser has to buy lunch for the rest of the week.”

The words curled through you, molten and wicked, igniting something primal and consuming in their wake. But it wasn’t his promise that sent heat racing through your veins—it was the idea of reversing it. Of having him at your mercy. Your breath hitched, sharp and telling, as images flooded your mind unbidden—his body tense but yielding under your touch, his lips parting to plead for more even as you dictated the pace. The fantasy gripped you with the kind of visceral pull that left your resolve sharpening, your focus zeroing in on him with renewed intent. You nodded once, the movement sharp and deliberate, already imagining the way his name would sound falling from your lips—not in surrender, but in command.

But when you took your next shot, the ball betrayed you again, rolling off the rim and bouncing to the side with a cruel, mocking defiance. Your jaw clenched, the sting of failure biting harder now with the weight of his challenge hanging over you. Every missed shot felt like it was peeling away at the edges of your control, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

From the corner of your eye, you could feel Jeno watching, his presence heavy and unrelenting, but you didn’t dare meet his gaze—not yet. The room felt tighter, warmer, the neon lights now blurring into a backdrop for the tension settling thick in the air between you. You reset your stance, but the echo of his words stayed with you, that dark promise replaying itself in your mind like a dare you couldn’t back down from.

Before the frustration could fully settle in your chest, you felt him step closer, his warmth at your back before his arms came around you. His hands found yours, his grip firm but deliberate as he guided your movements, his chest pressed flush against you. The solid weight of him was grounding, but the proximity sent a charge skittering across your skin, your pulse quickening in response.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and impossibly smooth, the kind of tone that seemed to slip beneath your defenses without effort. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, light and fleeting, but the touch left a trail of heat in its wake. You froze for a moment, not expecting the gentleness in his tone, the quiet reassurance layered beneath the teasing edge. “You’re too tense,” he said, his hands shifting yours into position with a measured patience that felt at odds with the intensity of his presence. “Shoulders down. Legs apart. Loosen up.”

His breath was steady, an anchor against the rising heat coursing through your body. His hands slid along yours, careful yet insistent, guiding you like you were something fragile but worth steadying. His chest was firm, his movements purposeful, and despite yourself, you followed his lead, letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders as his fingers adjusted your grip.

“Bend your knees a little,” he whispered, his voice softer now, dipping into something dangerously intimate. It wasn’t just instruction; it was layered with something more, a quiet pull meant just for you. “Let your body move with it. Stop trying so hard to control it.”

His lips grazed your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. The gentleness of the gesture caught you off guard, the contrast against his usual sharpness making it land deeper. You didn’t know why, but you hadn’t expected this side of him—the way he seemed to savor the process of steadying you, of teaching you with a patience that felt far more intimate than teasing.

“If you make this one,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, his breath brushing against your skin like a quiet promise, “I’ll reward you later.” The words were a slow burn, seeping into your chest and igniting something molten and unsteady at your core.

You exhaled, the tension in your body softening as you released the ball. It sailed cleanly through the hoop, and the sound of it swishing sent a surge of triumph rushing through you. You turned to him, your grin breaking through the heat still lingering in your chest, and without hesitation, you cupped his jaw, pulling him into a kiss that was hard, unapologetic, and filled with all the energy you’d been holding back.

He laughed against your lips, a rich, low sound that vibrated through you as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer. His response was instant, matching your fervor with his own, the kiss deepening into something that teetered on the edge of control. You broke away first, your breathing unsteady, but he didn’t let go, his fingers pressing into your hips like he wasn’t ready to relinquish the moment.

But when it was his turn, the shift was immediate. He stepped to the hoop, his confidence practically radiating off him, and he didn’t miss—not once. Each shot was accompanied by a cocky comment, his voice dripping with mockery as the scoreboard climbed higher in his favor. You could do nothing but glare, your earlier triumph dissolving under the weight of his growing smirk.

When the final ball sailed through the hoop, Jeno turned to you, his movements unhurried, his victory dripping from every line of his body. His smirk was slow, deliberate, and sinful, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that made the air between you feel heavier. He stepped closer, the proximity making it impossible to ignore the tension crackling between you.

His lips hovered just above yours, the heat of his breath brushing against your skin, each exhale deliberate, teasing, maddening. His gaze held yours, dark and unwavering, and the smirk that curled at the edges of his mouth was nothing short of predatory. “I’m gonna have fun tonight, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with triumph, but the glint in his eyes promised more than victory—it promised chaos. He let the moment hang, his head tilting slightly, his lips brushing yours so lightly it wasn’t even a kiss.

His fingers stayed at your chin, tilting your face just enough to keep you in his line of fire, his smirk deepening when he saw the challenge flicker behind your stare. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction he expected, not now, not later—not on his terms. He might have claimed the game, but the space between you was still up for grabs, and you had no intention of letting him think he’d won everything.

The sharpness in your gaze softened, just barely, as you reached for his hand. Your fingers slid against his deliberately, wrapping around his palm, guiding him through the crowd and away from the arcade’s glowing chaos. Jeno let you take the lead without a word, though you felt the quiet tension in the way his thumb brushed against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he was testing the limits of your touch.

The hallway outside the exhibit felt quieter, the hum of neon giving way to a more subdued rhythm, though the energy between you remained just as charged. You could feel his presence close behind you, the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours a silent reminder of the space you weren’t allowing him to close.

The idea of heading back to the motel crept into your mind, an unwelcome thought that made your steps falter for just a moment. You didn’t want the night to end—not yet. Everything about it had been perfect, from the playful banter to the electric pull that lingered between you both. It was the kind of night that felt rare, like holding onto a thread of magic that could slip away at any second. You weren’t ready to let it dissolve into something as ordinary as rest and silence.

That was when you noticed the sign. 24-Hour Gift Shop. The bold lettering stood out in the dim lighting, and before you could react, Jeno’s expression lit up, a flicker of boyish excitement breaking through his usual composed demeanor. “We’re going in,” he said simply, his voice resolute as he steered you toward the entrance.

The gift shop was a curated mess of basketball-themed treasures, gaudy trinkets, and charming absurdities. Shelves overflowed with novelty keychains, trading cards, and oversized bobbleheads that teetered on their bases. You found yourself laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all—a foam finger shaped like a basketball hoop, mugs emblazoned with cheesy slogans, and a glitter-covered snow globe with a miniature player frozen mid-dunk.

You caught Jeno watching you as you picked up a particularly hideous bobblehead, your laughter spilling out in soft waves. He didn’t say anything, just smiled, the kind of smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t help himself. It lingered, warm and unguarded, and you felt it settle low in your chest, right alongside the bittersweet ache of knowing the night was slipping away too quickly.

Eventually, the two of you began to wander back toward the exit. Your phone buzzed in your hand, the battery icon flashing a warning, and you realized just how much you’d captured—the notes, the photos, the videos. The weight of the night lingered in every detail saved to your phone, but the memories etched themselves even deeper, impossible to forget.

As you passed the gift shop one last time, Jeno paused, his gaze flicking toward the entrance. “Hold on,” he said, already heading back inside. “I forgot something.”

You waited outside, arms crossed, your curiosity simmering as the seconds stretched into minutes. You glanced at the clock on your phone, then back toward the shop, the glass doors giving you only the faintest glimpse of his movements inside.

When he reemerged, his steps were purposeful but casual, a faint smirk playing on his lips. You didn’t press him, though the spark of suspicion in your gaze was impossible to hide. “Ready to go?” he asked, his tone light, but there was something else beneath it, a quiet undercurrent that made you tilt your head, studying him.

You nodded, falling into step beside him as you walked toward the parking lot. The air was cooler now, brushing against your skin like a reminder that the night was winding down. But just before you reached the car, Jeno stopped abruptly, turning to face you.

“Here,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand slipping into his pocket.

When he handed you the small box, you hesitated, your brow furrowing as you turned it over in your hands. It was unassuming, light, and you glanced up at him, confused.

“Open it,” he murmured, his eyes steady on yours.

The lid lifted with a soft creak, and the sight inside stole the breath from your lungs. Nestled against the fabric was a tiny basketball charm, delicate and carefully crafted, its polished surface catching the faint light like a spark.

“For your bracelet,” he said, his voice softer still, the weight of the moment pressing into the quiet space between you.

Your gaze lifted to his, startled and unsteady, the weight of the moment pressing against you in ways you couldn’t quite name. The bracelet had been nothing more than a fixture, its emptiness a quiet, unnoticed echo of things you’d grown used to—spaces unfilled, gaps you stopped questioning. But here he was, standing in front of you, holding a piece so small yet so deliberate, it felt like he’d reached into the silence you carried and tried to give it shape. Something tightened in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar, as if his gesture had revealed just how long you’d been wearing something incomplete, and how you might never have realized it on your own.

“Jeno…” you started, your voice unsteady, but he cut you off with a small shake of his head.

“It’s okay,” he said simply, his fingers brushing yours as he reached for the bracelet. “I wanted to. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how empty it looked. I knew what I had to do.”

He worked in silence, the soft clink of the charm against the bracelet barely audible over the quiet rhythm of your breaths. His fingers moved with a careful precision that felt almost reverent, as though this small act demanded every ounce of his focus. His brow furrowed, his lips pressed in a subtle line of concentration, and you couldn’t look away. There was something unguarded about the way he approached this—so deliberate, so painstakingly unhurried—that it made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t prepared for. It wasn’t just the act itself, but what it meant, what it revealed.

When he finished, he didn’t say anything at first. His hand lingered at your wrist, his thumb brushing over the newly attached charm, and then his eyes met yours. The sincerity in his gaze hit you like a blow, unraveling something carefully stitched together inside you. It wasn’t just a charm, wasn’t just a thoughtful gift—it was him, offering you a piece of himself, quiet and unspoken, but there. It was the way he saw you, not as you pretended to be, but as you truly were. The realization both warmed and unsettled you, leaving you feeling laid bare in the softest, most excruciating way.

You reached for him before you could think better of it, your hand cupping his jaw, your thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He stilled, his breath catching, but he didn’t pull away. When you kissed him, it wasn’t hurried or eager. It was soft, lingering, a kind of communion that words couldn’t reach. Beneath it was a current of gratitude, quiet and raw, and the unshakable knowledge that this moment was more than a gesture. It was a shift—subtle, seismic, and irreversible.

His hands found your waist, his touch steady and grounding, as though he needed to anchor himself to you in the same way you found yourself clinging to him. His grip was firm but gentle, his thumbs tracing over the fabric of your shirt like he was memorizing the feel of you. The space between you ceased to exist, and yet, the weight of what had just passed between you seemed to fill every corner.

The bracelet rested against your wrist, no longer just a hollow adornment. It felt heavier now, but not with emptiness—it carried meaning. A weight you hadn’t realized you’d been missing, one you hadn’t asked for but found yourself reluctant to let go of. It didn’t just fill the space; it transformed it, leaving something behind that you knew would linger long after this moment ended.

The second you shoved him onto the motel bed, Jeno knew he was done for. Not just because you had the upper hand, but because of the look in your eyes—wild, unyielding, and utterly determined. His cocky grin faltered for a split second, his usual confidence wavering as you towered over him. His back hit the mattress with a dull thud, and his lips parted, ready to retake control, to say something. But you didn’t give him the chance. The moment you climbed onto him, your movements calculated and deliberate, he realized he was no longer in charge.

It wasn’t just the weight of you pinning him down—it was the absurdity of the situation. You’d lost the bet. By all rights, this was supposed to be his moment of victory, his chance to bend you to his will. He should have been the one in control, making you squirm beneath him. Instead, you were on top, commanding every inch of him like you’d won, like it had been his loss, not yours. The irony of it hit him hard, but the thought dissolved into nothingness the second your hands moved to his waistband.

You stripped him of his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, and his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, standing stiff against his stomach. The sight of it, heavy and desperate, should’ve made you pause—but you didn’t. You wrapped your hand around him, gave him one hard, teasing stroke that left him gasping, and then lined yourself up and sank down without ceremony.

The stretch was overwhelming, your walls clenching around him with a tightness that ripped a groan from both of you. His hands flew to your hips instinctively, but you smacked them away, your nails dragging down his chest as you pressed him back against the mattress. “Stay,” you demanded, your voice sharp and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

He stared up at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted in disbelief. He wanted to say something, maybe even fight back, to remind you of the terms of the bet—but when your hips started to move, slow and deliberate, every thought in his head vanished. Every roll of your body was purposeful, your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself off him only to slam back down, the force of it sending his head tipping back against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him, his knuckles white as he tried to keep himself in check. The sight of you above him, taking what you wanted with a confidence he hadn’t expected, had his mind spinning. “You don’t—fuck—you don’t fight fair.”

A wicked grin spread across your lips, your hands braced against his chest as you leaned forward, letting your nails leave faint trails in his skin. “I never said I would,” you shot back, your voice low and dripping with satisfaction. The angle shifted slightly, driving him deeper, and the sharp intake of his breath only spurred you on.

He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was here, pinned to the bed, completely at your mercy. He’d gone into this thinking he’d be the one in charge, the one to call the shots—but from the second you’d shoved him onto the bed, he’d known. He’d lost all control over you, and it wasn’t just the way your body moved against his, the way you commanded him. It was the confidence in your eyes, the way you held him down like he belonged to you.

His groan was guttural, his hands twitching at his sides, his entire body screaming for him to grab you, flip you over, and fuck you into the mattress. But he didn’t. He stayed exactly where you told him, his restraint hanging by a thread as you worked him over with precision.

The feral rhythm of your hips slamming down onto his cock was unrelenting, a raw, primal display of desire that left no space for control or reason. Each bounce sent a lewd, wet slap echoing through the room, the obscene sound underscoring the way your body moved with unrestrained abandon. You were riding him like you owned him, chasing your own pleasure with every brutal drop of your hips, and the way his cock twitched and pulsed inside you only pushed you further into the madness of it all.

Your ass was relentless, the soft curve of it clapping against his thighs with every downward thrust. His gaze was glued to the way it moved, hypnotized by the ripple of your flesh and the raw power in your movements. Each bounce made his thighs tighten beneath you, a reaction that drove a smug smirk to your lips even as your own breath caught. The force of your descent made the head of his cock hit that devastating spot inside you over and over again, leaving you gasping, moaning, completely undone. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching like he was barely holding himself back from grabbing your ass and forcing you to move even harder.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice cracking as his hips jerked involuntarily, desperate to meet your movements. “Look at you. You don’t even need me to move. You’re—” His words died on his tongue, swallowed by a guttural moan as you sank onto him harder, faster, riding him with a wildness that left no room for anything else.

Your breasts moved with the same intensity as your hips, bouncing wildly with every thrust, catching his attention like a predator locked onto prey. He couldn’t stop staring, his mouth falling open as he groaned low in his chest. When his hands finally shot up, cupping them roughly, his fingers molded to your curves, squeezing hard enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice wrecked as his thumbs dragged across your nipples, rolling the stiff peaks under his fingers. The roughness of his touch made your back arch, your lips parting as a choked moan spilled out. He stared up at you, his dark eyes wild with want, before his lips parted again, his tone more desperate now. “Let me taste them.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His hands gripped your waist, dragging your chest down to meet his mouth. His tongue flicked against your nipple with an intensity that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, your walls clamping tighter around his cock as you cried out. The wet pull of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his tongue circled and lapped at your sensitive skin—it was maddening.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled against your skin, his teeth grazing the hardened bud before he sucked it deeper into his mouth. “Can’t stop making those pretty sounds when I do this.” He switched to the other breast, his tongue lashing against the peak as his hands held your hips in place, forcing you to keep moving, to keep riding him.

Your moans grew louder, more broken, as his mouth worked in perfect rhythm with your hips. The wet slide of his cock dragging against your walls combined with the heat of his tongue and the sting of his teeth sent you spiraling. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping hard, pulling him closer as you gasped out, “More. Fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. His lips latched onto your nipple with more force, his tongue flicking faster, his teeth scraping just enough to make your thighs tremble. The way he worshiped your breasts—hungry, unrelenting, like he couldn’t get enough—left you wrecked. Your control faltered, your rhythm becoming erratic as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensation of his mouth and the thick length of him stretching you open.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” you panted, your voice trembling as your body arched into his touch. “Shit, Jeno, you feel so—” Your words dissolved into a desperate moan as his teeth caught your nipple, the sting sharp and electrifying before it melted into heat.

He pulled back for a moment, his lips shiny, his chest heaving as he stared up at you like he’d never seen anything so devastating. His hands slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he guided you back down onto him, the force of his thrust meeting your descent. “Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned, his voice low and ragged, his grip tightening as he buried himself deeper.

The rhythm picked up again, rougher, harder, the sound of your ass clapping against his thighs filling the room. His lips returned to your chest, his mouth devouring you with renewed hunger, leaving marks that would linger on your skin like a brand. His tongue flicked and swirled, his teeth scraping just enough to leave you trembling, and the low, filthy sounds he made against your skin only pushed you closer to the edge.

“You’re mine tonight,” you gasped, your voice raw as you clutched his shoulders, your nails dragging down his chest. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he rasped, his head tipping back as his body tightened beneath you. “Fuck, I’m all yours.”

Your grip on his shoulders tightened, your nails dragging down his chest hard enough to leave faint red lines. The sight of him beneath you, flushed and wrecked, his lips parted as he panted for air, made your stomach tighten with satisfaction. Jeno had always been the one in control, the one who dictated the pace, but tonight, you’d stripped him of every ounce of dominance, leaving him at your mercy.

He didn’t try to wrestle control back, didn’t even fight it; instead, he let you guide him, his eyes glazed over with lust as you worked him over with brutal precision. The slick slide of him inside you made your head spin, every thrust driving deeper, hitting spots that made your entire body tremble. His hands gripped your ass firmly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, helping you keep your rhythm steady despite the way your thighs burned with exertion.

“Look at you,” you whispered, your voice a mix of awe and mockery as you leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear. “So fucking pretty like this—completely under me.”

Jeno let out a choked groan, his hips bucking up into you, but you pushed him back down with a firm hand against his chest. His eyes widened slightly when your other hand slid up to his throat, your fingers wrapping around the column of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking to yours, dark and wanting, but also laced with surprise. You squeezed gently, testing, and the low, guttural sound he made sent a shiver down your spine.

“Like that, huh?” you murmured, tightening your grip just enough to make his breath hitch. “I knew you’d let me do anything to you.”

He didn’t respond, couldn’t, the pressure of your hand cutting off his words and leaving him gasping. His lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, and the sight of him like this—submissive, needy, utterly at your mercy—made you clench around him, drawing a strangled curse from his lips.

You leaned down, your mouth hovering just above his, and spit, slow and deliberate, watching as it dripped past his parted lips and onto his tongue. He groaned loudly, his eyes fluttering shut as he swallowed without hesitation, the act sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

“Good boy,” you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” he rasped, his voice raw as he strained against your hand on his throat, his hips jerking up desperately. “Anything. I’ll take it—please.”

His plea made your head spin, your control wavering for a moment as you slammed your hips down harder, faster. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, mingling with the broken moans spilling from both of you. His cock throbbed inside you, the stretch overwhelming, and the way he looked up at you—wide-eyed, desperate—left you teetering on the edge.

Your hand left his throat, sliding down his chest, and you dug your nails into his skin, making him hiss through his teeth. His hands gripped your hips tightly, his fingers bruising as he pulled you down onto him with every thrust, matching your rhythm with a force that had you gasping.

“You’re gonna come for me,” you demanded, your voice shaking as you ground your hips against him, your walls tightening around his cock. “You don’t come until I say.”

“I—fuck—I’m so close,” he choked out, his head tipping back, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to hold himself together. “Please—let me—”

“Not yet,” you cut him off, leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip, your teeth dragging against the soft skin before you kissed him deeply. The kiss was messy, all tongue and teeth, your control slipping as his hands moved to your ass, pulling you down harder, deeper, until you couldn’t think straight.

His lips left yours, trailing down your neck to your chest, and he latched onto your nipple again, his tongue flicking and swirling with a desperation that made your thighs tremble. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin, the sting sending shocks of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat.

“Fuck, Jeno,” you gasped, your head falling back as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensation. “You’re gonna make me—oh, shit—”

“Do it,” he groaned against your skin, his voice low and wrecked. “Come on me. I want to feel it—want to feel you lose it on my cock.”

His words pushed you over the edge, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your walls clamping down around him tightly. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode out your orgasm, your movements erratic and frantic.

Jeno wasn’t far behind, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully as he thrust up into you one last time, his body trembling as he spilled inside you. His groan was deep, guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows as he let himself go completely.

You collapsed onto his chest, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps as you both lay there, utterly spent. His hands moved up your back, his touch surprisingly gentle as he traced lazy circles against your skin.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before Jeno moved, flipping you onto your back with a strength that stole whatever control you had left. The room spun, your legs tangled with his as he pressed you into the mattress, his body hovering over yours, heat radiating from every inch of him. His hand slid beneath your thigh, gripping it firmly and hooking your leg around his waist, his eyes burning as they locked onto yours.

“You really think you can wear me out?” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips. Before you could answer, his hips rolled forward, the thick length of him sliding back into you in one unrelenting thrust.

Your gasp caught in your throat, your fingers scrambling for purchase against his damp skin as he set a rhythm that was slower now but no less consuming. His gaze never left yours, the intensity in his eyes pinning you in place as his body moved against yours, deliberate and devastating.

The weight of him, the heat of his body pressed so tightly to yours, made it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but feel. His hand found your wrist, pinning it above your head, his fingers lacing with yours as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

“You think you’re in charge,” he breathed, his voice rough and teasing, his hips snapping harder, pulling a broken moan from your lips. “But look at you now. Look at how I have you.”

The words sent a shiver racing through you, your back arching as his free hand traveled down your body, his touch rough and possessive. His fingers dug into your hip, holding you in place as he drove deeper, his pace unwavering, his movements so precise it left you trembling beneath him.

“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” he continued, his tone shifting, darker now, filled with a raw, undeniable need. “You’re staying right here, under me, on me, wrapped around me, all night.”

The promise hung heavy in the air, wrapping around you as his lips crashed against yours, the kiss all-consuming, a clash of teeth and tongue and desperation. He kissed like he fucked—intense, unrelenting, like he wanted to take every last piece of you and leave nothing behind.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at you, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin as he shifted, grabbing your other leg and pushing your knees higher, opening you up further. The new angle sent a shockwave through your body, your nails biting into his forearm as your head tipped back, your lips parting on a gasp.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he moved with slow, grinding precision, the drag of him inside you overwhelming. His eyes drank in the sight of you—your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your body moved beneath him like it was made for this, for him. “You have no idea how fucking good you look right now.”

Your hands slid to his shoulders, clutching him tightly as you pulled him closer, your lips grazing his jaw. “Jeno…” His name was a breathless plea, your voice trembling as he thrust harder, sharper, the intensity of it leaving you shaking.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot against your lips as he murmured, “I hope you know I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve had you in every way I want. Every way I can.”

Your body arched beneath him, the heat between you building again, the tension coiling tight in your stomach as he fucked you with a pace that was both punishing and purposeful. His mouth was everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your lips—leaving a trail of heat that only added to the heady, dizzying haze you were drowning in.

Time blurred, your senses overtaken by him: the strength of his hands on your body, the weight of him pressing you into the bed, the sound of his ragged breaths mixing with your moans. The room was heavy with heat and desperation, and you knew, without him saying a word, that he meant every promise he’d made.

There would be no rest, no reprieve. You weren’t getting out of that bed, not when he had you like this, not when he looked at you like he could devour you whole. And as his hand slipped behind your knee, hitching your leg higher, his pace relentless and unyielding, you surrendered completely.

This wasn’t a single moment; it was the entire night, a relentless give-and-take where neither of you held back. It wasn’t just him breaking you apart and piecing you back together—it was you doing the same to him, both of you locked in a desperate, all-consuming rhythm that blurred the lines between control and surrender. His thrusts were brutal, his grip unyielding, but the way your nails raked down his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, left him just as wrecked.

Every time he pushed you closer to the edge, you dragged him down with you, your bodies moving in perfect sync as though you were made to unravel each other. The air between you was heavy with heat and need, the sounds of your shared moans and gasps filling the room as the motel bed creaked beneath you. You arched beneath him, your body meeting his with equal force, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull his lips back to yours. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed and desperate, your teeth clashing as you devoured each other, tasting sweat and sin.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, his hips stuttering for a moment as you clenched around him, your walls gripping him so tightly it stole the breath from his lungs. “You’re ruining me.”

“Good,” you panted, your voice trembling but firm as you ground your hips against his, dragging him deeper, harder. “Because you’re ruining me too.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he stared into your eyes, his expression caught between awe and disbelief. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed to feel every inch of you to convince himself you were real.

You didn’t let him hold onto the moment for long. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder, forcing a broken curse from his lips. Then you flipped him, using his own momentum to pin him beneath you. His eyes widened briefly, but the grin that spread across his face was pure, dark delight as he watched you take control again, your nails dragging down his chest.

“You think I’m perfect?” you teased, rolling your hips as his hands flew to your thighs, squeezing tightly. “Prove it. Show me.”

And he did. Even from below, he took every opening to push you further, his fingers digging into your hips to guide your movements, his cock driving into you at a devastating angle that left you gasping. The two of you were locked in a battle for dominance, each of you giving as good as you got, neither willing to let up.

By the time you both collapsed back onto the bed, bodies trembling and slick with sweat, it wasn’t over—it couldn’t be. He pulled you back against him, his lips trailing down your spine as he pushed back inside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You twisted to face him, your fingers threading into his hair as you tugged him into another kiss, your bodies already moving together again, unstoppable.

This wasn’t about control. It was about destruction—mutual, beautiful destruction. You weren’t just losing yourself to him; you were taking him with you, pulling him into the same chaos that consumed you. Every moan, every gasp, every desperate touch left its mark, the line between where you ended and he began disappearing entirely.

And as the hours passed, as the night stretched on, there was no thought of rest, no thought of stopping. It was you and him, burning each other to the ground, only to rise again in the next moment, ruined and whole all at once.

It had been a few days since you returned from the motel, but the haze of that weekend hadn’t lifted. Campus life had swallowed you whole again—assignments piled on top of deadlines, projects competing for your attention, tutoring sessions eating into your free time. Even the collaborative project with Jeno, which you were determined to excel in, loomed over you like a silent predator. You thrived on being busy, juggling your responsibilities with practiced ease. But Lee Jeno, as he had proven time and time again, was amazing at derailing every plan you meticulously crafted.

He had spent every night at your apartment since you got back, always finding a way to pull you away from your work, from your thoughts, from everything but him. He spent more time inside you than anywhere else. The boundaries you had drawn between you had long since dissolved, leaving only raw want and insatiable need in their place. Case in point: his head buried between your thighs as you gasped and writhed against the pillows.

This morning, like every other, he’d woken you up before your alarm—not with a whisper, not with a soft touch, but with the shocking heat of his mouth between your thighs. You jolted awake at the first swipe of his tongue, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the sensation flooded your half-asleep mind. The duvet was heavy over your body, cocooning you in warmth, and you hadn’t even realized where he was until you felt his hands gripping your hips, pulling you further down the mattress to meet his mouth.

“Jeno,” you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep, but he didn’t answer. His grip tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as his tongue moved with maddening precision, flicking and circling in a rhythm that left your thighs trembling. The muffled hums he made against you sent shivers through your body, each one a reminder that he wasn’t stopping until you were fully awake—and thoroughly ruined.

You couldn’t see him beneath the covers, but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat of his mouth, the deliberate way his tongue dragged against you, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the sting with gentle, wet kisses. Your hands clutched at the sheets, twisting them as the pleasure built steadily, your body arching despite your best efforts to stay still.

“Good morning, baby,” he murmured, his voice muffled and teasing as he paused just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh. The sound of his voice, low and gravelly with sleep, made your chest tighten, and before you could respond, he was back at it, his tongue dipping into you with a groan that vibrated through your core.

“Jeno,” you gasped again, your head falling back against the pillow as the sensations overwhelmed you. “You’re—God, you keep on distracting me.”

He chuckled softly against you, his lips curling into a smirk you could feel. “You don’t seem to mind.”

And he was right. You didn’t mind—not one bit. The way his mouth worked against you, the way his hands gripped your thighs to keep you exactly where he wanted you, the way he seemed to know exactly how to undo you with nothing but his tongue—it was impossible to resist.

You were reaching for him, fingers itching to dive into the messy strands of his hair and tug him up, desperate to kiss away the smug grin that had been teasing you all morning. But the sharp knock at your door stopped you cold. The sound sliced through the hazy warmth of the moment, replacing it with a jolt of panic that spread through your chest like ice.

“Yo! Y/N! Open up. Are you decent?”

The knock was sharp, cutting through the charged air like a blade, and the voice that followed was unmistakable. Mark. Of course it was him. Hearing his name didn’t surprise you—Mark’s presence in your life was as constant as it was chaotic. What did surprise you, though, was when he chose to appear. He didn’t live here, but the spare key you’d given him months ago—a decision you regretted more often than not—meant he strolled into your apartment with the ease of someone who did. Mark was so comfortable in your space that he acted like it was his own, and right now, that particular habit made your stomach drop.

“Oh, my God,” you hissed, your voice low and panicked, your mind already racing.

Your heart dropped as you watched the door knob begin to turn in agonizing slow motion. Every nerve in your body fired off at once as you realized Jeno was still sprawled on top of you, his broad shoulders, tousled hair, and completely bare torso making it painfully obvious what had just been happening.

You didn’t have time to think, let alone properly hide him. Panic fueled your movements as you grabbed Jeno’s shoulders, shoving him down under the massive duvet with all the force you could muster. His muffled laugh against your skin made you glare, but he complied, slipping beneath the covers just as the door cracked open.

Your wide eyes met his under the thick, plush fabric, and you shot him a silent look—sharp, warning, do not fuck this up. He raised a brow in return, his lips curling into a faint smirk, but thankfully, he stayed still.

You glanced down at the bed. Thanks to your oversized duvet, the scene didn’t look suspicious. The blankets were big, fluffy, and completely swallowed Jeno’s frame beneath their layers. As long as he stayed quiet—didn’t shift, didn’t make a sound—Mark wouldn’t know a thing. All you had to do was keep him unsuspecting. You exhaled quietly, bracing yourself as the door opened wider.

You inhaled deeply, forcing the tension in your shoulders to loosen. If you didn’t play this right, everything would unravel in seconds. Jeno was still beneath the duvet, his mouth working relentlessly against you, his hands gripping your thighs with quiet insistence. You knew Mark didn’t suspect anything—how could he?—but the thought of even the slightest misstep made you clench with unease.

“Mark!” you called, pitching your voice higher, layering it with just enough grogginess to sound convincing. “What time is it? I’m still in bed. What do you want?”

You were banking on the early hour to sell your act, and from his exasperated sigh, it seemed to work. “You’ve been super weird and distant since the motel, and I’ve been really meaning to tell you something,” Mark replied, his voice insistent. “This can’t wait.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the duvet, tugging it tighter over Jeno as your mind raced. You knew exactly what he was going to say, every word of it. That he’d hooked up with Areum at the motel. That it just happened. That he couldn’t stop thinking about it. You knew it all because you were his best friend and you knew everything about him even when he didn’t outwardly tell you.

But he couldn’t say it now. Not with Jeno right here, between your legs, his tongue dragging slow, devastating circles against your clit like he had all the time in the world. If Mark said it—if those words left his mouth—you were sure Jeno would lose it. He’d push himself out from under the duvet, his anger sharp and immediate, the tension snapping like a live wire. Jeno wouldn’t think rationally. And then Mark would see him. See you. Together.

It wasn’t just about Jeno’s reaction. It was about what would happen next. Mark knowing about you and Jeno would be a disaster, not just for you but for everything you’d carefully managed to keep in balance. The dynamic would shift; questions would spill out faster than you could answer them. Why Jeno? How long had this been going on? What did it mean? You hated the thought of losing control, of letting things spiral beyond your grasp. This wasn’t about jealousy, about Mark and Areum. It was about you—about maintaining the delicate, perfect equilibrium you’d worked so hard to build.

“Mark, seriously, can’t this wait?” you said, your voice tight but still playing at sleepy. “I really don’t have time right now.”

Mark groaned, clearly annoyed. “Y/N, come on. This is important. You won’t believe what happened—”

“I already know!” you blurted, desperate to cut him off before the words could leave his mouth. “You fought Jeno back at the motel, didn’t you? He totally deserved it—ow!”

The sharp sting of Jeno’s teeth on your folds sent a jolt through your entire body, making you yelp involuntarily. His bite wasn’t harsh, but it was pointed, deliberate, a silent reprimand for dragging him into your lie. Your thighs clenched around his head instinctively, but he didn’t stop, his tongue following immediately to soothe the bite, the sensation sending a wave of heat coursing through you.

“Y/N?” Mark’s voice sharpened with concern. “Are you okay? What’s happening in there?”

You swallowed hard, biting down on your bottom lip to stifle the moan threatening to escape as Jeno’s mouth moved with maddening precision. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking with a force that made your hips jerk against him, your fingers twisting the blanket in a desperate attempt to maintain composure.

“Nothing!” you squeaked, the strain in your voice obvious. “I—I just stubbed my toe or something. Seriously, Mark, this can wait.”

Jeno’s hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you wider beneath the duvet as he buried himself deeper, his groan vibrating against you. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, the dual sensations of pleasure and panic tangling in your chest as you tried to think straight.

“Y/N, you’re acting so weird,” Mark pressed, clearly unconvinced. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” you snapped, your frustration spilling over as you glared down at the lump under the covers. Jeno, the absolute menace, didn’t pause for a second, his tongue swirling and flicking in ways that made your breath hitch. “Just—just give me five minutes, okay? Wait downstairs. I’ll make us breakfast, and we’ll talk then. Just not now.”

There was a long, excruciating pause, the kind that made your heart hammer in your chest as you braced for Mark to say something else, to push further, to step inside despite your protests. You could feel the weight of his hesitation through the door, the way he lingered just long enough to let his suspicion settle into the room like a thick fog. Mark wasn’t stupid—he could sense something was off. Your clipped tone, the way your voice wavered, your refusal to let him in—it wasn’t like you, and you knew he’d noticed.

But Mark was your best friend, and that counted for something. Despite his doubts, despite the fact that he had every reason to question you, he didn’t. That unspoken trust, that bond forged over years of shared secrets and unwavering loyalty, held him back. He gave you the benefit of the doubt because that’s what you did for each other. It was the silent agreement between you: when one of you acted weird, the other let it slide, knowing there was always a reason, even if it wasn’t immediately clear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you heard him sigh, the sound heavy with irritation and resignation. “Fine. But don’t keep me waiting, Y/N. I’m serious.”

You stayed frozen, every muscle in your body taut as his footsteps retreated down the hall. The sound of the front door closing echoed through the apartment, and you exhaled sharply, the tension draining from your shoulders all at once. Relief washed over you like a wave, the morning’s chaos finally giving way to a fleeting moment of calm.

Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. But Jeno didn’t stop. He doubled down, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes against you, his hands holding you in place as he worked with a single-minded focus that left you trembling.

“Jeno,” you hissed, his name spilling from your lips like a warning. You lift the blanket to glare down at him. He looked up, his lips glistening, his expression infuriatingly smug.

“What?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’re the one who shoved me down here.”

“You were supposed to behave,” you shot back, but your voice lacked bite, your body still humming with the lingering pleasure of his relentless attention.

“And yet,” he said, dragging his tongue slowly over you one last time, his grin widening as he felt you shudder, “you’re not complaining.”

You groaned, letting the blanket fall back over his head, resigned to the chaos of your life—and the man underneath it.

That moment of relief didn’t last long. You shoved the duvet back, grabbing Jeno by the arm and dragging him up with a mix of urgency and frustration. “You need to go,” you whispered harshly, glancing toward the closed door as if Mark might come back any second. Jeno didn’t argue, though the glint of amusement in his eyes made your blood boil. He moved slowly, deliberately, grabbing his clothes from the floor and pulling them on with maddening ease. When you motioned toward the window, he chuckled under his breath, leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, and slipped out quietly.

By the time you made it downstairs, Mark was already there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his jaw tight. His posture screamed impatience, the subtle tap of his fingers against his arm only adding to the tension in the air. But when he saw you, the irritation melted away, replaced by something softer, almost nervous. You caught the shift immediately—it wasn’t like Mark to hesitate. He opened his mouth, the words spilling out before you even had a chance to settle into the kitchen.

“You won’t believe what happened at the motel,” he said finally, his voice tinged with both hesitation and a flicker of excitement—the kind that always preceded one of his big revelations. His eyes darted to yours briefly, gauging your reaction, before they flickered away again, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

“I mean… it’s kind of insane when I think about it,” he added, letting out a soft, uneasy laugh as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. That familiar habit, the one he always fell back on when he was working up to something big, told you this wasn’t just casual news—it was something significant, something he’d been holding onto for days, waiting for the right moment to spill. You could see it in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his excitement barely contained beneath his lingering nerves.

“I’m seeing Areum,” he said, his voice quick, almost rushed, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “We fucked for the first time at the motel.”

You turned to the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them as you forced a smile. “Wait—what?” you said, playing your part perfectly. “Areum? Seriously?” You made a show of being surprised, glancing over your shoulder at him with wide eyes as you heated the pan, adding a knob of butter that sizzled immediately. “You and Areum? I mean, wow, I didn’t see that coming.”

Mark laughed softly, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned against the counter, clearly relieved by your reaction. “Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It just… happened. At the motel. I don’t even know how to explain it.”

You poured the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble as you stirred slowly, letting him take the lead. “You don’t have to explain,” you said gently, your tone warm and supportive. “If it makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.” And he was happy—so happy. It was written all over his face, in the way he couldn’t stop smiling, the way his voice picked up when he talked about her. You listened intently, asking questions at the right moments, your kindness and enthusiasm carefully measured.

“She’s just… different, you know?” he said, his voice softer now as he opened up. “I mean, Areum’s always been kind of quiet, you know? But spending time with her at the motel… she’s so shy, but it’s this cute kind of shy that makes you want to keep talking just to see her smile. She’s got this way about her—she’s so sweet, so caring. Like, she notices everything. She’ll remember the smallest things I’ve said, even when I forgot I mentioned them. And her heart…” He paused, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s so big. She’s one of those people who makes you feel like you’re the only one that matters when she’s looking at you.”

You smiled softly as you slid the plate toward him, the eggs perfectly scrambled and creamy, the toast golden with slices of sautéed mushrooms glistening on top. Mark reached out to take it, his fingers brushing yours for a moment in a gesture so familiar, it was second nature. You settled into the chair across from him, resting your elbows lightly on the table, your hands loosely clasped together as you tilted your head, studying him. “It sounds like you really like her,” you said, your voice warm, unhurried, like you were coaxing him to open up without him realizing it.

He looked down at the plate for a moment, almost like he needed the pause to collect himself. When he glanced back up, there was a faint flush climbing his neck, just enough to make you smile wider. “I do,” he admitted, his tone quieter, more reflective than you’d expected. His fork hovered over the food, but he didn’t eat yet, his focus fully on you. “I really, really do. But promise me you won’t say anything to anyone else. Areum doesn’t want people knowing yet.”

You leaned forward slightly, the sincerity in your voice unshakable. “Of course I won’t. You know I’d never do that.”

The relief that washed over his face was palpable, softening his features in a way that made him look younger, almost boyish. He let out a breath he must not have realized he was holding, and his smile widened as he relaxed into his chair. “Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes meeting yours in that quiet, grateful way that reminded you exactly why he was your best friend. “I couldn’t not tell you, though. I just… I had to. She’d probably kill me if she knew I was telling you, but…” He trailed off, shrugging with a quiet laugh that made you laugh, too, the sound filling the room in a way that felt like sunlight on an otherwise ordinary morning.

Mark started eating as he spoke, and you watched as he eased into the moment, the way his words came more freely now, like a floodgate had opened. He described her in pieces, in tiny details that painted a picture only someone who truly cared would notice. He talked about the way her voice softened when she spoke to him, the way her shyness made her stumble over her words sometimes, only to immediately apologize in that sweet, almost flustered way she had. He told you about how she touched his arm when she laughed, her fingers light, tentative, as though she wasn’t sure she could take up that space.

“She’s got this way of looking at me,” he said, his voice softening further as he spoke, almost like he was confessing a secret he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet. “Like… like I’m someone worth noticing, you know? Like she sees me—really sees me.” His fork clinked against the edge of his plate as he set it down, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, nervous habit of his. “I don’t know how to explain it. She’s just… she’s so kind. So thoughtful. Like, she’s always paying attention, even to the smallest things. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her before.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way his voice softened as he spoke, the way his words carried this quiet wonder, like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. But beneath that smile, a pang of guilt twisted in your chest, sharp and heavy. He trusted you completely, enough to bare this part of himself without hesitation, and you were lying to him.

As he fell quiet for a moment, he leaned back in his chair, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you with a faint frown. “What about you?” he asked suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than you’d expected. “Is there anything going on with you that you want to tell me about?”

Your heart jumped in your chest, and for a split second, you froze. The thought flashed through your mind, quick and insistent—what if you told him? What if you told him about Jeno? About the nights you’d spent together, about the deal you’d made, the exclusivity, the date. What if you told him about the way Jeno made you laugh, made you feel light in a way you hadn’t expected? About how, against all odds, he made you happy.

But just as quickly, the thought vanished, and you shoved it down with practiced ease. No. You couldn’t tell him. Mark would never be able to forget something like that. He wouldn’t look at you—or Jeno—the same way again, and it would change everything. It wasn’t worth the risk. You recomposed yourself quickly, forcing a small, easy smile onto your face. “Nothing exciting,” you said lightly, waving a hand. “Just the usual.”

Mark studied you for a beat, and for a moment, you thought he might press further. But then he nodded, his frown easing into something softer. “Okay,” he said after a moment, his tone gentle. “But if there is something, you know you can tell me, right?”

“Of course,” you replied, the words coming out steady, even though the weight in your chest grew heavier with every syllable.

He smiled, that familiar, warm smile that had always been so easy for him. “Everything feels like it’s falling into place,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Areum… basketball… even Jeno. I never expected him to start being nice to me, but he has. He’s starting to feel more like my brother. He’s actually been… decent. Maybe even more than decent.”

Your smile wavered for just a moment, but you caught it, nodding as you clasped your hands tighter in your lap. “I’m happy for you, Mark,” you said softly. You really were—but you also knew he’d never realize how much of this was because of you. Jeno’s promise to treat him better, to keep the peace—it all came back to you and the invisible strings you’d been pulling behind the scenes.

Mark leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he spoke, but you barely heard him. The guilt weighed heavier now, pressing against your chest, curling around your ribs. Lying to him felt like trying to hold sand in your hands, the truth slipping through the cracks no matter how tightly you tried to grasp it.

As Mark kept talking, his voice filled with hope and excitement, you couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at your chest. You were lying to him. Every word you didn’t say was another thread unraveling between you, pulling the balance tighter and tighter. It was like building a house of cards, delicate and precarious, where even the softest breath could bring it all crashing down. But instead of stopping, instead of stepping back, you kept stacking higher, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t collapse under the weight of everything you were hiding.

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authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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