LATE TO MY OWN OC’S BIRTHDAY 🦅🦅🦅🔥🔥🔥AGAIN. SHOUTOUT MIIKA HE WAS ONE OF THE FIRST CHARACTERS AND I STILL LOVE HIM EVEN IF HE’S A BIT OF AN AWFUL PERSON AND HIS KIDS DONT MISS HIM
having a baby with the president of the most infamous frat on campus was not a part of any of your plans.
he wasn't even your boyfriend. despite how many times he tried to tell his frat bros he still had dibs on you.
"dude, stop staring at my girlfriend's tits," gojo huffed, smacking sukuna in the back of the head as you glared up at both of them, curled up in the corner of a ratty couch while your four month old latched onto your left nipple, greedy little fingers digging into your breast.
like he could talk when he was gawking right there with them.
"i'm not your girlfriend," you reminded him, brows furrowed tight before you glanced back down at the chubby baby in your arms. the soft tufts of white sticking up and sleepy blue eyes that made sure you'd never be able to forget where she came from.
god, you didn't know how the hell you ended up raising your infant in an apartment across from their frat house. okay, maybe you did, and maybe it involved a few too many body shots and getting your thong shoved to the side by a pretty playboy. who, apparently, bought the wrong size condom.
you were just the unlucky girl it broke for.
"you could be my wife," gojo unhelpfully flirted right as your daughter popped off your swollen tit, blinking slowly like she was about to fall back asleep.
"i'll pass," you deadpanned, carefully fixing your unfortunately milk-stained bra back in place over your sore nipple without disturbing her.
you already had a baby. you didn't need a husband too.
even if she'd been an accident, you adored your daughter. you just weren't the biggest fan of her father.
you had no interest starting a relationship with him when he'd lose interest eventually. find someone more exciting to chase. who didn't have stretch marks and didn't go to parties anymore.
gojo paid for your place. spoiled his daughter. came over himself or had the few actually responsible frat brothers stop by to babysit her when you had to go to class and couldn't take her.
but you refused to let him claim half your bed.
no matter how much he begged.
"please." literally.
even if you were sometimes tempted. even if okay, maybe once or twice, or, uh, a handful of times, you might have joined him on the couch since he knocked you up. and uh, since you had her.
"don't you have, like, an internship to go to?" you asked, arching up an eyebrow as his tattooed friend nudged him with his elbow.
"he's already late," sukuna tch-ed, adding fuel to the fire like you were too oblivious to realize he was just trying to be alone with you too. he was the one who showed up with food he claimed he'd just accidentally ordered extra of, ditching parties to come with you to the closest park to push her around in a stroller when she wouldn't sleep.
"i'll just tell my dad i was spending time with my girls," he huffed, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.
having a baby had only made his life easier.
his parents promised him a higher position in their company after college, letting him work whatever hours he wanted for now, just to take care of the two of you. while you were struggling to just finish your classwork to get your own degree so you wouldn't need him to do it anyway.
there was a knock on the door, and all it took was a single sharp look directed his way for gojo to scramble to answer it, although he immediately groaned when he saw who it was.
"i thought you had class," gojo complained, and you tilted your head enough to catch a glimpse of dark hair.
"thought you had work," geto cooly replied, walking past him to join you on the couch after slipping his shoes off by the door. his smile was easy, one corner curled up higher at the other as his soft eyes shifted from your face down to your daughter's, reaching out to touch her tiny fist.
her long lashes fluttering as her fingers wrapped around one of his, squeezing tight as she finally dozed off.
"so you decide to come over to what? play step daddy to my baby?" gojo whined, like he was the baby.
"uh-huh," geto hummed, bangs falling in his face as he scooted closer to you on the couch, one of his muscled thighs pressing against yours.
you bit your lip to hold back a laugh.
they all talked a big game. but you knew they'd lose interest eventually.
wouldn't they?
"i'm banning you from being here," gojo pouted, geto remaining unfazed as he glanced back up at you with amusement glittering in his eyes.
"am i banned?" he asked you instead, ignoring his best friend, who literally looked like he was two seconds from strangling him.
"will you keep cooking for me?" you softly murmured, keeping your voice quiet enough to not wake your daughter.
"anything you want," geto promised, and perhaps, you did get a little joy in pissing your baby daddy off, because you were already bobbing your head up and down.
"you're not banned," you answered, knowing gojo wouldn't argue with you when he'd spent the past thirteen months desperate to win you over.
"sweetheart," he started, but geto shushed him.
"the baby's asleep, satoru," geto scolded him.
"stop acting like you're gonna give my baby a sibling, suguru," gojo snapped back at him, nose scrunching up like it was taking everything in him not to prey him off of you by the collar off his shirt.
all they were giving you was a headache.
you guessed it could be worse though.
at least you weren't pregnant again.
right?
div cr: @/tsumiinum
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated :3
🪼 — bkg. k x f!reader | quirkless-college au | fluff | headcanons
★ College bf!Katsuki who is in his third year of college, taking up engineering. He’s also been part of the soccer team since his freshman year, and now that he’s a junior, he has become the team’s captain.
★ College bf!Katsuki who is two years older than you. He’s also your neighbor, so you’ve known each other for years. And since you’re younger than him, his friends— aside from Izuku, don’t know much about you and your relationship with Katsuki. They only get to know you once you start attending the same university as them, finally putting a face to the person Katsuki had been talking about sometimes.
★ College bf!Katsuki who has been insanely popular with the ladies from different departments since his freshman year. They’d slip love letters into his locker or sometimes personally hand him an energy drink after practice. Unfortunately for them, Katsuki flatly rejected every confession, saying there was already someone else.
★ College bf!Katsuki who somehow created a rumor during his second year, about him having a girlfriend because he kept rejecting everyone who confessed to him. What they don’t know is that he wanted you to become his girlfriend so badly— he just never had the courage to ask you out.
★ College bf!Katsuki who finally got the courage to ask you out on a date right before you entered college. So when the first day of classes came— with him as a junior and you as a freshman, people were surprised to see Katsuki walking around campus with a girl without his usual grumpy expression.
★ College bf!Katsuki who never actually tells anyone he has a girlfriend. People figure it out by watching how he interacts with you— they just connect the dots. They finally understand why Katsuki has been rejecting those girls all this time. And whenever his friends or classmates ask him if the two of you are dating, he just answers with a casual “yeah.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who insists on walking you to your class while carrying your bag if it gets too heavy with your laptop and books. Sometimes, he’s even seen holding a small paper bag from a nearby cafe with your favorite pastry inside. Him walking you to class would occasionally make him late by three minutes, but none of his teachers care since he’s always at the top of the class anyway.
★ College bf!Katsuki who intimidates any guy who gets too close or flirty with you. He quietly hovers behind you whenever someone is taking too much of your time, making them know you’re taken by subtly resting a hand on your lower back or around your waist.
★ College bf!Katsuki who isn’t a big fan of PDA but gladly holds your hand or rests an arm over your shoulders when you walk together. And if the hallway is getting too crowded, he’ll walk in front of you, holding your hand as he guides you through the crowd.
★ College bf!Katsuki who knows all the quiet spots around campus. He’ll take you there whenever you both have an hour or two between classes just to relax together. It’s also where he can hug you, hold you, or steal a kiss without a lot of people watching,
★ College bf!Katsuki who waits for your classes to end every day. Since he has a soccer practice after his own classes, he can’t walk you home, so he waits until you’re dismissed just to say goodbye properly before heading to practice.
★ College bf!Katsuki who sometimes asks you to wait for him until practice is over. Usually, you’ll sit on a nearby bench doing your school or watching the team scrimmage. And during water breaks, he’ll jog over and sit beside you under the excuse of taking a drink— where he purposely left his water bottle with you just so he could come over.
★ College bf!Katsuki who tutors you in the subjects you’re not good at. It’s common knowledge that Katsuki is incredibly smart, constantly ranking in the top three of the engineering department. Although, what’s surprising is how good he is at teaching. He’ll take you back to his dorm and patiently teach you through every problem until you understand it. He’ll then leave you completely flustered when he compliments you every now and then— “good girl.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who takes you out to your favorite diners whenever you ace a major quiz or an exam, saying it’s a celebration for surviving and studying hard. And if you try to tell him he doesn’t have to “reward” you every time, he’ll just brush it off and say you earned it.
★ College bf!Katsuki who sometimes sits in on your classes whenever he has free time. He’s not there to disrupt the class or distract you from learning— he just sits beside you, quietly working on his own assignments or projects.
★ College bf!Katsuki who knows your entire schedule by heart even though you never gave him a copy of it. He just memorized it after walking you to class so many times. So whenever he hears that one of your professors canceled a lecture, he’ll immediately text you to ‘meet me at the spot.’
★ College bf!Katsuki who takes you to every one of his soccer matches. He insists that you wear his away-jersey and makes sure you sit near his team’s bench. And before every match officially begins, he’ll come over to collect what he calls his “good luck kiss.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who also takes you to every after-party whenever his team wins. He stays by your side most of the night, but if you insist on him having fun with his friends, he’ll make sure you’re always within his line of sight, making sure you’re safe and enjoying with your girl friends.
★ College bf!Katsuki who always has a black hair tie around his left wrist because you kept forgetting yours. He knows how annoyed you get whenever strands of hair fall into your face while you’re trying to take notes, or when the heat and sweat makes your hair stick to the back of your neck. And just when you start looking for your hair tie, you remember you forgot it again for the nth time. Without fail, Katsuki will give you the one from his wrist.
★ College bf!Katsuki who makes bento boxes for the both of you. The two of you always eat together at your favorite lunch spot. 80% of the time, Katsuki cooks something spicy. At first, you could only handle the milder version of his cooking, but now your spice tolerance is waaay higher. What you don’t know is that he’s been increasing the spice level just a little everyday.
You and Keigo have been best friends for as long as you can remember, so why is he so upset when you say you're going on a date?
Content Warnings: fluff, suggestive, childhood best friends to lovers, college AU, miscommunication, fluff, courting, Keigo acts like a bird, idiots in love, talks of firsts (kisses & loss of virginity), talks of oral (f and m receiving) and sex in general, reader is a little slow, Keigo isn't much better, dialogue heavy, hurt/comfort(?), happy ending
Word Count: 4.2k
A/n: art by @/melwakame on x. No beta reader this time, so if it's shit... just turn a blind eye and forget I ever wrote this 🙂↕️
Keigo Takami has always been a man of many words, always drawing syllables between those pretty lips of his whenever he teases you—those same lips that never once stop moving whenever the two of you are alone.
It’s been like that ever since the two of you were younger. Kindergarten is a scary place for many toddlers, having to be without their parents for multiple hours on end, surrounded by other snotty gremlins for the rest of the day.
Sticky hands were pressed to every surface in the classroom, dirtying the place up. Some of the kids started playing with each other, while others were more reserved.
Keigo wasn’t one of them. No, he wanted to play with other people, finally having the time to actually walk around without being afraid of his father yelling at him. Here he could just be himself, surrounded by other kids. Or so he thought.
Some of the kids were old enough to have gotten their quirks already, showing them off whenever they could with proud smiles on their faces while other kids watched in awe.
But none of them looked at Keigo that way. The boy with the crimson wings and weird markings around his eyes that made him seem more scary to the others than he actually was.
Most of the kids would scurry away when they saw him approach with a small smile on his face, mouth open to ask them if they would want to play together, only for the other kids to tremble in fear and vehemently shake their heads.
It made him sad in all honesty. The fact that a lot of the kids would just interact with others, but not with him, did something complicated to his tiny heart.
Sure, he didn’t have to be scared of his father anymore, but now there was a different issue he didn’t account for—and who could blame him? He’s a child himself, not thinking about how complicated other kids could be—which was people being scared of him.
Neither his mother nor father had warned him about this—about the fact that heteromorphs were looked down upon in society. Why would they warn him about that anyway? His dad is an alcoholic who is on the verge of losing his job while his mother is a stay-at-home mom.
Unfortunately, he’s been thrown into the deep end without any guidance, and his wings seem to be dragging him under much quicker than anticipated.
The excitement he had started to slowly dwindle the more time went on and no one even wanted to sit next to him during class. There were whispers about him from the other kids, ones they thought he couldn’t hear, but his feathers took in every single vibration that came from kids’ throats. While he couldn’t decipher everything, he could decipher enough about the fact that they thought he was scary.
That was how he spent most of his first month in kindergarten—alone, punished to hear every cruel whisper they said about him, and not reacting to it.
But then, one day, came you. The transfer student. There was this cute smile on your face as you waved at all the new faces of your new peers before the teacher had pointed at Keigo and told you to sit next to him.
He was already bracing for impact, waiting for you to shake your head and tell her that you didn’t want to sit next to him—that he was too scary to sit next to. But none of that happened. You just pranced over to him and sat down.
His tiny brain couldn’t compute it, the fact that someone would willingly sit down next to him. As if he hasn’t spent most of his time pouting and staring at other kids’ friendships longingly—which led to dirty looks and them turning their backs toward him.
It’s only when you asked him his name that he finally could function again. His wings puffed up behind him as he looked you over, a shy look that made him take in all of you, before he finally told you his name.
You’d merely smiled at him and told him your own, saying something about becoming the bestest friends in the whole wide world, because sitting next to him meant that the two of you were going to become friends. That’s how that works!!
That was the first time since the start of kindergarten that Keigo smiled again, all of his tiny teeth on display while his eyes crinkled. Oh how lucky he was to have finally found someone who wanted to be his friend.
The smile was quickly wiped off his face when you gasped, though. Eyes widening as you planted one hand on your desk.
He’d stilled, afraid he already did something wrong. His wings trembled uncomfortably behind his back as he noticed other kids staring at the two of you, some already whispering about him—or you for that matter.
Then you leaned forward with a smile so big, it was a wonder it didn’t split your chubby cheeks. There was this certain sparkle in your eyes as you leaned in uncomfortably close, your little eyes looking at his lips.
‘You have sharp teeth!’ you had exclaimed, voice full of excitement. There was this little twitch in your fingers, like you were itching to pull up his lip to examine his teeth yourself.
And it is true that Keigo had sharp canines, something that came with his quirk. It is quite nice that he could just tear through solid foods in an instant, but it also sometimes hurt him. The canines would poke into his lip, drawing some blood out of them. Yeah, he hadn’t fully grown into them yet.
But instead of being afraid of them, you were more fascinated than anything. Fingers still twitching against the desk as you leaned in far too close, your noses almost touching.
Keigo had only blinked at you—a slow blink that you would later point out as well along with a lot of other bird traits he had—before finally nodding his head.
The rest was honestly history.
The two of you got close, much closer than anyone could’ve anticipated. Fingers were always intertwined whenever you’d dragged him somewhere with you, smile on your face as you blabbed on about the thing you just saw and needed for him to see too.
And Keigo? Keigo had just gripped onto your little hand a little tighter, his feathers puffing up behind him as he kept up with you, nodding his tiny head at whatever you were saying, his golden curls bouncing with the motion.
That’s the dynamic between the two of you—you dragging him along with you and him following you wherever you went without so much as a huff.
Soon, he’d forgotten all about other people being scared of him, discriminating against him purely because he has wings and has more bird traits than other winged heteromorphs. All he could think about was you, his best friend.
With those thoughts also came the fact that the two of you trusted each other completely, to the point of having no secrets or so you thought. It was something that was established early on, the fact that the two of you could tell each other everything.
For two children such as yourselves, that meant talking about quirks and their little side effects. This was mostly a topic surrounding Keigo himself, considering he didn’t just get wings but also got some bird traits along with it.
The first one you noticed—aside from the obvious: wings, eye markings, and his sharp canines—was the fact that he reacted strongly to shiny things. His golden eyes always zeroed in on a glint somewhere. Sometimes it was just a little tab from a soda can that lay abandoned on the street, the sun hitting it just right, while other times it was your earrings.
When you’d pointed it out, Keigo had looked away with a faint blush on his face, denying the fact that he was even looking at it. He isn’t that much of a bird! But then it kept happening, and you noticed. Of course you did, you noticed everything about the crimson-winged kid.
You never made fun of him for it; if anything, you started collecting shiny things for him. From soda tabs to shiny coins to little trinkets, all little gifts for him that you presented with a smile on your face.
Keigo just looked at you with those unblinking eyes of his—another bird trait, the fact that he blinks super slow—before he snatched the little thing out of your hand and squeezed you against his body, little arms wrapping around your frame as you just laughed against his skin.
That’s something you haven’t stopped doing—giving him shiny things. Little gifts he keeps in a box under his bed, which you’d found when you were cleaning his room one day.
When you asked him about it, he just shrugged and walked over. Crouching beside you, he wrapped his wing around your shoulder and pulled you into his side. Your head automatically rested itself on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your waist.
“I’ve saved everything you’ve ever given to me, why would I stop now?” he had mumbled into your hair, giving it a faint kiss.
That had warmed your cheeks, the small smile on your face widening as you realised he was serious. Even after sixteen years of friendship, he still collected everything you gave to him, even though most of it was trash.
To this day, he has done that. Little trinkets he has gifted you and vice versa spanning your dorm room. There’s a small cup-holder full of shiny things in your little kitchen; A few red feathers laying on your bed—’So you’ll think of me when I’m gone.’—and, of course, that stupid rock you gave him back when the two of you were six years old.
You’re lying on your bed, practically surrounded by blankets and pillows. They swallow you whole as you lazily type away on your laptop, trying to get this annoying assignment done before tonight.
The door to your dorm opens with a heavy thud, rattling the walls slightly. The sound has your head snap up, just in time to see a grumpy blond walk through the door.
His wings droop behind him, primaries just shy of touching the floor, shoulders sagged as he beelines straight to the bed after kicking the door closed behind him. Shrugging off his backpack, he lets himself fall face-first into the matrass.
“Long day?” you ask, head lazily lolling to the side to watch him kick off his shoes. There’s a faint grumble in response, probably a hum in agreement while also telling you… something.
The next second, two red plumes detach themselves from his wings. They hover in the air before one closes your laptop and the other gently puts it on your desk.
Keigo rolls onto his side, giant wings hanging off the side of the bed, before he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself be dragged into whatever position is needed, ending up on your side as well, before he inches closer and puts his forehead against yours.
Right, okay, really bad day it seems.
Closing your eyes, you just let yourself get lost in the sensation for a little while. Pressing your forehead further into his—something he’s told you he liked you doing—you just let him have a little moment to himself.
While this doesn’t really do anything for you, you know Keigo likes to do this when he feels stressed, or when he needs some reassurance. It’s some kind of bird thing that releases serotonin for him, and who are you to deny him his happy hormones?
It’s something the two of you have done since you were little. The first time he did it startled you, not really knowing exactly what he was doing, and back then neither did he. It was his first time doing it, so he shocked the both of you.
There was a small pause, devoid of anything, before he finally scrambled to apologise, saying he didn’t know what he was doing.
You merely tilted your head—a small habit you picked up from him, yet another bird trait; tilting your head when something peculiar happens—and asked him if it felt right doing it. When he’d shyly nodded his head, golden curls bouncing, you’d just smiled and put your forehead against his.
At first it was stiff, the two of you looking at each other while literally having your foreheads pressed together—and if your mom were to walk in, she’d surely have some questions neither of you could answer—before he finally closed his eyes and let himself lean into you a little more.
You’d kept your eyes open, just looking at the way he relaxed into you. His wings stilled, feathers no longer stiff, shoulders sagging. There was this small exhale of relief that came from his nose, and that’s when you knew it was just a part of his brain telling him this was right, this was okay.
But Keigo isn’t all bird. He still has his human side, and his human side also craves connection. So it doesn’t surprise you when, after a few minutes of having your heads pressed together, he pulls you into his chest, arms circling your waist as he puts his chin on top of your head.
Exhaling, you let your own hands find his back—careful not to touch the base of his wings, a mistake you’ve only made once in your life.
“Feeling better?” you ask him, making yourself more comfortable in his embrace. “Mhmm.”
You smile at that as your eyes start to feel a little heavy. You note the way Keigo has draped one of his wings over you, crimson feathers twitching against your skin, almost as if they’re coaxing you to sleep. And before you know it, your eyes close and sleep takes you under.
Waking up, you blink a few times. You’re still cocooned in the red feathers as Keigo is sleeping soundly beside you, his arms still wrapped around your waist. Glancing outside you note how the sky has significantly darkened, and you’re suddenly wide awake.
Shit. What time is it?
Feeling around the bed blindly, your fingers finally find the smooth screen of your phone. Grabbing it, you look at the time. 7:15 pm. With one new notification staring up at you:
We still on for tonight?
Okay. This is okay, nothing to be freaked out about. You have forty-five minutes to get ready—freshen up, do your hair, and put on a cute outfit, which you’ve thankfully laid out already. You can do this, you can so do this.
Wiggling yourself free from Keigo’s embrace, you nearly make it out of the bed when you hear a sleepy grumble come from the guy.
“Go back to sleep, Kei,” you whisper to the guy, waiting for him to fall back asleep before you finally go to make yourself ready.
You’re in the bathroom when Keigo finally wakes up, his feathers twitching against his back as he listens to you hum some sort of tune under your breath—something you’re aware he would hear if he were awake, but soft enough to not wake him up.
For a second he wonders if you’ll come back to bed, but when he feels the spot next to him is cold, he realises you might’ve been awake for longer than he thought.
Rolling over with a groan, he finally sits up. His hair sticks out in odd directions, a few feathers sleep-mussed, which he immediately straightens, and there’s a small pillow crease on his face.
Rubbing his face, he swings his feet over the edge of the bed before making his way over to you. The harsh light from the bathroom fixture makes him blink a few more times before he can finally focus on you. And when he does, all the air leaves his lungs.
Fuck, you look hot.
All dolled up, having put on a pretty black dress, done your hair and makeup, and are currently putting on a necklace.
“Let me help.” His voice sounds raspy, but you just smile at him. Walking behind you, he gently takes hold of the necklace before clipping it together, letting it rest against your collarbones. “Why are you so dolled up, hmmm?”
Because you don’t look like this that often, most of the time preferring to stay inside with him, watching some sort of movie or series. The last time you got all dressed up was for his birthday, which has been some months already.
Fuck, did he forget the two of you had plans?
“Going on a date,” you casually say as you lean forward, adjusting the necklace slightly.
That makes his mind scramble a little. A date? Did he seriously forget about a date? Fuck. Looking down, he notes how he’s still in the same clothes he went to lectures with—a white hoodie and black sweats. Not very date ready. “When are we supposed to leave?”
That makes you look at him funny through the mirror, watching him with a furrowed brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, with how busy I’ve been these past few days, I must’ve forgotten that we were going out. So how long do I have to get ready?”
“Keigo, you’re not coming with,” you carefully say, turning around to face him now.
Wait, what? “What do you mean? You just said you were going on a date.”
“Yeah, with this guy from my physics class.”
His brain is malfunctioning now, alongside his mouth. Opening and closing a few times, he tries to find the right words, but they just won’t come out.
“I- did I do something wrong?” he asks, stepping a bit closer to you now. His eyes frantically search your face for any signs, but all he can see is confusion. “I know I’ve been quite busy lately, and that I haven’t really spent much time with you, and we constantly keep having different schedules, but if I’ve done anything wrong, please just tell me—”
“Keigo,” you interrupt him. “You’ve done nothing wrong. We always tell each other when someone does something that they don’t like, remember?”
It was a pinky promise the two of you made when you were mere children, little fingers interlocking when the two of you promised you would tell each other when the other did something wrong or something that hurt their feelings.
“Then why are you going out on a date with a guy who isn’t your boyfriend?”
That stops you in your tracks, your fingers uselessly twitching beside your frame as you look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re going out with a stranger when you’re dating someone already.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” you carefully say, taking a small step back from him. Because what is he talking about right now?
“You’re dating me, chickadee.” Desperation creeps into his voice as he looks you over a few times. You only shake your head, brows furrowing even further.
“Why would you even think that, Kei? We’ve never even done things people who date do.” because it’s true, you’ve never even been on a date with the guy. The only times you’ve gone out were for either of your birthdays, and even that could hardly be called a date.
“You tell me you love me almost every single day.”
“Yeah, because I do. You’re my best friend.”
“You sucked me off last month!” he throws his hands up in the air, voice nearly cracking from how loud he says it.
“That was to practice,” you grumble, looking away from his pleading eyes. Those same eyes that are always looking at you, now blinking faster than you’ve ever seen him blink.
“Practice for what?!”
“For when I get a boyfriend!”
“I am your boyfriend!” He exclaims, completely desperate now. His feathers twitch behind his back, like they want to reach out to you, press every word against your skin.
“Since when, Kei. Because last time I remember, neither of us has ever asked the other person out.” Because you surely would remember if that happened, having had a crush on him since… kindergarten.
“I- oh my god. So you’re meaning to tell me when you sat on my face, it was ‘just as friends’; when we took each other’s virginity, it was just as friends; when we were making out last week, it was just as friends?” His voice is getting steadier every time he comes up with new things, and you’re sure he could name ten more things that “just friends” wouldn’t do.
“Well…” when he puts it like that, it does sound a little silly, but it all made sense in your head when the two of you did it. Sure, you’ve thought about the fact that normal best friends wouldn’t do all of this without the ‘benefits’ label behind it, but still!! “Don’t make it sound like that.”
“Sound like what, dove? The fact that we’ve been dating for eleven years already and you’re only now finding it out?” He steps closer to you, wings spreading out a bit as he looks at you in that pretty dress, before they snap shut again, remembering the fact that it wasn’t for him.
“What in the ever-living fuck are you talking about, Keigo?” Seriously, did he hit his head or something?
Thinking back on it, he has flown into a building before, showing off to you and not looking where he was flying. He smacked the window so hard, he chipped his tooth—which he had to get fixed later that same day.
“The gifts, the nesting, the forehead thing, the preening, me showing off my wings to you—you even let me do a free-fall with you in my arms!”
“What about those things?”
“Oh for fucks sake, chickadee,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaling, you can hear him count to five under his breath before he finally looks at you again. Those pretty amber eyes looking you dead in the eye as he says: “I was courting you.”
“I- you- what?” Your brain is malfunctioning, because surely you heard that wrong.
Courting, something birds did to attract their mates. You know that some species showed off their dancing skills while others sung their little lungs out. And then there was the fact that some species gathered things for their mates, and— oh.
You think back on all of the times where Keigo would gift you things. Some of them were shiny things his little magpie brain liked, while others were just normal gifts—plushies, earrings, bracelets.
Then your eyes drift past Keigo, toward the bed, where all those pillows and blankets lay in a comfortable little square. There are a lot of pillows and blankets now that you think about it.
A nest.
Keigo had been nesting and you hadn’t even once realised it. Despite being always there with him.
“You seriously didn’t know? Didn’t even for a second think to look up the meaning behind all of those things” the sound of his voice makes your eyes snap back to his.
“Why would I? You’re you, and you’ve always told me everything about your quirk anyway. And yeah, sure, you’ve told me how close you’d have to be to someone to do the whole forehead press thingy and preening, but you never said anything about courting!”
“That’s because I thought you knew—that you were reciprocating those feelings,” he whispers. One of his hands comes down to your arm, fingers hovering uselessly above your skin before he finally slides it down to where your hand is resting beside your body. Taking it, he starts playing with your fingers—a small habit he’s had since the two of you were kids. “and you’re meaning to tell me you just… did all of those things, without knowing what they meant?”
“Well, duh. They were important to you, so why wouldn’t I let you do them?” Because that’s the thing about Keigo. He has some traits that don’t fully align with yours, but even if you don’t inherently understand them, you always just let him do whatever felt right for him. Whether that be gifting you random objects, or letting him press his forehead against yours because it released happy hormones in his brain, you’d just let him do whatever he felt like.
“I can’t believe I’m in love with a dumbass,” he mumbles, too low for you to catch.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, dove, absolutely nothing,” his fingers finally still as he looks you in the eye. “Now tell me. Do I have to watch my girlfriend of eleven years walk through the door to go out on a date with another man, or can I bring her back to bed and fuck her brains out for even thinking that we were doing all of those things as just friends?”
“Come here, you stupid birdbrain.” You tug on his hands before crashing your lips on his.
You might not have gone on that date you weren’t looking forward to, but you did get dicked down by the most important person in your life. And you’ve gained a boyfriend! (Which you apparently already had for eleven years.)
That’s a win in your books.
A/n: I think this is the most dialogue-heavy fic I've ever written and idk how to feel about it.
No one in the entire world hates Bruce Wayne more than Danny Fenton. Danny has know the guy for almost a decade now and he can honestly say that everyone in gotham are idiots if they think bruce is an airheaded playboy. The guy is an asshole.
Danny moved to gotham after college and used ghost king money to start up an aerospace engineering firm. Its great. He gets to do work he loves and he is his own boss, which gives him the flexibility needed to still deal with ghost shenanigans. When danny got settled he started up a collection for his favorite show 'Gray Ghost', he'd been introduced to it when his dad got the vhs copies thinking they were haunted. He had loved it ever since and finally he had the money and space to get some ultra rare memorabilia.
Unfortunately, someone always beat him to the punch.
Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.
He found a mint conditon poster? Well guess who bought it hours before for three times the asking price?
He bid on a signed copy of one of the scripts? Well guess who outbid him at auction?
Its always fucking bruce. Danny hates that guy. Honestly seethes at him whenever they are at the same event, which happens more often than he'd like. Sam makes sure that danny attends and donates frequently to charities. Charities that Bruce happens to always support as well. And of course the guy cant resist one upping him there too. Always donating at least double whatever Danny does. The little asshole.
And then Bruce takes in a ward. Danny doesnt think its sweet or anything. Its obviously a ploy or something. Sure the way he clearly dotes on the kid is cute, but he clearly doesnt spend that much time with the kid since the guy still finds time to get to Gray Ghost Merch before Danny can. The little shit.
Meanwhile Bruce is juggling being Batman, Brucie Wayne, and now being a guardian to Dick Grayson. On top of that he has to manage around his crush on the one other truly good philanthropic man in gotham that has the same love of corny detective shows as him. Daniel Fenton is on the forefront of scientific discoveries and always gives away money to the most worthy causes. Bruce has tried to talk to the guy at galas but Daniel seems to hate him. Which. Well. Isnt exactly a turn off.
Alfred has been dealing with this soap opera nonsense for far too long and Dick is starting to suspect that Batman might be an idiot actually.
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you. Oh, take me back to the night we met. ~ "the night we met" by lord huron
in which kissing your best friend was never supposed to change anything. unfortunately, it changes everything.
˚♡˚‧⁺༄ cw: explicit sexual content, alcohol, marijuana, friends-with-benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, fear of commitment, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex.
⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩𝜗𝜚 notes: i haven't written anything in a super long time so i hope you guys like it!! pls be kind to me haha...no actually cuz i will cry and then never write again
Jisung’s lips are a little chapped but the taste of him-–like cherry cola and the joint you both shared not even ten minutes ago—is too intoxicating to stop.
Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.
Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.
It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.
“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”
You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.
“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”
“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.
“Why not?”
Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.
“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion.
“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.
Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.
Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You ever thought about it?”
You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained.
“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.
Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.
“Yeah. Have you not?”
“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”
“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”
You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.
But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.
You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.
“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.
Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”
Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”
“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.
You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”
He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.
You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"
A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.
It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.
When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.
"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."
"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.
Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.
His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth.
“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”
Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship.
You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.
“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.
“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.
He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.
You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.
“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”
“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.
“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”
“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”
He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.
“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”
He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”
He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.
“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”
You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?
“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”
“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”
He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.
And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.
The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.
You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.
You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.
“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.
He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."
It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.
He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"
"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."
"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"
You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"
He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."
The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."
He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"
You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."
"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"
You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."
"Was not."
"Were too."
"Was not."
"Were too."
"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.
"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."
You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."
"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.
"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.
"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.
You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.
He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"
You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."
He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"
You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."
You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.
"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"
He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."
A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""
He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.
"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."
He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.
"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."
You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.
"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."
Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.
"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."
You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before.
He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.
You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.
You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.
The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.
You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.
The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"
Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.
"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"
The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.
"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."
"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."
"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."
A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.
You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"
"With no one."
"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"
He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.
"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.
"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"
"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."
"Good."
He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.
"How come?"
He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.
You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"
"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.
"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"
"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"
"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"
He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."
You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."
Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”
“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.
“I am.”
“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”
He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”
Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”
“Is that so bad?”
“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”
“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”
“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”
“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”
That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”
He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.”
He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.
The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.
Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.
A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.
You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.
You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.
“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.
“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.
His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”
“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”
Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”
“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”
“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.
Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”
It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.
“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”
The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.
You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.
You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.
The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.
“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.
“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”
“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."
He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."
"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."
"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"
"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"
You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.
Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"
"That's not what I said!"
"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"
His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.
"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."
"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.
He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."
And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.
The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.
You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.
A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.
Of course it does.
You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.
Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.
“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”
“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”
“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.
“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.
Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”
“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”
You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.
You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.
You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.
You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.
It’s Jisung.
He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.
For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.
You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.
“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”
You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.
“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.
You manage a weak nod.
“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”
You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.
He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.
“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”
You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.
“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”
You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.
You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.
He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.
You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.
“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.
He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Jisung, I—”
“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.
The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.
He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”
Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.
“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”
“So.”
You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.
"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"
He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.
Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.
You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.
You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."
He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.
"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?
A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."
He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."
"I have to."
"Why?"
"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."
"What hurts?"
His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."
"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."
"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."
"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."
"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."
"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."
"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.
"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."
The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.
"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.
"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."
You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.
"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.
He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"You don't even know what that word means."
"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"
"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"
You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.
You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.
"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.
You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.
"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"
You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
And then he's kissing you.
It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.
Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.
He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.
"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.
"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."
You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.
He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.
Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.
He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.
You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.
He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."
You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"Words," he whispers.
The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him.
"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"
It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.
A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.
He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.
He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.
His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."
You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.
He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.
You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.
You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.
When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.
"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.
You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.
He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."
The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.
"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"
"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."
He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"
You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."
"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.
"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.
He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.
"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."
You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.
He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.
You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.
He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.
"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.
"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.
You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.
He understands. He always understands.
He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."
The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.
He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.
You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him
You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.
He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.
"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."
Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.
"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.
There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."
You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.
Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.
He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.
If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.
He waits.
He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.
But you don't stir.
The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.
And that's an answer, too.
He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.
It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.
He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.
Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.
He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.
Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.
— kenma donates to your stream just for you to say his name.
ts!kozume kenma x streamer!f!reader
c: full of fluff!
i have been called unhinged, way too many times on this app because of my random ass ideas and i’m not really complaining.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
love, at its worst, is waiting two hours for your streamer girlfriend to start her live because she decided to nap. love, at its best, is still waiting two hours, dropping ten thousand dollars in twitch donations the second she breathes into the mic, and typing out something so embarrassing that your stock-trader-ceo-gamer pride cracks like a raw egg on hot concrete.
and kenma kozume—beloved boyfriend of the internet’s it girl streamer, sworn enemy of sunlight, permanent sufferer of chronically bent posture—is unfortunately in the latter camp.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the loading screen music starts. your fans (your “little gremlins,” as you call them lovingly) are already flooding the chat, 250k strong, typing at inhuman speeds.
@ ratking97: LETS GOOOOOO
@ frogchair: MOTHER IS HERE
@ yuumama: omg she’s late but she’s pretty so it’s fine
@ thecheeseempire: do i drop out of college to watch this live???
the screen flickers and then you appear. a blur of soft lighting, glossed lips, headphones crooked over your ears, oversized hoodie that could probably house a family of raccoons.
“hi, hi, hi!” you chirp, leaning close to the mic. “sorry i’m late, i, uh… overslept.”
the chat goes feral.
@ rdgnbeertoe: i forgive u
@ shrimpgod: step on me queen
@ milkbottlepop: YOUR HAIR. OH MY GOD.
@ chairfan77: i waited three years in line for taylor swift tickets and this feels more important somehow
kenma is sitting in his own setup, in his own room, watching this unfold with a blank expression that doesn’t match the fact that his heart is sprinting a marathon.
he’s already logged in. his finger is already hovering over the button. he doesn’t even blink before the first donation flies across your screen.
$10,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
i haven’t been this premature since birth.
you blink. mid-sip of water. almost choke.
“oh my—” you clap a hand over your mouth, laughing so hard your chair squeaks. “oh my god. kenma!”
the chat collectively combusts.
@ kingcrab420: PREMATURE??????
@ eggsaladprince: HE DID NOT
@ uwu2: that’s ur man huh. that’s the ceo. okay.
@ toiletseatcover: nah this is true romance
kenma slouches lower in his chair, hoodie swallowing his face. he types nothing. he simply clicks again.
$5,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
hi honey.
“hi honey,” you echo instantly, smile softening despite your attempt to keep it together. “you’re… you’re insane, you know that?”
chat is gleeful, feral.
@ pottedplant: HELLO??? HE JUST DROPPED 15K IN TEN SECONDS
@ ilovebreadsticks: nah he’s down bad. down catastrophic. down cataclysmic.
@ 7elevenhotdog: tell me why i feel single watching this
@ ghostofmywifi: prematurity speedrun any%
“kenma,” you squint at your monitor, “why are you like this? don’t you have stocks to trade? meetings to attend? a corporation to run?”
he doesn’t reply. not in words. only in another click.
$2,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
please say my name i miss you.
you pause, warmth rushing up your neck. “kenma.” you say it gently this time, like handing him a glass of water after running across the desert. “kenma, kenma, kenma.”
the sound of his name in your voice does terrible, wonderful things to him. he buries his face in his hands, groaning like you’ve personally attacked him.
chat is losing their collective minds.
@ taxfraudchamp: DID SHE JUST SAY HIS NAME LIKE IT WAS SACRED???
@ imjustapigeon: bruh if my gf streamed and said my name like that i would literally explode
@ yeehawmilk: kodzuken rn >>>>> romeo montague
@ raccoonwife: HE’S ROLLING ON THE FLOOR I JUST KNOW IT
“you’re ridiculous,” you murmur into the mic, giggling, trying to focus on the actual game you’re supposed to be playing. “ridiculous and—so cute. i love you.”
kenma, who has not physically moved in ten minutes, blinks like you’ve just hacked into his chest and turned his ribcage into an instrument.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
twenty minutes later, you’re mid-match. your concentration face is on, tongue peeking out, brows furrowed just a little. chat is in awe, writing entire novels about your skill and, frankly, your existence.
@ dietcolaangel: ur so pretty when ur focused wtf
@ doginboots: HOW IS SHE THIS GOOD
@ lettuceleaf_: i would pay for her hand in marriage like it’s ebay
kenma, meanwhile, is spiraling. because you’ve said “hi chat” like forty times but you haven’t said his name again. his bloodstream is basically carbonated soda at this point.
so he clicks.
$1,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
hi it’s me again. your boyfriend. remember me? say you remember me.
you burst out laughing mid-shootout, losing the round entirely. “KENMA. i literally just said i love you like—five minutes ago. of course i remember you!”
@ floorboard69: NAH HE’S SO INSECURE 😭😭😭
@ bugjuice: “remember me” HE ACTS LIKE HE DIED IN WW1
@ cucumberking: we are witnessing devotion on a spiritual level
@ lilypadfairy: i want someone to miss me like this
kenma groans into his sleeves. his ears are pink. you’re glowing on screen, laughing like you have the whole world in your throat, and he thinks maybe he actually would sell the company if it meant keeping you happy forever.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after a while, you switch to just chatting, leaning on your desk, chin in your hand.
“okay, okay,” you say, scrolling through chat. “who wants storytime?”
chat erupts.
@ beanstalkbaby: MEEEEEEE
@ fishinthebucket: MOTHER TELL US A TALE
@ wifebeaterbottle: YESSSSSS
you smile, and kenma is done for. utterly, irreversibly ruined. because you’re telling some silly story about how your toaster almost set fire to your kitchen this morning, and you’re so animated, so bright, and everyone is in love with you.
he knows you love him. you say it all the time. but watching thousands of strangers adore you too? it lights something sharp in his chest. not jealousy. more like a fever. like he wants to carve his initials into your laugh so no one forgets it belongs to him.
so he types again.
$3,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
i’ll buy you ten new toasters if you say my name again.
“oh my god,” you laugh, covering your face with your hands. “kenma, i don’t need ten toasters. i need… one toaster. just one.” you peek at the camera, eyes soft. “kenma.”
he melts. literally melts into his chair. his bones turn to pudding.
chat notices immediately.
@ seaurchinlover: SHE SAID IT AGAINNNN
@ pencilpusher22: man’s addicted to hearing his own name 😭
@ slayturtle: he’s like a cat who meows until u call him cute
@ smellysock: this is the healthiest parasocial relationship i’ve ever seen
“you’re so dramatic,” you murmur, shaking your head. “but i love you.”
kenma’s throat goes dry. he whispers at his monitor, like you can hear him through sheer force of will: i love you more.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the stream lasts another hour. you’re radiant the whole time, effortless, unbothered, while kenma hemorrhages money just for crumbs of your affection.
by the time you end it, the donation total from him alone is nearing twenty-five thousand. chat is unwell.
@ firehydrantfan: 25K??? FOR AFFECTION??? I NEED TO DATE A STREAMER
@ bugdust: this is what love looks like huh
@ treefrog: kodzuken is either insane or the blueprint
@ eggrolls: nah he’s insane and the blueprint
you yawn into the mic. “alright, i think that’s it for me tonight. thanks for hanging out, gremlins. kenma, thanks for, uh… your… really dramatic donations. i’m literally going to bonk you when i see you.”
chat screams.
@ picklejuicequeen: BONK HIM???
@ sleepdeprivedowl: THATS FOREPLAY
@ dustmite: ma’am we are in the room
@ toelicker69: heh, kinky
you blow a kiss at the camera, all glittering eyes and tired smile. “love you guys. love you, kenma. goodnight!”
the stream ends.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kenma doesn’t move for a long moment. the silence is loud, like his ears are still ringing from the sound of your voice. then, slowly, he pulls his hoodie over his head, face burning.
his phone buzzes. it’s you.
future wife: you’re ridiculous.
future wife: also, come over. i want to kiss you until you stop acting like my sugar daddy.
future wife: (thank you though. i love you.)
kenma stares. then slumps forward, forehead against his desk, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he comes to you. hoodie, headphones still hanging around his neck, soft hair falling in his eyes. he knocks like he’s got no patience for doors.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
“kenma,” you beam when you open up, hair still smelling faintly like your shampoo, skin dewy from your skincare routine, hoodie sleeves sliding down your wrists. you’re so unfair it hurts. “hi.”
he doesn’t even say hi back. he just drops his bag by the door and shuffles in, like a cat making itself at home in someone else’s living room.
you close the door behind him, amused. “what’s wrong with you?”
he stops in the middle of your living room, turns slowly, and looks at you with eyes half-lidded, pout carved into his mouth like it’s permanent.
“you didn’t pay enough attention to me.”
you blink. then laugh. “excuse me? ken, you practically bought my whole stream tonight.”
his brows knit together. “didn’t work. chat got… everything. i got, like… a crumb. a molecule. an atom. the kind of portion size they’d give in a three-star michelin restaurant where the plate’s bigger than the food.”
your laughter doubles, sweet and fond. “oh, baby,” you coo, crossing the room to cup his face in your hands. “are you jealous of chat?”
he doesn’t answer, but the way his cheeks warm under your touch is answer enough.
so you kiss him.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a peck on his lips, soft and brief. then one to his forehead. one to his nose. both cheeks. then another to his lips, just because.
he blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering like he’s trying not to show how much he needs it.
“better?” you tease.
kenma shakes his head immediately. “not even close.”
so you go again. kisses like raindrops: on his jaw, down his throat, over his temples, eyelids, the little crease of his smile. every patch of skin you can reach, you cover in affection until he’s sighing like an overworked office drone sinking into a hot spring.
“you’re so needy,” you whisper against his skin, but your grin is soft, indulgent.
“don’t care,” he mumbles back, voice thick, hands sliding to your waist to hold you in place. “want more. want… all of you. more than chat. more than everyone.”
“oh, baby,” you coo, peppering kisses over his face like you’re stamping him with a love-brand. “you already have all of me.”
“say it again.” his voice cracks, barely a whisper, like he needs it to live.
you pause between kisses, lips brushing his cheek. “you already have all of me, kenma. every single part.”
he exhales shakily, like you’ve pulled a thorn out of his chest.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you don’t stop. you don’t let him go. your kisses turn relentless, ridiculous, like a child armed with stickers covering a notebook page until no white space remains. kisses to his ears, down his neck, across his collarbone through the fabric of his hoodie. he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting you do whatever you want because he trusts you with everything he is.
his voice goes soft, almost slurred with warmth. “feels like… i can’t hold it. like my chest’s too full. you’re—” he swallows. “you’re everywhere.”
“good,” you hum, brushing your lips over his jaw. “that’s exactly what i want. i want to be everywhere for you.”
his arms tighten around your waist, holding you like you’re his anchor. “you are. you already are. you don’t even know—”
and then you kiss him properly.
slow at first, lips slotting against his like puzzle pieces, coaxing him open. then deeper, like you’re pouring all the affection he’s been begging for into his mouth. he sighs into it, sound vibrating against your tongue when you slip it past his lips, gentle but deliberate.
he kisses back clumsily, almost desperately, like someone who’s been parched for years finally given water. his fingers dig into your waist, your hoodie bunched in his hands, keeping you so close there’s no space left between you.
when you finally pull back, he’s flushed to the tips of his ears, lips pink and swollen, eyes hazy like he’s been spun around too many times.
“enough attention now?” you murmur, brushing your nose against his.
he stares at you, dazed. then shakes his head once, stubborn. “…need more later.”
you laugh, breathless, and kiss him again.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: ok i’m gonna sleep, i have 5 hours. i’m so nervous !! i spoil the pretty people way too much
will you tell me once again (how we're gonna be just friends?)
brothersbestfriend!yunho x reader ⭑
living across the hall from your annoying older brother and his three roommates was never a part of your plan—especially when one of them is jeong yunho, your long-forgotten childhood crush you haven't seen in years.
tags: fluff, hongjoong is your big brother, financebro!yunho, friends to lovers, roommates, afab!reader, slow burn, slice-of-life, humor
wc: 12.2k
playlist: hang with me - robyn ☆ still here - ateez ☆ apple pie - lizzy mcalpine ☆ wow - fickle friends ☆ the bitch is back - elton john
a/n: this is inspired by new girl (tv show) / the siu siblings / off-campus. i always wanted to write about roommates ateez for my first tumblr fic ! comments and reblogs are appreciated! proofread as of 07/27/26 ｡𖦹°‧
masterlist
I. “ARE YOU EVEN PUSHING?”
You grunt as you shove the other end of the giant cardboard box containing your very unassembled couch through the doorway of your apartment.
“Dude, I am pushing.” Hana complains, holding the other end. “This thing is bigger than both of us combined.”
With one final heave, the box slides across the hardwood floor before coming to a stop in the middle of the still-empty living room.
“One more piece of furniture and I’m never moving again,” You say as you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.
“You said that after the dining table.”
“I mean it this time.”
Before either of you can catch your breath, loud voices echo down the hallway.
“Incoming!” Hongjoong appears in the doorway carrying two moving boxes stacked to his chin and half his height, San trailing behind him with another three balanced like they weigh absolutely nothing. Mingi brings up the rear, dragging a suitcase that definitely has wheels.
“You know,” Mingi says between exaggerated sighs, “people usually hire movers.”
“Why would we need to pay extra when we have our big brother and his even bigger friends?”
Hongjoong ignores your sister, setting the boxes down before pulling a box cutter out of his pocket.
“Mom and Dad stopped by their friend’s place,” he says, “They’ll come back later to help.”
“I think they’re just excited to be empty nesters.”
“Empty nesters?” you scoff. “They’re free. We’re the ones stuck living across from this gremlin,” you point at Hongjoong who gasps dramatically.
“This,” he says, placing a hand over his heart. “is how you thank your amazing, handsome, hardworking older brother who found you a two-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles that is not only close to your office but also thirty minutes from Hana’s university?”
“You barely did shit, you forced us to live here,” Hana scoffs. She and Hongjoong continue to bicker as they go through your boxes, getting a head start in unpacking.
The plan had been simple: stay in Seoul, climb the corporate ladder at the marketing firm that hired you fresh out of college, and eventually, build a life there.
Except, two years later, you’d burned out spectacularly. You’d say that staying close to Hana while she started university was an excuse to move back home when actually you couldn’t stay at the firm any longer before you started ripping your brains out.
Hongjoong, being Hongjoong, had taken that as a personal challenge to find an apartment for both of you. His standards, unfortunately, were less about amenities and more about distance.
“I can literally see your front door from ours,” he’d proudly announced over FaceTime after sending you the listing.
You couldn’t say no, not when it had been too long since the three of you lived in the same space again. The rent was also within your budget, and it was convenient, despite having to live close to an annoying big brother.
“I deserve compensation,” Mingi sets himself on the floor with a groan as he hands San an Allen wrench for your couch.
“You got breakfast,” Hongjoong replies.
“I deserve financial compensation.”
“You barely did anything.”
“I deserve emotional compensation.”
“You need therapy.”
Hana lets out a snicker beside you. “They’re exactly how you described them, Joong.”
“They’ve somehow gotten worse.”
“Hey! I heard that!”
As the bickering continued, you finally let out of your thoughts and began peeling away the packing tape of the box labeled ‘KITCHEN'.
Maybe moving back hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.
The apartment was small but cozy. Afternoon sunlight poured through the wide living room windows, warming the hardwood floors.
Although you’d have to live directly across the hall from your insufferable older brother, you actually could see yourself living here.
Hongjoong had warned you that you wouldn't just be gaining a neighbor, you’d be inheriting his roommates, too.
San and Mingi were Hongjoong’s closest college friends. You’d met them before, loud voices in the background while you had your weekly siblings FaceTime. San was exactly like the gentle giant that Hongjoong had described while Mingi was exactly as shameless.
The third roommate was nowhere to be seen. Your brother had mentioned that he was out running an errand and would stop by afterward to help finish up the rest of your boxes.
So when Hongjoong said there was a third roommate, in your head, he was just another one of Hongjoong’s friends. You haven’t bothered to ask who it was yet, since you were busy with moving in from Seoul.
“Sorry,” a familiar voice called from the hall. “The line downstairs was ridiculous.”
Another figure stepped into your apartment.
You haven't seen Jeong Yunho in years.
The paper bags in his hands crinkled as he adjusted his grip, his eyes widening ever so slightly in surprise before settling into that same easy smile he always had.
“YN,” he greets you.
Your eyes met. He looked older, yet had the same broad shoulders, same clean haircut, and was still ridiculously tall.
“Yunho-oppa!” Before you could say anything, Hana barreled straight into him.
“Hana! You’re all grown up now!” Yunho barely had time to shift the paper bags to one arm before she threw herself at him, letting out a laugh.
“Yo, where the fuck have you been man?” Mingi asks beside where you stood frozen, watching Yunho and your sister catch up.
“Got coffee, I know how cranky you guys get without it.”
Mingi lets out a sound somewhere between a cheer and a sigh of relief and steals the bag from him.
“I forgive you.” He disappears into your kitchen, already handing out drinks like he owns the place.
It’s Hongjoong’s turn to greet Yunho now, peeling Hana off him so he could stand up properly.
“Alright, alright. Let him breathe.”
Hongjoong moves his gaze over to you, as if only just remembering.
He gestures lazily toward Yunho.
“I totally forgot to tell you he moved back in.”
Your brows knit together. You’d assume he was only around to visit.
“Moved back in?”
“Yeah.” Hongjoong shrugs. “Shit happened, so he took the spare room a few months ago.”
“You know my sister already,” he points to you. “You remember YN, right?”
Yunho’s lips twitch into a small smile.
“Of course I remember. You’re back from Seoul?” His gaze finds yours again.
“Yeah, decided to move back,” you reply.
Yunho nods once.
“Welcome back.”
“Alright,” San calls from the living room carpet, waving his wrench in the air. “You’ve got the rest of the lease to catch up, one of you idiots come help me assemble this couch before I accidentally invent a new piece of furniture. Mingi, what are you doing?”
San’s plea was met with a chorus of groans from your brother and Mingi.
“I’m already doing the bookshelves,” Mingi whines from the kitchen, sticking a straw through his coffee.
“You’ve been looking at the bookshelves,” Hongjoong shot back. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is if I look hard enough.”
With a dramatic sigh, Yunho sets his bag beside the front door and shrugs off his jacket.
“I’ll help.”
“Finally,” San muttered. “Someone competent.”
You quietly slipped back into the kitchen, pretending the kitchen boxes urgently needed your attention. It was strange seeing Yunho again after all these years. Stranger still was the tiny flutter in your chest. You hadn't thought about your old crush on Yunho in years. Seeing him again, however, seemed determined to remind you.
Yunho and San were kneeling beside the couch, arguing over which piece was labeled “B.”.
“It says B.”
“It says eight.”
“It’s literally a letter.”
“Not from here it isn’t.”
You smiled despite yourself. Hana, who you just noticed has been beside you all this time, catches it immediately, choosing not to say anything but smiles mischievously.
“What now?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at her.
“You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you used to have in middle school.”
“I’m smiling because San thinks the alphabet ends at seven,” you defend, tearing your eyes away from your neighbors.
Hana hums, “if you say so.”
Before you could ask her what she meant, Hongjoong calls your name from the living room.
“What?”
“Can you settle something?”
You walked over, grateful for the distraction.
“What now?”
“San says the couch should face the window.”
“Then won’t it be awkward watching TV?”
“That’s what I said!” Hongjoong exclaims.
“Why are you listening to her?” San grumbles.
“I live here,” you replied the same time Hongjoong says, “She’s my sister.”
As Hongjoong and San shuffled your TV across the room, you stepped around scattered boxes, only to bump into someone coming the other way.
"Oh—"
A warm hand steadied your elbow before you could lose your balance.
"Careful."
Yunho.
His hand disappeared almost as quickly as it had landed.
"Sorry," you said at the exact same time.
You paused. Then, somehow, you both laughed. It was the first genuine sound either of you had made to each other all afternoon.
In the chaos of moving boxes and misplaced screws, no one noticed Yunho's eyes follow you as you stepped around the clutter after you had regained your balance. Years hadn't changed one thing, you were still just as clumsy as he remembered. He shook his head with an amused smile before reaching for another box, acting as though he'd been looking at the couch the entire time.
When you looked up, Yunho was looking towards your way. Not intensely. Not long enough for anyone to notice, before he gives you a small smile and goes back to what he was doing.
You’d only been living here for an hour. Maybe moving to Los Angeles wasn’t going to be as simple as you’d hoped.
II. IF THERE WAS ONE THING YOUR BROTHER WAS EXCEPTIONALLY GOOD AT,
it was coming home with extra mouths to feed.
The first time it happened, you were eight.
You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, notebook in hand, as you drew.
You barely looked up when Hongjoong burst through the front door yelling that he was home—until you heard another pair of footsteps behind him.
The boy standing in the doorway was tall for his age, clutching the straps of his backpack like he wasn't sure he was allowed to be there.
"Mom, I brought Yunho."
Your mother welcomed him inside before Hongjoong dragged him upstairs to play, but not before he caught your eye.
"Hi, YN!" he greeted with an easy smile.
You gave a timid wave from behind your notebook.
For reasons your eight-year-old self couldn't explain, you hoped Hongjoong would bring him over again.
He did.
After that, Jeong Yunho somehow became a permanent fixture in your house.
Whenever Hongjoong came home from baseball practice, Yunho was usually right beside him. He stayed for dinner often enough that your mother stopped asking if he'd be joining. Weekend sleepovers turned into blanket forts upstairs, afternoons at the park became bike rides home together, and before long, he'd somehow become part of your family too.
Unlike Hongjoong, who insisted your drawings looked "weird," Yunho always asked to see whatever you'd been working on. He'd sit beside you on the floor flipping through your sketchbook with genuine interest, tell you your art was cool, and remind you to keep drawing whenever you doubted yourself. If Hongjoong stole the last snack your parents left out, Yunho somehow always made sure you still got half.
Looking back, it was probably inevitable.
Your first crush didn't happen because of one grand moment.
It happened quietly, over hundreds of ordinary ones.
Growing up changed things.
By the time you started high school, Hongjoong and Yunho were on the varsity baseball team. Practices ran later, tournaments filled their weekends, and conversations that used to revolve around cartoons and video games slowly shifted toward college applications, baseball, and whichever girl had slipped a note into Yunho's locker that week.
You had your own friends by then. Your own clubs. Your own life.
Without anyone really noticing, the afternoons you spent with them became fewer and farther between.
Somewhere along the way, your childish crush quietly tucked itself away, becoming one of those things you only remembered when someone brought up middle school.
It wasn't anyone's fault. Life simply got busier. You had your own friends now, your own clubs after school, your own homework that seemed to multiply overnight. Some days Yunho would still come over for dinner, other days you'd only catch glimpses of him as he and Hongjoong disappeared upstairs, laughing about something that happened at practice.
Life scattered all three of you in different directions after that.
Hongjoong left for college first.
Then Yunho.
A few years later, you left for Seoul.
By the time you moved back to Los Angeles, Jeong Yunho had become someone you mostly heard about through your brother's stories—a familiar name attached to someone who no longer felt like part of your everyday life.
III. “I KEEP TELLING YOU, STOP EATING OUR FOOD.”
Hana screams at your brother, who was currently rummaging through your cabinets.
It’s been a week since you moved in, and today was your first day at work, while it was Hana’s first day of freshman year.
The dynamic hadn’t always been like this. For the first couple of days, you and Hana mostly stayed at the apartment, trying to feel more at home. Hongjoong would pop in every now and then and made sure you were adjusting well, even cooking dinner for the three of you in your new kitchen. You barely saw his roommates as Hongjoong said they were waiting for you to get accustomed to living at the apartment before they could start hanging out with you.
Naturally, that lasted all of four days.
First, it was San, who wanted to borrow your clothes steamer since his broke. Then, it was Mingi, who only really came over to check out the snacks you had just bought at the grocery that day. Hongjoong had stopped pretending he knocked before entering. Sometimes you’d regret giving him the door code because whenever you came home from running errands he was already lounging at his designated spot on the couch, eating chips with Mingi.
The only one who never seemed to invite himself over was Yunho. You’d catch him in passing every now and then. Sometimes he’d stop by with Hongjoong after work to ask how unpacking was going.Sometimes you’d exchange a few words in the hallway. Like nothing has changed.
“Don’t you boys have food over at yours?” Hana continues her rant, while Hongjoong makes himself a sandwich.
To be fair, he'd shown up with coffee for both of you, reminded Hana three separate times not to forget her student ID, and insisted on checking whether you'd packed lunch. So maybe he was entitled to one sandwich.
You had just finished getting ready, making sure that your clothes were neat and your makeup looked good. You were just about to leave before Hongjoong and Hana started bickering.
Hana’s first class didn’t start until 10, which is why you were leaving an hour earlier than she has to. Hongjoong, on the other hand, had an irregular work schedule which comes with his assistant directing job, which meant he was there early to terrorize you.
Hongjoong looked over at you.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving by now?”
“I’m literally leaving,” you say, slipping your shoes on. “Try not to burn the apartment down.”
“No promises!” you hear as you close your front door, the melodic chiming of the door lock filling the empty hallway.
You round the corner to the elevators and find Yunho already waiting, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Hey,” he greets you. “First day today?”
It suddenly occurred to you that unlike the others, Yunho also worked a regular nine-to-five. Hongjoong had mentioned he was in finance, which meant the two of you would probably be leaving for work around the same time every morning.
You nodded, shifting the strap of your work bag higher on your shoulder.
“Yeah. New office, new team.” You smiled sheepishly. “Trying not to embarrass myself on day one.”
"You won't."
The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard.
Yunho glanced at you before looking back at the elevator doors.
"You're good at what you do."
For a moment, all you could do was stare.
"How do you know that?"
He shrugged, almost as if the answer was obvious.
"Hongjoong talks."
You let out a laugh. "He does?"
"All the time."
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open. He lets you go in first, before stepping in and standing beside you, facing the doors.
The elevator’s empty, save for the both of you. There’s an awkward pause, the both of you trying to think of ways to fill the space.
“So how was Seoul? We never really got to catch up after we left for college,” he asks, while you watch the numbers on the wall go down. You guess this was how he decided to break the silence, straight into it.
“Um,” you hover. “It was a lot.” you let out a chuckle.
“A lot good?”
“A lot everything.” you reply. “I mean, the job was great, I learned a lot from my seniors and it was great being in a new environment, but it really does take a lot out of you. So when we found out Hana got accepted to college here, I decided to apply for a job in L.A.”
The doors open again, this time a middle-aged woman pushing a stroller steps in, standing in front of both of you. But Yunho decides to keep talking.
“You know, I was surprised when Joong told us you were moving back.”
“You were?”
“I thought you liked it there.”
“I did.”
He looked at you then, eyebrows knitting together. The baby in the stroller lets out a small whine.
“I also liked sleeping.”
That earned a laugh.
“It just felt like time,” you added. He gives you a nod at that.
“I get that.”
The elevators slide open. You both get out then, muttering a polite “excuse me”, as you step around the woman and her baby while the both of you get out to the parking.
“I was also surprised you were Hongjoong’s roommate again. He told me before you moved out like a year ago,” you say, as you walked toward the parking lot.
He rubs the back of his neck, “Ah. Yeah. Things didn’t work out where I was staying so I decided to move back.”
You nod.
You stop in front of your car, unlocking it with your keys.
“This is me. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, of course. Good luck today, YN,” Yunho smiles again, and you clutch at your keys a little harder.
“You too.”
He waves you off before walking to his car a few feet down. When you get in, you look at yourself at your rearview mirror and let out a big huff of air you didn’t know you were holding.
Your first day at the Golden Hour Marketing Firm went surprisingly well. You spent the rest of your 20-minute drive to work, practicing introductions so you wouldn’t shit yourself in front of your new team. Your manager had introduced you warmly, filling you in on your role and showing you around.
By lunchtime, you’d already learned the names of most of your immediate team, survived HR orientation, and only gotten lost twice trying to find the pantry. On your break, Hongjoong sends you a text.
joongie 🐲
baby sis has been sent off and on her way
she insisted i do NOT drop her off, unfortunately
mission complete regardless, boss 🫡
yn 🧚♀️
noted, with thanks
don’t tell me you’re still at our apartment
joongie 🐲
mingi thinks you should change your curtains
yn 🧚♀️
i think mingi should get out of my house
joongie 🐲
too late we’re watching yt on ur tv now
have a great day at work byeeee
yn 🧚♀️
me and hana are changing our door code when we get home
Brand marketing has always been your thing. Growing up, you had a creative side. You were crafty, and always looking for inspiration. But somewhere along the way, that creativity evolved into something more strategic. You found yourself fascinated by what caught people's attention, what made a campaign memorable, and why some brands connected with people while others didn't. Over the years, you worked hard trying to build a career for yourself. You were good at your job.
Seoul had taught you that much.
The pace had been relentless, the expectations impossibly high, and more nights than you cared to admit had been spent asleep at your desk rather than in your apartment. But it had also shaped you into the person you were today.
Moving back to Los Angeles didn't feel like starting over.
It felt like finally giving yourself permission to breathe.
The first thing you noticed when you got home, toeing off your heels by the doorway, was the noise. You'd heard laughter and the clatter of pots and pans before you even unlocked the door.
The moment you stepped inside, Yunho looked up from the counter.
"How was—"
“You’re home!” Hana runs over to give you a hug before Yunho could finish his sentence..
Out of the three of you, she’s always been the most affectionate, giving you kisses on the cheek and hugs every now and then. Hongjoong sometimes acts like he doesn’t like it, but when he picked you up with your boxes when you first moved in, he was the first to hug her.
“How’s your first day?” she asks, still clinging on to you.
“It was great,” you slipped off your heels. “I actually made a work friend today. “
"See?"
Hana grinned.
"I told you."
You looked around.
San was stirring something on your stove while Hongjoong tosses vegetables in a bowl. Mingi, as you expected, is sitting on your couch, watching some kind of documentary.
You last notice Yunho standing right by the kitchen, looking like he had just gotten home as well. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, his suit jacket slung over one arm, and his work bag sits abandoned by Mingi's feet.
“Why are these people in our apartment?” you say as Hana lets you go.
“Dinner party!” San announced.
“Hyung and I wanted to cook you guys dinner to celebrate your first day.” He points to Hongjoong.
“We’re celebrating!”
“You, how was your first day? Meet anyone new?” you ask her.
“Eh, it was okay. My classes are cool though. Some guy in my class asked me for my number,” she shrugged.
“What.” Hongjoong freezes, gripping the bowl.
“You didn’t tell me that earlier!” Hongjoong crosses his arms.
Hana huffs in annoyance. “Because I knew you’d act like this.”
“Did you say no?”
“I gave him my Instagram instead.”
“You WHAT?” A couple of decibels higher and San would have to physically hold Hongjoong back.
“My dear big brother, I’m eighteen,” Hana whines, “let me live.”
“You can start living once you're forty-five.”
The argument continued without either of them expecting to win. Yunho shook his head with a quiet laugh as he reached over to take the bowl from Hongjoong before he accidentally crushed the lettuce in his grip.
“She is eighteen, Joong.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m encouraging you to breathe.”
“Need any help?” you ask, as you walk over to the kitchen.
“We’re good, you can sit over by Mingi and relax. It was your first day,” San says, pointing over to where Mingi was sitting.
“I’d rather not, he’s watching something weird. I think it’s a documentary about Bigfoot.”
The three of you, while your siblings chase each other in the background, talk about your days. You learn that San works from home in a tech company, and Yunho got home around five minutes before you did.
In the middle of your conversation, you felt a gentle hand brush your shoulder. You turned just in time to see Yunho lifting the strap of your work bag off your shoulder before setting it on one of the dining chairs. You hadn’t even realized you still had it on you.
“You’ve been carrying it this whole time,” he said simply before returning to the cutting board.
“Thanks, I didn’t even notice,” you muttered.
“No problem.” He turned back to the cutting board as if it hadn't been worth mentioning.
You reached for one of the bowls in the cabinet, clearing your throat before calling out for Mingi.
“Hey Bigfoot! Come set the table with me.”
Dinner ended up being louder than the cooking. Mostly because Hongjoong refused to let Hana tell the story about the guy from her class without interrupting every five seconds. Your conversations drifted from work to college to Hongjoong’s latest nightmare of a film set. You exchanged laughs every now and then, at one point, Mingi spilling on himself. By the time dinner was over, the sun had disappeared beyond the apartment windows.
You offered to wash the dishes since the boys had cooked. As you carry a stack of plates in your arms, Yunho strides in beside you without a word, carrying the rest of the dishes with his sleeves rolled up.
You settled into a comfortable rhythm—you washed while he rinsed.
“Hana seems like she’s adjusting pretty well,” Yunho breaks the silence.
Across the room, Hana, Hongjoong, San, and Mingi had abandoned the dining table in favor of the coffee table, where an Uno game had quickly turned into a shouting match.
(“THE RULES WHERE I PLAYED IS YOU CAN ONLY PUT DOWN DRAW FOUR IT ONLY IF THERE’S ALREADY A DRAW FOUR CARD.”
“I DON’T CARE. DRAW SIX .”
“Both of you shut up. Hongjoong, draw six,” San says.)
You smile to yourself, handing him another plate. “Yeah. I was worried she’d have a hard time moving to a new city. But she’s always been brave. And I think she just really missed her big brother.”
“She missed you too, you know,” Yunho said after a beat.
“Hmm?” you glanced up.
“When Hongjoong and I came back home to visit, she always talked about you.” Yunho said, setting another plate on the drying rack. “Every summer she’d try to convince Hongjoong to take her to Seoul.”
“She never told me that.”
“Hongjoong probably missed you two the most, though. The first night you guys moved in? I walked into the apartment to look for him and found him sitting on your couch after you guys went to bed.”
“I thought he had already gone back to yours?"
“Nope. I asked him and he said he was standing guard in case someone tried to break in,” he laughed.
“That’s stupid, the only people breaking into this apartment are him and Mingi.”
There’s another comfortable silence.
“Hey, YN?”
"Hmm?"
“We may act like a bunch of old idiots,“ He nodded toward the living room, where Hongjoong was accusing San of cheating at Uno.
“But if you ever need anything, you know can always come over, right? And to me, I've known you for years.”
Something in your chest softened.
"I know. Thanks, Yunho."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The water continued running between your hands as another plate passed from you to him.
Somehow, standing here with him felt... easy.
Not because the awkwardness had disappeared.
It hadn't.
But because, for the first time since moving back, you weren't trying so hard to fill every silence between you.
Some silences, it turned out, didn't need filling at all.
IV. EVERY MORNING, AROUND 8:15, YOU LEAVE YOUR APARTMENT.
Every morning, around 8:15, Yunho is somehow already waiting for the elevator.
The first couple of days, you assume it’s a coincidence. By Thursday, you’re not so sure.
Sometimes he’s already waiting. Sometimes he steps out of his apartment just as you lock yours. On Thursday morning, Yunho is waiting with two paper cups of coffee.
“San got a new coffee machine,” he says, handing you one. “He made too much.”
You eye the cup, taking it anyway. “Tell San thanks.”
“I will.”
As the elevator arrives, you miss the tiny smile that pulls at the corner of Yunho’s mouth.
The rest of the weeks go by like this:
You’d find Yunho waiting by the elevator, always with a second cup of coffee for you. The elevator rides became longer conversations, mostly about his roommates’ latest antics and the office romance brewing between two heads of your department.
You’d walk over to your cars side-by-side. On the drive to work, sometimes you’d catch Yunho’s car beside you at a stoplight, letting out two beeps, lifting two fingers from the steering wheel in a lazy salute before the light turned green.
You’d gotten close with your brothers’ other roommates too. As much as you hate to admit.
San had also started treating your apartment like a second home. Sometimes he'd stop by just to water Hana's plants while the two of you were out, claiming, "You'd be surprised how many people accidentally kill succulents."
Mingi, in particular, only ever texted you when he needed rescuing.
The first time it happened, it was barely three weeks after you moved in. Your phone buzzed in the middle of a Saturday morning.
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
yn
yn kim
what do you want
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
sos
yn kim
you’re alive enough to text
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
girl i need ur help
yn kim
???
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
the girl i brought home last night won’t leave
could u come over and pretend ur like my crazy ex or something
yn kim
absolutely not
ask san
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
PLEASE
the boys left to play pickleball
she wants us to have breakfast
yn kim
then get breakfast with her?
mingi jfc it’s 8 in the morning
mingi (hongjoong’s roommate) 🐤
i NEVER have breakfast w my hookups
pls ill buy u boba for a month
yn kim
deal
Ten minutes later, you find yourself standing in front of his apartment, questioning whether this was worth the boba.
The door flew open before you even had a chance to knock.
"I owe you my life."
He stepped aside to let you in before lowering his voice.
"She's in the kitchen."
It happened again.
And then again.
By the fourth time, you no longer asked questions.
You'd simply knock on their apartment, sigh dramatically, and say,
"Where is she?"
Mingi would point toward his room.
"Thank you for your service."
On Friday nights, your group somehow always ended up at the same Korean barbecue place a few blocks away. San and Yunho usually took over the grill while Hongjoong argued that he could cook the meat just as well. Mingi would inevitably declare he was "too full for dessert," only to be the first one ordering boba ten minutes later.
It wasn't long before you met the rest of their circle, too. There was Yeosang and Jongho, San's coworkers who somehow always ended up as the voice of reason; Wooyoung, whose favorite pastime seemed to be irritating San just to get a reaction; and Seonghwa, an old college friend of your brother's who, much to your amusement, was one of the few people capable of making Hongjoong visibly nervous.
Most nights, it was just the six of you, drifting between your apartment and theirs as if there was no real distinction anymore. Someone would inevitably pull a movie from the ever-growing stack Hongjoong had collected over the years, and before long, all six of you would be crammed onto whichever couch had enough space, arguing over what to watch before inevitably settling on something everyone had already seen at least twice.
It was the little things as well, that showed how you all cared for each other like a real family. San and Hongjoong somehow made it their mission to pack yours and Hana's lunches every morning. Mingi, surprisingly, had become self-appointed host of girls' nights, barging into your apartment with face masks, a tub of ice cream, and the announcement that "the boys are pissing me off again."
And then there was Yunho.
It wasn't anything grand. At least, you didn't think so.
He was simply thoughtful.
If your hands were full, he'd take whatever you were carrying without asking. If everyone went out for coffee, yours somehow always ended up paid for. When movie nights stretched past midnight and one of you started nodding off on the couch, he'd throw a blanket over you. You’d seen him do it to San and Mingi once, patting their heads before he settled back in his seat.
You told yourself he was just like that.
So you tried not to think too much about the way you'd occasionally catch him looking at you whenever one of Hongjoong's movies made you cry, or how he always seemed to notice when work had worn you down before you'd even said a word.
Your routine quickly settled into place. Until one Monday, it wasn’t.
You unlocked your car, tossed your bag onto the passenger seat, and turned the key.
Click.
“...No.”
You tried again.
Click.
Your shoulders slumped.
“No, no, no.”
You let your forehead fall against the steering wheel. You were already running late, instead of your usual 8:15, you came rushing out of your apartment by 8:30, and Yunho, bless his soul, was still waiting by the elevator by the time you arrived.
A car stops by your parking spot, Yunho rolling down his window.
“You okay?”
“My car chose violence this morning.”
He laughed quietly, before sliding out of the driver’s seat and coming to your side. “Can I try?”
You stepped out, handing him the keys.
He slid into the driver’s seat and gave the ignition a try.
Click.
Once.
Twice.
“I think your battery’s dead.”
You groaned.
“Great.”
"Could be worse."
"Could it?"
"You could've found out halfway to work."
"Don't say things like that."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He reached through the open passenger door of your car, grabbing your work bag before picking up the coffee you'd abandoned in the cup holder.
You blinked.
"What are you doing?"
“Good thing your office is right by my route, and I’m also the best person in the world,” he says.
“Pardon?” you ask.
“You’re riding with me. Get in if you want to make it before work.”
“I can just call an Uber."
"You can."
He started walking toward his car.
"Or..."
He held up your bag.
"...you can save forty bucks and let me drive you. Hongjoong would kill me if I left you here to book an Uber."
You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your smile as you climbed in.
"You're unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
He closed the door before walking around to the driver's side.
As he started the engine, he glanced over.
“We’ll call the mechanic during lunch and have Hongjoong meet him. You gave him the spare key, right?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He pulled out of the parking garage.
“But I was going to anyway.”
When you were on the main road, neither of you spoke anymore. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware that you'd never actually been alone with Yunho like this before. Usually there was Hongjoong in the passenger seat, Mingi yelling from the back, or Hana changing the music every thirty seconds.
Sensing the awkwardness in the air, Yunho reached toward the center console.
“You can connect your phone if you want.”
“You sure?”
“As long as you don’t play any Taylor Swift. Mingi likes to sing in the shower.”
You laughed.
“Of course he does.”
You plugged your phone in, scrolling through your playlists before settling on one you’d been listening to on repeat lately.
As the music flows in the car, Yunho taps the steering wheel in time with the music while you look out the window, watching the city blur past.
The rest of the drive slipped by easily.
You talked about work.
About Hana mentioning another guy from one of her classes, nearly giving Hongjoong a heart attack.
About Mingi somehow bringing the same girl over for the third time despite insisting he "wasn't looking for anything serious."
By the time Yunho pulled up outside your office building, you were surprised you’d already arrived.
He shifted the car into park.
“What time do you get off?”
“Six.”
He nodded once.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“You don’t–” he cuts you off.
“Nope, I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“Okay,” you smile.
You clear your throat and reach for the door handle.
“Thanks Yunho. See you later.”
You stepped out of the car, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.
Just as you reached the sidewalk, his window rolled down.
"YN."
You turned.
"I'll see you at six."
By the time six o’clock rolled around, your brain felt like mush.
The first full Monday of campaign planning had consisted of three meetings, two brainstorming sessions, and an alarming amount of coffee.
When Yunho comes to pick you up, you could barely keep your eyes open.
“For YN Kim?” Yunho says as you sit in the passenger seat, in a perfectly practiced customer service voice.
You looked at him.
"...Yes?"
"Destination?"
You deadpanned.
"Home."
He nodded solemnly.
"Excellent choice."
"Driver, I'd also like to request silence."
"Unfortunately, this ride includes complimentary conversation."
You laugh silently as Yunho drives the car back on the road.
“Long day?”
You let out a dramatic sigh.
“You don’t even wanna know. I sat through three meetings that could've been emails.”
He winced sympathetically.
“You can nap for a bit if you want, it’s sushi night at our place. You know how Hana and Joong get when there’s sushi involved.”
“Ugh, I forgot about that. Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Yeah. We’ve got twenty minutes before we get home.” He shrugged. “I’ll wake you up.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him turning the volume down on the console. You said nothing, pretending not to notice.
By the time you got home, Yunho had woken you up with a gentle nudge to your shoulder, and a soft “we’re here” before you could even adjust to your surroundings.
In the middle of dinner, while you were all having different conversations, San’s suddenly looked up from his sushi.
“Yunho, I have a bone to pick with you,” he says seriously, pointing a chopstick at him. You supposed he was feeling tipsy, if not for the soju bottle he split with Mingi.
“That sounds ominous,” Hana says, stealing a piece of salmon from Hongjoong’s plate.
“What did I do?” Yunho asks.
“You finished my coffee beans.”
“...Again?” Hongjoong sighs.
“Again.”
“Wait,” you interrupted. “I thought you always made too much coffee.”
San frowned, “Those are Guatemalan beans, YN. I don’t just make ‘too much’.”
"Then why has Yunho been bringing me coffee every morning?"
Yunho answered before San could.
"I just make an extra cup while I'm there."
You nodded as though that explained everything.
"That makes sense."
"Does it?" Mingi asked around a mouthful of rice.
Yunho shot him a look.
"What?"
"Nothing." Mingi raised both hands in surrender.
Across the table, San quietly met Yunho's eyes.
Yunho looked away first.
Before the silence could linger, Hongjoong reached across the table and stole the last piece of nigiri from Hana's plate.
After that dinner, you found yourself thinking about the coffee more often than you cared to admit.
Every morning Yunho still handed you a cup without fail, and every morning you caught yourself wondering whether he'd actually been making an extra one... or whether he'd been making one specifically for you all along.
It was a dangerous train of thought.
So you stopped letting yourself think about it.
V. ‘THE BITCH IS BACK’ IS PLAYING IN YOUR EARPHONES WHEN YOU PUT THE LAST ROLLER ON YOUR HAIR.
“I’m a bitch, I’m a bitch, oh, the bitch is back…” You sang quietly under your breath, swaying to the music as you leaned closer to the mirror you'd dragged onto the kitchen island. You were currently getting ready in your kitchen, rollers in your hair, and makeup on the counter.
Your coworker, Johnny, had asked you out for an annual marketing forum that your firm sponsored. He didn’t have to, because you were planning on going anyway, but it was nice to get asked out again after a while.
Your dress was laid over the couch as you sat on one of the kitchen stools in your underwear and a robe hanging off your shoulders, because you couldn’t risk getting powder on it before you could even wear it.
You stood up, grabbing the tube of mascara that had rolled onto the floor, singing the rest of the chorus, and swaying along dramatically.
You were so into it that you didn’t notice your front door beeping.
“It’s the way that I move, the things that I do, oh-oh-oh!”
“Oh shit.”
When you turn around, you didn’t expect to see Yunho standing frozen in the doorway. You let out a surprised gasp, tying the strings on your robe. Yunho just saw you in your underwear, and you were acting like an idiot.
He also hadn’t expected anyone to be home. When Hongjoong told him the door code, he was told you would’ve been gone by now.
His eyes met yours and immediately darted somewhere over your shoulder.
“I, uh, sorry. Hongjoong told me you were gone, I came to pick up his hard drive that he left here.”
“Why didn’t he get it himself?” You say, your face flushed. Yunho’s ears had turned red.
Cute, you thought.
“He’s in the middle of editing,” Yunho said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He asked me to grab it since I was already heading out.”
“I think it’s over there." You gestured vaguely towards your coffee table.
“Right.”
Neither of you moved.
Yunho cleared his throat before keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the table as he crossed the room. He found the hard drive almost immediately.
Silence.
You couldn't remember the last time the apartment had felt this small.
He turned to leave before hesitating.
“Hongjoong said you have a work event today?” he asks, while you go back to your seat.
“Yeah, I was supposed to go alone but my coworker, Johnny, asked me to go with him.”
Yunho gave a slow nod.
"Johnny."
"Mm-hmm."
"From work?"
"Creatives."
"Is he nice?"
You let out a small laugh.
"Why are you interviewing me?"
"He's moving kind of fast."
You let out a laugh.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
"No, say it."
Yunho shifted awkwardly, gripping the hard drive a little tighter.
"I'm just saying... asking someone out after a month."
"It's not a date."
"Isn't it?"
You shrugged.
"I don't know. It's a work event."
"Just the two of you?"
"...Yes?"
"So..."
He trailed off.
"That sounds like a date."
“Maybe.”
For the first time since he'd walked in, Yunho genuinely looked stumped.
Like he'd asked himself the same question and didn't have an answer.
He looked away.
"Forget I said anything." You raised an eyebrow.
“Um, I should go,” he says after a beat.
You nod, smiling.
He turns back around with a hand on the knob,”YN?”
“Yeah?”
“You look beautiful by the way.”
Your smile softened.
"I haven't even put the dress on yet."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I know."
Another beat.
"Have fun tonight."
Before you could say anything else, he slipped out the door.
What was that?
When Yunho gets back to his apartment, he makes a beeline for Hongjoong’s door.
He knocks, quite aggressively, three times before letting himself in.
The sight of Hongjoong hunched over his desk and tweaking with the film he’s working on one of his three monitors greets him. Headphones are over his head while he has a hand on his chin.
If he wasn’t working, Yunho might’ve smacked his hard drive on his head.
“Hongjoong.” He shoves his shoulder with the hard drive. Hongjoong flinches before realizing it’s him, and takes his headphones off
“Here,” he grumbles.
“What’s up with you? It took you like five minutes to get back from across the hall.”
Yunho’s supposed to be heading out, but he figures there’s no use anymore, embarrassment clouding his mind and a deep motivation to strangle the man in front of him.
“YN was there, idiot. You told me she’d be gone.”
Hongjoong glances at the clock on his desk, “Oops, I think she said she was leaving at six, not five.”
“Well, I walked in and she was home.” He closes his eyes for a second. “And I might have embarrassed both of us.” He sighs.
“Did you catch her singing along to Elton John? She loves to do that when she gets ready,” Hongjoong says, plugging the hard drive on his computer.
Yunho nods. He decides not to tell him that he caught her in just her underwear and a robe, though. He’d seen how Hongjoong gets over his sisters.
“Did you know she was going on a date?” He asks instead.
“Yeah, some work guy named Johnny.” Hongjoong replies, monotonously.
Hongjoong clicked through his editing timeline before speaking again.
“Is she done getting ready yet? I told her to send me and Hana pictures before she left.” Hongjoong adds. Yunho’s eyebrows quirk up in surprise.
“You’re okay with YN going on a date?” he asks. Just the other day, Hongjoong launched a 5-minute tirade about Hana going to a college party that mostly talked about “NO BOYS”.
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You practically put Hana under house arrest because some guy asked for her Instagram.”
Hongjoong scoffs, “That’s different. Hana is a baby. She enjoys making my blood pressure spike.”
“How is that different?”
“Listen, I know I’m the eldest, but YN spent years taking care of everyone else and raising Hana. All she does is work alongside being a good sister, the least she deserves is to get pretty, go out with a coworker on a date, and have fun,” Hongjoong says with a fond look on his face.
Hongjoong studied him for a second. Then a slow grin spread across his face.
"...Why do you care so much?"
Yunho's head snapped up.
“I don’t. I was just asking.” Hongjoong smirks.
“I’m serious.”
“You know YN doesn’t date much. So I know Johnny isn’t really her type.” Hongjoong leaned back in his chair. “She'd rather spend years getting to know someone than jump into something because they asked.”
“And you know her type?”
“I’ve been her brother for twenty-six years.”
Yunho doesn’t speak a word after, his eyes to the floor.
The date went well. Johnny was easy to be around. Confident, funny, effortlessly sociable. He made conversation with everyone he met, pulled you into group photos, and by the time your workmates migrated to the after-party, he'd somehow convinced half the room onto the dance floor.
You thought it would be enough to distract you from your thoughts and whatever’s going on at home. But you think all Johnny could ever be to you was a friend.
If anything, he’d been thoughtful and easy to talk to. But he wasn’t the problem. The problem was that somewhere over the last few months, you’d grown used to a different kind of kindness. One that was quiet and consistent.
The sort that remembered how you took your coffee, carried your bag without asking, and turned the television down when you looked tired without another word. The kind that would pay attention if you weren’t feeling well, or knew everything about you.
By the time you get home, you realized you hadn't spent the evening getting to know Johnny.
You spent the entire night wondering what it would’ve been like if Yunho had been there instead.
VI. WHEN MONDAY ROLLED AROUND, YOU NOTICED YUNHO HAD CHANGED.
The Monday after you went on a date, he'd ask how your weekend was. When you told him, you don't think Johnny and you could be more than friends, he stifles a grin and nods in understanding.
He still waited for you by the elevator and handed you another cup of coffee without a word.
There was still the coffee (When has it ever stopped?), the elevator conversations, and small smiles you’d throw at each other.
But you also noticed, the line between being neighbors and potentially something more started to blur.
It was subtle at first, a hand on your back when you left the elevator, or instead of separating as soon as you got to your car, he would wait until you closed your car door. But then you noticed he kept making excuses to be close to you, to touch you.
Whenever it was movie night, he’d go as far as shoving Mingi to the other end of the couch just so he could sit next to you.
(“You didn’t have to shove the poor guy,” you whisper as he grabs a handful of the popcorn on your lap.
“He’s fine. He was taking up too much space on the couch.”
“Mingi’s pouting.”
“Shh. Just let me sit next to you.”
“Jeong Yunho!” Mingi shouts, throwing a pillow at him.
By the end of the night, your head, however, had somehow found its way onto Yunho's shoulder.)
After dinners together, he'd linger just enough to fall into step beside you while everyone else walked ahead. Whenever you crossed the street, his fingers would wrap loosely around your wrist—or sometimes your hand.
"Cars," he'd explain every single time.
As if that answered everything.
As if he wasn't still holding your hand long after you'd reached the sidewalk.
Even though Hongjoong had gotten your battery replaced, Yunho started insisting you carpool with him to work. He’d made a pretty good argument, that gas prices were crazy high and it would be better for the environment now if you rode to work together.
He’d open the car door for you, be at your office at six on the dot, and always let you choose a playlist. He’d have a different excuse every day like if you were carrying too many things, or if Hongjoong needed both of you to drop by at the store. You would've said yes regardless.
If your friends noticed, they didn’t say a thing. They watched as you and Yunho cooked dinner together, bumping shoulders and sharing looks that definitely meant that there was something there. When you would get home and start complaining about work, Yunho would drop everything and listen to you.
(“I don’t think they realize we’re still here,” Mingi whispers.
“They’re in their own world at this point, I could set myself on fire and Yunho would still be making heart eyes at her,” San grumbles, watching you and Yunho laugh by the couch.
“Do you think they know?” Hana says.
“Nah. They’re both idiots. And slow. But I’d let them figure it out.”
“Figure out what?” Hongjoong asks as he steps out from the bathroom.
“Nothing.”)
You know things are changing. And as you hate to admit it, the crush you had on him years ago came back and has evolved into something deeper. Whenever he’s close to you, you’re painfully aware of his presence, your heart beats a little bit faster, and you find yourself looking for him in every room you enter.
Almost six months after you moved in, and a little over a month since you and Yunho have settled into dangerous territory, your brother announces he’s been chosen to direct all on his own. Suddenly, you and your friends (except for Hana who’s not only underage but had a late night dance practice that day) end up at a bar after Hongjoong’s celebratory dinner.
“DIRECTOR BABY!” San screams, after taking a shot, and kissing Hongjoong’s cheek, and laughing when he gets pushed away.
You’ve been sitting in a booth for about an hour, when the next round of shots come in. Wooyoung had dragged Mingi with him to the dance floor by the second round, while Yeosang and Jongho sat across from you, whispering to each other. San and Hongjoong were absolutely gone. San had turned red by the first shot, and Hongjoong downed at least five after you learned that Seonghwa wouldn’t be able to come.
It ran in the family though, because you were second to being absolutely gone as well.
“Here,” Yunho came back to your booth with a glass of water and hands it to you.
“Thanks.”
You hadn’t meant to get drunk, but you were celebrating, and then too many shots came and Yunho was so close, you kept thinking of kissing him. So you kept up with the shots and now you feel dizzy, your head spinning. Yunho, being the nicest person ever, stayed completely sober since you arrived.
He put an arm around you when you lean a bit too far to your side. You wish he wasn’t this close because you might actually kiss him this time. You take a sip of the water as you try to focus on your surroundings.
“If you stopped blubbering like an idiot every time Seonghwa talked to you, maybe he would’ve come,” San teases Hongjoong with a matching hiccup.
“He’s so pretty. Did you know he’s so pretty San?” Hongjoong cries, hand reaching out to grab another shot.
“Yep, okay that’s enough,” Yunho says from beside you and dragging the tray of shots away. “All of you are officially cut off.”
You hear groans coming from the two drunk men in front of you but as you turn your head to look at him like this, serious but with an expression of someone who is used to taking care of people and the sharp tick of his jaw, you think fuck, you really like him. And he’s so pretty.
He’s wearing a white button-up shirt with the top three left unbuttonned and dark slacks that highlight his long legs and tiny waist. His hand that’s rubbing along the side of your shoulder is cold from the silver rings on his fingers.
“You’re so pretty,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
“What?” he laughs.
“You’re so pretty, you’ve always been pretty,” you repeat, feeling more confident after all the alcohol has kicked in.
“You really are Hongjoong’s little sister,” he whispers, his wide grin fading into something smaller, the kind that’s only reserved for you. Little sister. You thought with the way he was looking at you, it wouldn’t hurt. But there’s the familiar pang in your chest when you hear it.
Before you could ask him what he meant, Wooyoung and Mingi come back to your booth.
“What am I looking at here?” Wooyoung raises an eyebrow at you and the two friends in front of you. You stop looking at Yunho then, leaning your head back on the couch while your eyes start drifting slowly.
“They’re drunk off their minds. I think it’s time to go home,” Jongho says, pointing to the three of you, with a tone so clear you wouldn’t think he’s had more to drink than you.
You all clear out the booth then, Yeosang and Jongho with their arms on Hongjoong and San, while Wooyoung and Mingi trailed behind. Yunho helped you get to your feet with an arm around your waist and your bag in his hands.
The air is cold when you step outside, and the sidewalk feels gummy as you struggle to stand up. It was early in the morning, you assumed around 3 a.m. You were so out of it, your mind going back to little sister, while the boys around you figure out what to do with the drunk ones.
“Hyung, stop squirming or I’ll call Seonghwa,” Yeosang says, the only other one who was sober, as he tries to get Hongjoong to stand.
“Do. Not. Call. Him.” Hongjoong says in between hiccups, yet doesn’t make any move to stand up straight.
“Yunho, did you bring your car?” Yeosang asks. Yunho nods.
“Okay, I’ll take these guys with me home, could you–“ Yeosang gets cut off.
“I got her.”
“Great, because Hongjoong looks like he’s going to puke any second from now and my car’s right up here so we’ll get going.” Yeosang sighs, as he struggles to lift your brother up.
Mingi and Wooyoung stay behind at the club, something about wanting to dance more.
By the time your brother and the rest get settled in Yeosang’s car, you and Yunho end up alone on the sidewalk.
“Come on, YN, let’s go,” he says, steadying you with an arm.
“It’s okay, I-I can just call an Uber,” you say with conviction, despite the pounding in your head.
“YN, I’m not letting you get into an Uber. My car’s a little bit up the street.”
You wanted to say more, to ask him why he called you that earlier, but your head really hurt and you wanted to get home, so you nod.
“Can you walk?”
“I can.”
You absolutely cannot, and Yunho can tell because he holds you even closer so you don’t fall onto the floor, leading you to his car.
He helps you get into the passenger seat and clicks your seatbelt into place.
As he drives you home, it’s silent. You struggle to keep your eyes open, as you watch Yunho tap on his steering wheel rhythmically. Neither of you speak, had it been a work day, you’d be talking each other's ears off.
When he parks the car in your apartment complex, you wake up when he’s opened your door.
“Hey,” he says softly, “we’re home.”
The elevator ride up is the most daunting thing to ever exist. The alcohol hasn’t worn off, but it pushes you to decide to break the silence anyway.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah?”
You take a deep breath as you hold on to the elevator railing.
“When are you going to stop being so confusing?”
“What are you talking about?”
You sigh, letting the words flow out of you before you could tell your brain to stop.
“You do all these things,” you wave vaguely between the two of you. “You look at me like,” like you’re in love with me. “Then call me Hongjoong’s little sister at the end of the night.”
“YN.”
“I wish you’d stop reminding me whose sister I am.”
He stares at you, speechless.
“Because every time you say it…” Your voice softens. “…I feel stupid for thinking maybe you meant something else.”
“I–”
The elevator dings.
Before he can finish, you hurry out, nearly tripping over your own feet as you make your way down the hallway. You bump your shoulder into the wall once, then again, before finally stopping in front of your apartment.
“Where the fuck are my keys?” you mutter, patting every pocket of your dress in growing frustration just as Yunho catches up beside you.
“You don’t have keys, your door uses a code,” he says.
“Oh.”
When he unlocks the door, you stumble into your room, Yunho following close behind.
“YN, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“God, my feet hurt,” you deflect, tearing off your heels and throwing it in random directions.
Yunho closes the bedroom door behind him.
“YN.”
“Don’t.” you sigh.
“Can you just look at me?”
You shake your head.
“If I look at you, you’re going to explain it away.”
He falls silent.
“Explain what away?” You laugh, but it comes out tired.
“Everything.”
He frowns.
“You keep doing things that make me think…” You stop yourself, rubbing at your face. “Nevermind.”
“No. Finish.”
You finally look up at him.
“You look at me like I’m important.”
His expression flickers.
“Then you call me Hongjoong’s little sister.”
Silence.
“Do you know how unfair that is?”
Yunho opens his mouth, then closes it again.
You continue, “I want to believe that the way you look at me is not how you look at everyone else, but you say things like that, and I don’t know anymore.”
There’s a beat.
“I need to lie down,” you say, while Yunho stood frozen.
You shift and lie down on your bed, closing your eyes. Maybe he’d disappear from your room if you closed your eyes hard enough.
As you try to drift to sleep, you hear Yunho come closer to your bed.
Carefully, he kneels in front of the bed and slips your heels farther underneath it so you won’t trip over them in the morning. He reaches for the throw blanket folded at the foot of your bed, unfolding it gently over you.
"I don't do any of that for everyone," he says quietly. "I don't wake up early just to make coffee for everyone. I don't wait by the elevator hoping I get ten extra minutes with someone. I don't come up with excuses to drive people to work or sit next to them whenever I can." His eyes meet yours, steady this time. "I do those things because they're with you. You don’t even notice how much I look at you, do you?”
Your breath hitches, but you don’t open your eyes.
He sighs. He’d say more, explain things clearly, but he’d rather have you sober before you forget everything he said.
“Good night, YN.”
There’s a pause, and you think he might’ve actually left, when you feel a pair of lips on your forehead.
When Yunho quietly closes your bedroom door behind him, he nearly jumps out of his skin.
Hana is sitting on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, lazily sipping from a glass of water.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Well.”
Yunho presses a hand to his chest.
“Jesus, Hana.”
“I came back from Joongie-oppa’s, they got home a bit earlier than you two.”
“Is he okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, Seonghwa’s coming over to take care of him because he kept whining about him, so I left and came back here to wait for my sister.” There’s a grin on her face. The kind that she’d put on when she was up to no good.
“Imagine my surprise, big brother,” she trails off. “When you two come home, don’t even notice me standing in the kitchen, but disappear into her room in the middle of what appears to be a lover’s quarrel?”
“It wasn’t–“ he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t a lover’s quarrel. It’s complicated.”
She studies him.
“Did she finally say something?”
Yunho doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to because Hana could already tell.
“Huh.” she shakes her head. “So she finally noticed.”
Yunho looks up.
“Noticed what?”
Hana just laughs.
“Nothing.”
She walks past him toward your bedroom with a cup of water and painkillers that were on the coffee table.
“Good luck, big brother.”
She pauses at your door without turning around.
“You’ll figure it out.”
VII. WHEN YOU WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH THE WORST HEADACHE EVER,
you decide that you are never leaving the apartment again.
You remember bits and pieces of last night. You remember taking too many shots, Yunho’s arm around you, Hongjoong calling for Seonghwa, the way Yunho looked at you then called you a little sister. You remember the elevator ride and the forehead kiss he left on you before you drifted away to sleep.
It was a Saturday, so thankfully you didn’t have to see Yunho today. But your mind goes back to everything you said last night and hoped you hadn't scared him off.
You spent the rest of the day on your couch, nursing your hangover with soup you had delivered and reruns playing on your TV.
Hongjoong comes over by the end of your fifth episode, sporting the same headache and squeezes next to you on the couch. Apparently, he’s in the same situation as you.
“Seonghwa,” he sighs, when you ask him what’s up with him. You sit in silence as you two watch TV together.
You’ve been like this for three hours, before Hana comes to intervene.
“What did we learn?” she says, standing in front of the both of you like a military captain with her arms behind her back.
Your brother, wearing sunglasses indoors, raises a weak hand.
“Never mix beer and tequila.”
“Wrong.”
She looks at you.
“To never drink again.”
“Also wrong.”
“The correct answer,” Hana says, “is that none of you are allowed to make decisions after your third shot.”
“What are you talking about? You weren’t there,” Hongjoong grumbles.
“You drunk-dialed Seonghwa so many times he had to come here to take care of you and when he got here you puked all over his slippers,” Hana says without missing a beat. She turns to you.
“And you. You’re sitting here with your hopeless brother instead of dealing with whatever happened with Yunho last night.”
You almost choke on your ice cream.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something happened with you and Yunho?” Hongjoong turns to you.
“No,” you answer a little too quickly. “Yes,” Hana says at the exact same time.
“What does Hana know that I don’t?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m serious. What happened?” He’s using his big brother voice, the kind that made you stop lying, and you sigh.
“I… might’ve asked him to stop being so confusing.”
“Confusing how?”
“He—” You hesitate. “He called me your little sister.”
Hongjoong blinks.
“…That’s it?”
“No, that’s the problem.”
“I don’t get it.”
You set your spoon down.
“He spends all this time with me. He drives me to work, insists on carrying my groceries, steals San’s coffee every morning, practically kicks Mingi off the couch so he can sit next to me…” You gesture helplessly. “Then the moment I think maybe I’m not imagining things, he reminds me I’m just Hongjoong’s little sister.”
He sits with what you say for a moment, nodding.
“Can I say something?”
You shrug, gesturing for him to go on.
“I didn’t see it before but he definitely doesn’t treat us like he treats you. I’ve known Yunho my whole life, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him act the way he acts with you.”
You grip the bowl in your hands.
“He told you that, didn’t he?” he continues. You nod with a sigh.
“What if I just made everything weird?” You ask.
“Did he look uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Then go talk to him.”
“Joong—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been my sister for twenty-six years. I know when you’re overthinking.”
He nudges your knee.
“If Yunho really did something that hurt you, then tell him.”
A beat.
“And if he didn’t…”
He smiles, small and tired.
“Then stop making each other miserable. I know for a fact he’s feeling as bad as you are.”
Hongjoong stands to join Hana, and they each grabbed your hand before it dragging you to your room.
“You’re doing this now,” Hana says.
“What?”
“If you don’t do it now, you’ll spend the whole weekend on the couch and eat your feelings in ice cream.”
Three minutes later, after changing into an oversized sweater and convincing yourself at least seventeen times that this was a terrible idea, you stand in front of your apartment door.
“What if he’s mad at me?”
“Yunho?” Hongjoong lets out an incredulous laugh. “That guy couldn’t stay mad at you if you ran over his foot.”
You take one deep breath and pull the door open before you could think about what to say to him.
To your surprise, Yunho is already standing on the other side, his fist raised mid-knock.
You both freeze.
“Oh.”
“…Hi.”
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“I…” A laugh escapes you, equal parts relieved and disbelieving. “I was actually just about to come over to yours.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You glance back.
Hongjoong and Hana are peeking shamelessly from behind your still-open front door, both giving you enthusiastic thumbs-ups.
You sigh.
“Not here.”
Yunho follows your gaze and immediately understands.
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “Definitely not here.”
The two of you walk to the very end of the hallway, where a large window overlooks the city and a couple of chairs make a small sitting area. It’s close, but also out of earshot, so you don’t have to worry about your roommates eavesdropping.
The silence stretches between you until Yunho finally speaks.
“I guess you remember everything?”
You nod. He lets out a slow breath.
“Yunho, I—" You’re about to tell him that you were sorry for messing things up when he interrupts you.
“I owe you the truth.” You say nothing, as he looks at the view from the window before looking at you in the eyes.
“I called you Hongjoong’s little sister because you told me I was pretty. When you said that, I panicked. Hongjoong calls Seonghwa pretty because he’s in love with him but is too scared to admit it,” he says, brushing your hair away from your face. “I guess he and I have that in common.”
“What?”
“It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
“Yunho.”
“Every time I got too close to you, every time I caught myself looking at you for a little too long…” He exhales. “I’d remind myself you were Hongjoong’s sister.”
“Because if I didn’t…” His voice catches. “I’d want things I had no right to want.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs.
“Then you moved back.”
A small smile finds his face.
“And suddenly you were everywhere again. Last night made me realize, I’d probably been in love with you longer than I thought. Maybe since the day you moved in.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat. From the window, the sun starts to set, casting a warm glow on Yunho’s face, as he holds your hands into his.
“I’m in love with you,” he finally says.
You understand now, how it feels to have the one thing you’ve ever wanted, show you that it hadn’t been all in your head.
“You’re an idiot.”
His face falls.
Before he could apologize, you grab the front of his sweater and kiss him.
His hands automatically find their place on your waist while he pulls you closer. He tastes like coffee, which you thought tasted better on his lips than in the coffee cup you had every morning. He smiles into your teeth when he realizes you wouldn’t let go, with everything he’d spent months holding in.
You pull away from him for a moment, him looking at you more clearly now, without hesitating, like he’s loved you all his life.
“I’m in love with you too, you know.” You grin. “I thought it was obvious.”
“I was hoping you’d say something dramatic, like you loved me since you were eight,” he jokes.
“I thought you were cute when I was eight.”
“Only cute?”
“I was eight. I just kissed you, Yunho. We’re in love with each other,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, quieter this time.
Instead of answering, you rise onto your toes and press your lips to his.
“Ahem.”
The two of you spring apart.
Standing a few feet away is Mingi, a trash bag hanging limply from one hand.
He blinks once.
“Am I interrupting?”
Yunho closes his eyes for a brief second.
“Mingi.”
“No, no.” He holds up his free hand. “Please. Continue. I’ve only been waiting…” He checks an imaginary watch. “…roughly six months for this.”
“Mingi, don’t start,” you say, eyes pleading.
Before either of you can stop him, Mingi is already halfway down the hallway.
“SAN!”
“WHAT!”
“We should go before everyone on the floor finds out,” Yunho whispers.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE KISSING?”
San’s voice echoes through the hallway.
“Too late.”
The next Monday morning, you don’t have to walk to meet Yunho by the elevator anymore, because he’s already at your door the second you open it.
“Good morning,” he smiles.
“Morning.”
He’s holding two cups of coffee. You eye them suspiciously.
“Did you use San’s coffee beans again?”
“No.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I bought my own,” he puffs his chest, a proud look on his face. “I figured my girlfriend deserves more than stolen Guatemalan beans.”
“Girlfriend?” you laugh, taking one of the cups.
“Yep, girlfriend. I don’t care if your siblings are staring me down now.”
His eyes leave your face and move to look behind your head, to see Hana eating cereal with a furrow in her brows, Hongjoong beside her at the dining table with the same expression.
“You two are gross,” Hana mutters.
Yunho ignores her, casually slipping a hand into yours.
“You know they’re still watching, right?” you whisper.
“I know.”
“They’re judging us.”
“I know.”
“You don’t care?”
He looks at you like the answer should be obvious.
